We rest for the night in the small town of Aracena, high up enough to be cooler than the rest of Andalucía. It is white-washed, and upon its highest hill is an old Roman ruins, and a Catholic church in its shadow.

Everybody, it would seem, eats the cured hams from these mountains. A breed of black-hooved and black-skinned hogs are raised in these mountains, and feed solely on the plentiful acorns which sometimes seem to carpet the entire landscape. They are free-range hogs – imagine that, and seem almost happy.

The ham, called Jamón Iberico, is salt-cured, and dried in the stiff mountain air. Almost every town features a Jamóneria, which is basically a storefront featuring hundreds of pig-legs hanging from the air. Andalucían Jamón has a dry, nutty (the acorns) flavor; and when cut properly shows off its brilliant marbled texture. Most cured ham experts agree the world’s best come from these mountains – some brands require a waiting list of years. It’s an old process, refined and unable to be duplicated by technology, or in any other region on account of the climate and flora. Like artisanal cheeses, the finished product is a complex relationship between plant, animal and man. Like the best cheeses of Spain, the best Jamon requires a skillful shepherd, constantly caring for his flock.

In Andalucía , this jamon is often paired with cheese. They are both simple foods, as is most of Spanish cuisine, and celebrated for their many levels of complexity. The way some people sniff at their glass of red wines, the Andalucíans revel in the complexity of their small dishes of simple foods.

We walk up and down the narrow streets of Aracena at night, talking about friends back home. When we pause to photograph an alley, an old woman peers at us from her doorway.

To ensure her that these foreigners are not insidious and evil, we say hello, attempting to prompt conversation in our best Spanish. But she doesn't answer, so we repeat. She continues her glare, and then I remember that she endured World War II, and Franco. She sees no need for anything other than suspicion.

Suspicion will become a trend with these old ladies throughout Southern Iberia. By the time we reach Portugal I will have developed a sort of stereotype of them as old bitter hags. I attempt to confine this as much as possible, and promise myself to extend greetings to every old woman I meet for the duration.

We sit down for tapas at an old cafe. A plate of Jamón, some coffee, olives, bread, two beers. We tip our glasses. We have been eating this way - tapas, finger foods, for a week now. Jane begins mentioning her mother's cooking. She mentions her desire for fruit. She describes in detail a Korean soup. She reminds me of that lunch dish back home – oh, that fresh cilantro.

The next day we head for Badajoz through the route of the Sierra de Huelvas, also riddled with black pigs grazing under magnificent oaks. We read more from Montclair.