In my latest book, Masquerade, I describe Luz’s home as follows:

The sun was benevolent today so she seated herself comfortably on the veranda. A particularly fecund crop of orange and lemon trees hung like illuminated lanterns on one side of the terrace, backed by the whitewashed walls of the villa.

A veranda encircled the house on two floors and the entire outside walls were festooned with green creepers, purple wisteria, morning glory and pink-stained bougainvillea, which spilled over the awning roofs. In the cool interior of the villa, the elegant and rustic look of exposed beams, white walls, high wood-inlaid arches and warm flagstone floors were typically Andalucian.

Her house overlooks the city of Cádiz:

She liked to look at the mesmerizing view of the city, so bright it was blinding to those approaching it by sea. Luz loved Cádiz, with its mellow-stone churches and whitewashed houses shining under a bright blue sky like a spray of water lilies on the dancing, glittering waters of the Atlantic. She had read the nineteenth-century French writer and traveller Théophile Gautier at university and his description of it as a city that was ‘lively and luminous’ had always stayed with her. It was named Cádiz Joyosa, as though it was laughing in the sun.

Cádiz is famously known as the City of Light for its luminosity. But why does it so catch the sun’s dazzling rays? The clue is in the descriptions above: the whitewashed walls of the villa… the white walls, typically Andalucian… the whitewashed houses shining under a bright blue sky.

White.

I have no doubt that it was the contrast of the brilliant white against the azure sky in Cádiz that so inspired me I was moved to set Masquerade there. But if you are prepared to travel out of the city to outlying villages in the Andalucian region, you can find even more stunning vistas.

The pueblosblancos– white villages– are scattered through the north of Cádiz and Málaga provinces. In each town, the residents take pride in keeping their houses whitewashed; they repaint them each year in the spring, a wonderful cleansing to celebrate the end of winter.

The result is villages that stand out brilliantly in the landscape. They are so serene and beautiful they have a heavenly air, I think. There is a reason that art gallery walls are painted white: to allow the colours of the artworks to speak. This is exactly the effect in the pueblosblancos: all of the colours against the white are astonishingly vivid, especially those of the abundant flowers.

Why exactly are these pueblos white? The root of the whitewashing tradition lies with the founding of the villages by the Moors. The architecture and styling was inspired by that of the Berbers in North Africa, native land of the Moors. Of course, whitewashing is also popular in countries with hot climates, to reflect the blazing sun rays and cool buildings.

Of all the pueblos blancos, my favourite is Grazalema (pictured), which lies in the foothills of the Sierra del Pinar mountains. I can happily while away a summer’s afternoon wandering the cobbled streets, admiring the beautiful old buildings, taking in the stunning views from the high vantage point, browsing locally made handicrafts and woollen goods, taking a drink in the village square and sampling some of the local ham. The high point of one of my trips to Spain was attending the fiesta in Grazalema for the Virgen del Carmen: against all that white, the flamenco was sensational.

Have you ever visited a pueblo blanco? Would you like to? Closer to home, do you appreciate white in a setting? Do you paint the walls in your home white? I would love to hear your thoughts.