The orange trees are still heavy with fruit, the air smells faintly of blossom, and the light - that particular Andalusian gold - arrives early and stays long without the brutal heat that follows in summer. In the mornings, the neighbourhood bars fill with locals standing at zinc counters, knocking back café solos and tearing into tostadas slicked with olive oil and crushed tomato. By midday the markets are in full swing, the Triana mercado spilling colour and noise across the Guadalquivir’s western bank. Wander without much of a plan and Seville rewards you generously; a tiled courtyard glimpsed through iron gates, the shadow of a cathedral tower falling across a narrow street, a plate of jamón that arrives unbidden with your beer because that is simply how things are done here. Come in March, before the crowds and the heat, and you’ll find a city living entirely on its own terms
