Fornes

The morning bread van toots its horn at half-past nine, and half of Fornes shuffles out in slippers. By ten the village is quiet again, save for the church bell that still keeps Andalucian time—ringing twenty-three minutes late. At 850 m, the air is thinner than down on the Granada plain; coffee takes a minute longer to boil and the Sierra Nevada, 60 km away, looks close enough to touch.

A village that never learned to pose

There is no ticket office, no glossy leaflet, no souvenir shop selling fridge magnets shaped like bulls. The tourist office is a single shelf inside the ayuntamiento doorway: a photocopied map, a list of footpaths, and a polite notice asking you to shut the gate so goats don’t wander into the playground. That is the point. Fornes is simply where it is, a white wedge stuck to the slope of the Sierra de Almijara, looking south over a tide of olive groves that runs all the way to the blurred blue line of the Mediterranean. On clear winter days you can pick out the ships heading for Málaga; in summer the heat haze erases even the nearby town of Alhama, and the village feels like an island.

The houses are two-storey, lime-washed, with hand-sized patches where the render has fallen away to reveal the clay beneath. Balconies are sized for a single pot of geraniums and a pair of drying overalls. Washing lines zig-zag across the narrow lanes; if you walk up Calle Real after midday you’ll pass socks at eye-level. Nobody minds. Strangers are noted, not stared at, and the default greeting is a measured “buenos días” that leaves space for you to answer or not.

Walking without way-markers

Footpaths start where the tarmac gives up. One track leaves from the upper cemetery, wriggles through almond terraces, then climbs to a ridge of abandoned threshing circles. The GR-7 long-distance route skirts the village boundary, but most visitors prefer the locals’ circular: two hours, 250 m of ascent, olives, thyme, and a stone hut that once housed muleteers. Spring brings the smell of fennel and the sound of bees drunk on rosemary; in October the almonds have already been knocked from the trees and the ground looks swept.

If you want a bigger day, drive ten minutes to the Puerto de Alazores and tackle the limestone crest of the Almijara. The going is rough—loose slate and spiky palmetto—so wear something sturdier than trainers. In summer start before eight; by eleven the rock radiates heat like a storage heater and the only shade is a scattering of dwarf oaks. Winter is gentler, but cloud can boil up from the valley and leave you navigating with the church tower that occasionally glints far below.

What you’ll eat (and when you won’t)

The village bar opens at seven for coffee, closes at three, reopens at seven for beer, and shuts definitively once the owner’s mother hears the football results. The menu is written on a paper napkin stuck to the fridge door: migas with grapes, gazpacho serrano, flan. If she has run out of grapes you’ll get migas without; if she hasn’t made flan you’ll get tinned peaches. Accept, say thank you, and pay the €6.50 with exact change—her till is a biscuit tin.

Self-catering is simpler. The mini-mart stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, and a single brand of tea that tastes of cardboard. Serious supplies require a 25-minute descent to Loja: Mercadona for feta, a proper bakery for sourdough, and a chemist that sells Factor 50 at non-airport prices. Back in Fornes the evening ritual is to carry olives, bread and a bottle of local blanco to the mirador above the church. Sunset hits the opposite slope first, turning the white walls peach, then gold, then a cool blue that matches the sky above the mountains. Phones lose signal here; nobody uploads the view in real time.

Fiestas where you’re part of the head-count

The Immaculada fiestas in early December feel like a family reunion that has accidentally admitted the public. Morning mass is sung by a trio of women who learnt harmonies in the 1970s; afterwards everyone files into the school kitchen for chocolate so thick the spoon stands up. At night the plaza fills with folding tables. You will be handed a plate and told where to sit; refusal is pointless. The local wine is poured from an unlabelled jug and tastes of cloves and rust. Fireworks are let off from a wheelbarrow; the sparks bounce off the overhead cables and fizzle among the TV aerials.

August brings the summer feria: plastic bunting, a sound system run from the back of a Seat Toledo, and a foam party that starts at midnight precisely. Population swells to roughly 700 as grandchildren arrive from Granada city. If you need sleep, close the shutters and switch on a fan; the bass will penetrate anyway, but complaining marks you as the sort of person who should have stayed on the coast.

The getting-there bit (and why a Fiat 500 is your friend)

From Granada airport take the A-44 south, peel off at Loja, and follow the GR-3303 through Ventas de Zafarraya. The final 12 km climb 500 m through switchbacks tight enough to make British country lanes feel motorway-wide. Meet a lorry coming the other way and one of you must reverse; hint—locals never reverse. Petrol drops below half a tank? Fill up in Loja, because the village garage closed in 2009 and the nearest pump is back down the mountain.

Public transport exists on Tuesday and Thursday only: a bus to the crossroads at Ventas, then a 4 km uphill hike with no pavement. Taxis refuse the trip after dark; even Uber won’t come. Car hire therefore isn’t optional, and the smaller the vehicle the happier your wing mirrors will be. In winter carry snow chains—at 850 m a surprise Atlantic front can glaze the road before Granada’s ploughs have thought about leaving the depot.

Leave the car on the rough ground by the cemetery; parking in the centre is theoretically permitted for fifteen minutes, but the man who enforces the rule also sells the tickets and he goes home for siesta whenever he feels like it.

When to come, when to stay away

April and May give you green wheat between the olives, daytime highs of 22 °C, and night temperatures cool enough to justify lighting the wood-burner that your rental cottage advertises as “decorative”. February brings almond blossom; photographers arrive with tripods and leave the same day once the early-morning mist lifts. October is harvest month—tractors towing plastic bins rumble through the lanes at dawn, and the air smells of crushed olives, slightly bitter, slightly sweet.

July and August are hot; 35 °C is routine and the village pool (unheated, €2 entry) becomes the social hub. Afternoons are for shuttered interiors and the hum of ceiling fans. If you need museums, guided tours, or cocktails with paper umbrellas, drive south to the coast and leave the mountain to the crickets.

Winter is crisp, often 12 °C in sunlight, zero the moment the sun dips. Rental cottages have stone walls 60 cm thick and radiators the size of tea towels. Bring slippers and a book; Netflix will buffer indefinitely.

Last bell

Fornes will not change your life, and it has no intention of trying. What it offers is a calibration of scale: 543 people, three streets, one valley, and a horizon that reminds you how much space there is beyond the M25. Come with a small car, a working Spanish phrase, and no itinerary beyond “be back for sunset”. The bread van leaves at half-past nine; if you miss it, tomorrow is another day.