G. Y. Dryansky heeds the siren song of Spain's legendary flamenco, to discover a region where the food, wine, and art are as alluring as the music

The part of Spain with the melodic name, Andalusia can be heartbreakingly lovely. So it was in 1492, when Queen Isabella la Católica drove out Boabdil, the last Arab ruler, who wept inconsolably looking back at the gates of Granada as he rode away—leaving the keys behind him. Indeed, the Andalusia most familiar to travelers lies within a rough rectangle, cornered by Seville, Córdoba, Granada, and the coastal resort of Marbella. I don't blame anyone traveling within those borders: The French Guide Bleu to Andalusia, my favorite—more culturally rigorous than the English Blue Guide—dots the map of that rectangle with a bevy of markers for the "exceptionnel," including the Alhambra at Granada, Córdoba's mosque/cathedral, and the cliffs of Ronda.

But Andalusia is much larger. It spans the bottom of Spain, from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. The land to the west, where I headed on this trip, is marked in the Guide Bleu rather condescendingly with spots simply "to see." What little I knew of this far side of Andalusia—where you're unlikely to find a foreigner carrying a guidebook—suggested that with its cooler Atlantic coastline and spine of low mountains, it might be an unspoiled splendor.

Imagine, then, how exceptionnel it was to be alone in a room devoted to Francisco de Zurbarán's best paintings at the little museum in the regional capital of Cádiz, on the western side of Andalusia. Zurbarán is often compared to Velázquez (like Velázquez, he was inspired by Caravaggio, but he is, if anything, darker in mood). And nearby, in the Alcázar of Jerez de la Frontera, there is enough left of the fine sensuality of the medieval Arabs for you to wonder how they could have been such ferocious warriors. At the same time, the Jerez cathedral, the charterhouse outside town, and the churches with gilded chapels throughout the provinces of Cádiz and Huelva are wonders that make us forget the cruelties of the Inquisition.

Given all of this, I realized that western Andalusia has a unique soul. For one thing, it is the heartland of flamenco—what the Mississippi Delta is to the blues. Even now, you can find this powerful music being performed here in its least commercially altered forms.

There are other distractions of taste. This is the source of authentic sherry and a place where the native cuisine—including great seafood and shellfish you may never have tasted before—can be sophisticated or rustic, and is seldom distorted by celebrity chefs.

And then there is the ham—not simply ham, but quite possibly the world's greatest ham. What makes this one different from other hams? Left hungry on my flight from Paris by a dry cheese sandwich—Air France's latest version of airplane food—and my curiosity piqued, I confess that from the airport in Seville I headed straight for the ham, a detour that turned into an epicurean epiphany.