- Robert St. John writes that the pigs in southern Spain live a life that would put most other pigs—and probably a few humans—to shame.
No one expects to use the word romantic when talking about a pig farm. But standing in the soft morning light, in the rolling hills of southern Spain, watching Iberian pigs roam free under a canopy of ancient cork and oak, that’s the only word that kept coming to mind.
Romantic.
When my RSJ Yonderlust Tours guests climbed into the van that morning for a 90-minute drive north of Seville, they may have been questioning my decision making and priorities. In this part of Spain, there are flamenco dancers, Gothic cathedrals, and tapas bars on every corner—plenty to fill a day. And yet, there we were, bumping down extremely remote country roads to visit pigs.
What they didn’t know—and what I knew they would soon come to understand—is that it wasn’t just any farm, and they weren’t just any pigs.
This was the source of the primary product of Cinco Jotas, which in my opinion is the finest— and most responsible— large-scale producer of Jamón Ibérico in the world. A name that carries a weight in Spain like Dom Pérignon or Rolls-Royce would in their worlds, but even those comparisons fall short because there’s nothing manufactured or mass-produced about what they do.
Cinco Jotas is a company built on time, tradition, and an uncompromising dedication to doing things the right way—even if that way takes longer, costs more, and requires more care.
These pigs live a life that would put most other pigs—and probably a few humans—to shame. Five acres of untouched oak forest for every single pig, where they’re free to wander, forage, and grow at nature’s pace. To put that in perspective, the Spanish government mandates 2.5 acres per pig, and even that is generous by world standards. But Cinco Jotas doubles that—because they believe space, freedom, and quality of life matter.
And when it comes time for acorn season, when the pigs fatten up for the final stretch, Cinco Jotas, and their independent farmers, don’t settle for the required 60 days of acorn feeding. They push it to 90 days—three full months of foraging on nothing but acorns, because they know that’s what gives the meat its legendary flavor: rich, nutty, and delicate, with layers of taste that unfold with every bite.
Standing there, watching those pigs move through the oaks—grunting, snuffling, sometimes nudging one another playfully—it’s impossible not to be awed by the beauty of it all. A babbling brook ran through the middle of the pasture, and the sunlight broke through the trees in a way that looked like something out of a dream. I caught a few guests pulling out their phones, trying to capture it, but there’s a magic to moments like that you can’t bottle up or photograph.
Five years. That’s how long it takes from the birth of a pig to the day a Jamón Ibérico de Bellota is served at a table. Five years of care, patience, and precision. Think about that. We live in a world that’s obsessed with shortcuts—faster, cheaper, easier—but there are no shortcuts here. And that’s what makes it special.
And the price reflects that. In Spain, a leg of Cinco Jotas ham sells for 600 to 800 euros. In the United States, where it’s treated like a treasure when it arrives, it commands upwards of $1,200—and even then, it’s hard to find. Because when you’re working at this level of quality, there’s only so much to go around.
There’s history here too. Cinco Jotas has been doing this since 1879. Tucked away in Jabugo, a tiny town known around the world by those who know ham, they’ve been raising pigs and curing hams for nearly 150 years. Through wars, economic crises, and changing times, they’ve never compromised on what they believe in. Generations of artisans—people whose parents and grandparents did this before them—still hand-trim, salt, and hang each ham to cure for years.
After our time in the field, we visited the curing house, where hams hang like chandeliers from the ceiling, row after row, filling the cool dark rooms with the soft, unmistakable scent of oak, time, and salt. Some of these hams hang for three to five years until they’re ready to be sliced paper-thin.
And slice we did.
We sat for a tasting of their finest hams, paired with local cheeses and olive oils—because in Spain, a meal isn’t complete without all those pieces working together. And there’s nothing quite like seeing the farm, walking through the curing house, and then tasting that final product—a silky, rich slice of ham that melts on the tongue, bursting with flavor, leaving that lingering nuttiness that only comes from acorns and patience.
It’s the kind of experience that can’t be replicated in a restaurant or grocery store.
And it’s why I do what I do.
These RSJ Yonderlust Tours are about these moments—not just seeing a place, but understanding its heart. Getting beyond the postcard version of Spain and into the fields and kitchens where real life happens.
Over the years, I’ve been blessed to build friendships with the people who make these moments possible, farmers like the one we visited, olive oil producers, cheesemakers, winemakers, fishermen. People who have welcomed me—and now my guests—into their lives, sharing not just what they make, but who they are.
And I’m deeply grateful for the guests who trust me enough to say yes to a 90-minute ride into the middle of nowhere—who follow me down dusty roads to places you’d never find on your own. Travelers who are willing to trade crowds and monuments for a day like this—one they’ll carry home in their hearts long after the trip is over.
Just down the road from that pig farm, cars were parked along a trail, hikers wandering in and out of the woods—having no idea that, a mile or so away, in a spot they’d probably pass 99 times out of 100, we were standing in one of the most special places in all of Spain.
But we took the trail less traveled. And we were better for it.
So yes, a pig farm can be romantic—when you see the way life is supposed to be lived: slowly, thoughtfully, respectfully. When you stand in a place that hasn’t bowed to the pressures of “faster, cheaper, easier.”
It’s a reminder, too, of what travel should be—about connection, about meaning, about the quiet beauty in things most people overlook.
To everyone who’s joined me on these journeys, and to those still thinking about it, thank you for trusting me to take you places like this—for trusting me with your time, your vacation, and your memories.
Onward.
This Week’s Recipe: Tasso and Cheese Biscuits with Pepper Jelly
Experiment with your favorite pepper jelly flavor. The hotter the better. The dough freezes well and can be made in advance.
Ingredients
2 cups flour
1 Tbsp cup sugar
½ tsp baking soda
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp Kosher Salt
1 tsp black pepper, freshly ground
½ cup unsalted butter, cut into small pieces and chilled
¼ cup cheddar cheese, shredded
¼ cup tasso ham, finely minced
¾ cup buttermilk
1 egg
2 Tbsp melted butter
Instructions
Preheat oven to 375
Combine all dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Using a pastry cutter or fork, blend cold butter into the dry mix until flour resembles coarse bread crumbs.
Mix in cheese and ham.
Separately, blend together the buttermilk and egg and add to dry mixture. Blend the dough. Do not over mix.
Fold dough onto floured surface and roll to one-inch thickness. Cut biscuits using a 1 1 /2-inch cookie cutter. Place biscuits on ungreased baking sheet and brush the tops with melted butter. Bake15-18 minutes.
Yield: 30-36 small biscuits
