The atmospheric streets of Andalucía’s small towns and villages are the best places in all of Spain to experience the Semana Santa, a week-long religious festival celebrated during Easter.

IT SEEMS THAT whichever way I turn, the narrow streets are blocked by a double-column of pointy-hooded men, each bearing an enormous burning candle. Pressed up against the darkened buildings are thousands of people watching in silence as the unbroken stream of marchers slowly winds its way through the cobbled lanes.

I have only been in Córdoba a few hours and am, perhaps foolishly, attempting to negotiate my way through the city’s old quarter, a tangle of narrow lanes that is confusing enough for visitors at the best of times.

But this is Semana Santa, the week-long religious festival celebrated throughout Spain, but especially in Andalucía. All of the region’s cities, towns and villages vie to out-do each other in the splendour and elaborate nature of their processions to commemorate the death of Christ. Even for the most secular of visitors, this combination of religious devotion, colour, art and music in the solemn parades that pass through the streets can be an extraordinary experience.

Spring is also a good time of year to enjoy the region’s many attractions – from Moorish masterpieces such as the Alhambra to the flower-filled Andalucían countryside and its famous white towns – before temperatures climb to their searing summer highs.

The most spectacular of the Easter events are in the triumvirate of Córdoba, Seville and Granada, but they are worth seeing just about anywhere in Andalucía, and can be at their most atmospheric in the tiny streets of the smallest of places. But be warned – finding hotel accommodation in these cities during Holy Week can be difficult and it’s advisable to book in advance.

Typically, processions that draw their numbers from religious cofradia’s – or brotherhoods – file out of churches from early afternoon and snake solemnly through city streets before returning many hours later.

At the head is the long-gowned Los Nazarenos, who wear high, pointed masks covering their faces and often carry candles or banners. They are followed by Los Penitentes, the fraternity members who perform authentic acts of penitence, carrying a heavy cross and usually walking barefoot during the procession.

Then come the floats – or pasos – each adorned with life-sized statues of religious figures, the most common being Christ on the cross and the Virgin Mary in mourning.
Weighing up to several tonnes, shuffling the pasos through the streets is a burden that is, quite literally, shouldered by Costaleros, squads of brotherhood members who remain unseen beneath the heavily gilded platforms.

I have chosen to be in Córdoba on the eve of Good Friday, widely regarded as the climax of the festival, which lasts from Domingo de Ramos (Palm Sunday) to Domingo de Resurrección (Easter Sunday). Now I want to get to the Mezquita, the city’s great mosque, from where I have been told an ornately decorated paso bearing an image of the Virgin will be starting its procession at midnight.

Trapped in a mass of eerily garbed bodies, I have almost given up hope of ever getting there when a couple of locals ahead of me do what I have until now reckoned is unthinkable sacrilege – they nip through a gap between the candle-bearers and set off down the street in the middle of the two columns. Seizing my chance, I dart after them and, emboldened by their lead, follow them around various corners until they again squeeze between the marchers and break off down a quiet side street.

A few minutes later, I pass through the archway under the Mesquita’s beacon-like belfry into the fountain-filled Patio de los Naranjos, just as a set of mighty wooden doors is being swung open. From the gloom, a paso, bedecked with candles, moves slowly out through the distinctive keyhole-shaped Moorish archway. Its arrival silences the chatter of the awaiting crowd as the float sways gently forwards to the sound of a hymn being sung by a female choir.

At the sight of the Virgin – her face, crown and intricately embroidered cloak glowing in the candlelight – hands move quickly to make the sign of the cross. Standing in the moonlight, the air thick with incense and the incomparable mosque as a backdrop, it is hard not to be captivated by the scene.

Then, painstakingly slowly, the paso makes its way out into the packed courtyard and on towards the city streets. The hushed tones and solemnity of the occasion are in stark contrast to the events of a few nights earlier when I had stopped overnight in the Murcian town of Lorca, en route to Granada.

While the Semana Santa processions in Andalucía are generally serious affairs, the parade through this former frontier town almost had the air of carnival about it. Vendors moved along in front of the stands selling snacks, and large groups waved and shouted to friends as they passed, many of whom were dressed as Roman soldiers for their role as bit players in a theatrical display depicting the triumph of Christianity.

The following day I was dazzled by achievements of a different persuasion in the form of Granada’s Alhambra, the spectacular Moorish palace complex built on a hill above the city. By mid-afternoon, when I returned to the streets below, the Holy Week parades were already making their way past the cathedral to the sound of drums and music and they continued long into the night.

But if Andalucía’s Semana Santa processions are a solemn business – fireworks are not permitted and drinking and celebrating is still frowned upon by the religious brotherhoods – it doesn’t seem to stop others having fun. Many of the bars in Granada – and later in Seville and Córdoba – are doing a roaring trade, some filled with large and noisy family groups who have come into the city centre to watch the processions. In some places, particularly the Andalucían capital, the revelry can carry on until three or four in the morning.

It is in Seville that I experience one of the highlights of the Semana Santa events. Having tired of standing on tiptoes in the central Plaza de San Francisco trying to catch a glimpse of the colourful processions over the top of reserved grandstands – access to which is barred despite many being virtually empty – I wander off into the neighbouring barrio Santa Cruz. Happy to just enjoy losing myself in the narrow streets of brilliantly whitewashed houses, I eventually end up at Plaza San Pedro, which happens to form part of the official route for the processions. Here, it is easy to walk back and forth alongside the Nazarenos, cross-bearing Penitentes and elegantly dressed bands as they parade past, interspersed with the gleaming gold pasos and their religious effigies.

It is also here that I first hear the dizzyingly intoxicating sound of a solo trumpet, soaring to a high note and held for what seems an impossible time, then falling away as the drums resume their mesmerising beat.

Later, as the evening wears on, the pasos halt as flamenco singers perform melancholic songs known as saetas from balconies in honour of the statues. Then, with my appetite for processions sated for the day, it is time to seek out a more earthly passion for which Seville is also famed – its tapas.