Crosses in bloom: what Cruces de Mayo tells you about Spain (without words)

Cruces de Mayo? Honestly? I first thought it was a wedding. Or a local procession. Or maybe a school project with a slightly overenthusiastic flower budget.

A friend had invited me for a few days in Córdoba. “Just a little spring getaway,” she said. I had no idea that, last week, just before Mother’s Day, I’d end up right in the middle of a floral cross. Decorated with ribbons, candles, ceramics, snippets of music… and suddenly there were tables, chairs, and a sound system. “Ah,” said my Spanish friend, “Cruces de Mayo.” As if that explained everything.

A cross between religion and a village festival

Cruces de Mayo — literally: the crosses of May — is one of those traditions you’ll likely never find in a travel guide, but one you’ll stumble upon if you simply wander through the city. In squares, patios, alleys, and sometimes even roundabouts, flower crosses pop up all over in early May. Big, vibrant, handcrafted. Some are modest, others bursting with confetti and flamenco.

It’s religion, yes. But also folklore, decoration, and competition. Because make no mistake: every neighbourhood wants to have the most beautiful cross.

Not for tourists, but you’re welcome to stay.

What struck me most: this isn’t an event for the outside world. There’s no strict schedule, no commercial spin. It’s a celebration for each other. For the neighbours, the grandmothers, the children helping to pin the flowers.

And yet, as an outsider, you feel more welcome here than anywhere else — on a square filled with plastic chairs, paella, and red carnation garlands. Someone slid a glass of sangria towards me. “Tú también eres vecina ahora.” And for a few hours… that’s exactly what I was.

Flowers as the binding element

In a time when traditions often flatten or harden, this felt genuine. Perhaps because it’s simple: you create something beautiful together, honour something greater than yourself, and celebrate it with food, music, and togetherness. The flowers aren’t just decoration. They are the binding element. They say: Here we are. And yes, it’s temporary — but it’s beautiful all the same.

I’m not religious. But here, amidst the scent of jasmine, the sound of guitars, and garlands full of memories, I felt something universal. Whether it’s a statue of Mary, a local tradition, or simply spring bursting forth: sometimes a cross is not heavy, but light. And it doesn’t stand for suffering, but for life.

For more information, visit the official tourist information website for Córdoba.