Believe it or not, there’s huge debate in artistic circles about whether or not white constitutes a colour.  

Blue and white grid

Those who paint and mix pigments tend towards not, maintaining white is merely a shade or tone. Whereas photographers and those thinking more about light argue it represents ‘all colours’. Combine every colour in the rainbow and you will indeed end up with pure white light. Do the same with your paints and you just end up with an ucky brown. 

A few pedantic academics even classify white as an ‘achromatic colour’, effectively a tint without so much as a hint. Which, let's be honest, makes about as much sense as a decaffeinated double espresso.

Whatever the answer to this little debate, it’s certainly true that in the little hill town of Vejer, there’s almost nothing that isn’t white. Perpetually whitewashed, this dazzling Pueblo Blanco basks in the glow of the Costa de la Luz, with an aura so bright you need dark glasses even at night. (OK, the night bit is mostly vanity).

This abundance of white presents a significant challenge for photographers and painters. For those like me grappling with watercolour, white is generally achieved by leaving the paper untouched. If you’re not careful this renders a typical painting of Vejer sparser than a politician’s promise; one or two good lines, with nothing of substance in between. 

Until that is, you start to look carefully. White is very suggestible, so each of Vejer’s walls takes on a subtly different hue, depending on its orientation, neighbours, angle of the sun, shadows and whatever it reflects. Altogether, this creates a subtle mosaic effect that’s both visually rewarding and wholly frustrating to capture.   

In photography, the challenge is to render white white. The camera’s heavily automated instincts are to expose white as an unremarkable grey. Or, if you push it too far the other way, blinding overexposure. Great for budding Instagram influencers maybe, but ruinous for most decent photographs.

So, this relaxing, pretty pueblo basking in the Andalucian sun is actually a visual assault course for aesthetes, presenting a white-knuckle ride of chromatic challenges and a pure blank canvas to work on.   

Visual poetry on a white Canvas

A few washing lines of Colour

It's equal parts challenge and pure white delight.  

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Locals don’t pronounce the ‘r’, and being Spanish, the 'v' sounds more like a 'b' and the 'j' like an 'h'. So, Vejer is phonetically more like ‘Behe’. (Think ‘meh!’).    

But meh it certainly is not. Vejer de la Frontera is the pinnacle of pueblos blancos. Sporting the perfect attributes of small and wanderable, labyrinthine and tangled, Moorish and Medieval, walled and castellated, whitewashed, cobbled and largely un-nobbled by mass tourism.

Two hours from Seville, Vejer just manages to squeeze itself onto a tiny summit overlooking the Costa de la Luz and the Straits of Gibraltar. On a clear day, it can see Africa. On hot days, it watches early morning fog slip off the surrounding hills and swamp the Barbate river plain, marooning the town in a miasma of white mist. From Vejer's vantage, the effect is eerie and magical. 

The privileged location wasn’t lost on ancient civilisations, offering easy access to the sea and good natural defence against intruders from inland or abroad. The hilltop was settled in the Palaeolithic era. By the Bronze Age fortifications had been established. Then the Phoenicians, Carthaginians and Romans all enjoyed their stays, followed briefly by the Visigoths.

But it was the Moors who made the most lasting mark. Their 539 year occupation brought a distinct north African style. 

Narrow winding streets in maze like patterns were designed to keep out the blazing sun and confuse any invaders. White lime both reflected the heat and offered antibacterial benefits. Houses were built ‘inside out’, orientated around bright courtyards and patios, to give privacy and create community spaces. Unlike the plain white on the outside, courtyards were often a riot of lush greenery and decorative azulejos – patterned tiles. Water features and fountains didn’t just feel tranquil, they provided natural air conditioning.

Basically, take a chunk of the Red City, Marrakech, paint it white, shrink it and drop it onto an Andalucían hilltop. And you’ve got something resembling Vejer. 

Casa privada

‘De la Frontera’ was added in the 13th century Reconquista, when the Christians finally booted out the Moors, literally ‘reconquering’. Vejer sat on the frontier separating Arab and Christian worlds, once again on the lookout for invaders.

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Nowadays, of course, the invaders are all tourists, warmly received, not viciously repelled. The Town’s Moorish style means the boutique chic scene is white hot and so very 1990s revival, perfect for the arty long-weekend Insta crowd.​

 A hit of azulejos

I fitted right in, particularly the 90s revival bit, and lingered a little longer than most, as is my wont.

With no shortage of bougie places to stay in town, there is nevertheless one particular hotel and one specific room you will want; Room 6 in Plaza 18.

Plaza 18 is all pristine white (appropriately) with chic black accents. Its six rooms hog an elegant and discrete merchant’s house, just off the Plaza de España. The private sitting room is simply how you dream your own home-away-from-home will be one day. It comes with the decadence of an honesty bar at apero time and a secret doorway leading via sister property La Casa Del Califa to their wonderful garden. Here you’ll relish the most perfect breakfast experience and, if you’re smart, stagger up to bed after dinner too.
 

But Room 6 trumps all that. It’s less about the suite and more about the entire rooftop. Possibly the largest terrace you’ve ever topped up your tan on. Whitewashed of course, with sprawling space galore and a view you could almost reach out and touch. Acrophobics stay away!

Whilst I defy you not to swear as you hit Room 6’s terrace, there are even better views to be scored further up the hill at Hotel V. Their hot tub occupies the very highest spot in town, looking down on a panorama of terracotta roofs, white walls and the distant sea. You feel all smugly bubbly, like nowhere else on Earth.

(That’s actually a little white lie. I once felt equally smug in a hot tub in the Alps, after a perfect white powder day, celebrating a white Christmas with a glass of something cold and white in hand. But there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of that perfection ever recurring).

Alongside all the white, there is a little colour in Vejer. Notably the sky. Against Vejer’s walls it is perhaps the bluest blue you’ll ever encounter. With the possible exception of Majorelle Blue, which you’ll find about 400 miles and a whole continent away.

Dusky glow

And then there are tiny pops of colour, often from a lone painted tile or terracotta pot. These vivid details sing out like virtuoso soloists, above the white noise of the orchestra. You’ll find your brain locking on to these little outbursts of colour and detail, amidst the overwhelming whitewash.