Alhabia

The first thing you notice is the silence. Not the eerie kind, but the sort that makes you realise how much background noise you've been carrying around. Alhabia sits at 295 metres above sea level, where the last gasp of Sierra Nevada's green folds meets the arid plains of Almería's interior. It's the sort of place where the church bell still marks the hours, and where the evening routine involves watching the sun paint the surrounding peaks in shades of copper before dropping behind the ridge.

This is farming country, has been for centuries. The village clings to the southern bank of the Andarax River, its white-washed houses stacked like sugar cubes against the slope. Terraced plots of almonds, olives and figs step down towards the valley floor, each one a testament to generations who've coaxed life from stubborn soil. The irrigation channels—acequias—still follow the same routes laid out by Moorish engineers eight centuries ago, channelling precious water from the mountains through a lattice of stone and gravity.

What passes for a centre

The Plaza de la Constitución isn't grand, but it's where everything happens. The 16th-century church of Nuestra Señora de la Encarnación anchors one side, its Mudéjar tower visible from most approaches. Inside, the afternoon light filters through simple stained glass onto whitewashed walls—cool relief during summer when temperatures nudge 40°C. The pharmacy opposite has been dispensing remedies since 1871; step inside for a glimpse of mahogany drawers labelled in spidery script, and perhaps the strangest monument in Andalucía—a bronze bust commemorating "La Farmacéutica", the village's first female pharmacist.

Wander uphill from here and the streets narrow to shoulder-width passages. Houses grow organically from the rock, their thick walls keeping interiors bearable during July's furnace and January's chill. Many retain the traditional launa roofs—flat terraces of lime and earth where families once slept during summer nights. You'll spot the occasional British number plate, usually belonging to someone who discovered Alhabia while house-hunting in the better-known Alpujarras and decided they'd rather not share.

Walking the dry valley

The GR-340 long-distance path skirts the village, following ancient mule tracks that connected the valley's settlements. A straightforward six-kilometre circuit heads upstream along the riverbank, past abandoned cortijos whose stone walls crumble back into the landscape. Interpretation boards appear sporadically, explaining how the drainage system works or identifying the difference between wild rosemary and thyme. The going's easy—suitable for walking shoes rather than boots—and you'll likely have it to yourself except for the occasional dog walker from the village.

Serious hikers can tackle the 12-kilometre route to the abandoned settlement of Marchal, climbing 400 metres through almond groves to reach stone houses empty since the 1950s. Take water—there's none en route—and start early. The reward is a perspective across the whole valley, with Alhabia appearing as a white smudge between green irrigated plots and the dun-coloured hills beyond.

Eating like you mean it

Food here isn't fancy, but it's honest. The Bar Nuevo opens at 7am for coffee and serves until the last customer leaves—sometimes midnight, sometimes 4pm depending on trade. Their migas arrives as a mountain of fried breadcrumbs studded with chorizo and garlic, enough to fuel a morning's walking. Gurullos, a stew of rabbit and hand-rolled pasta, appears on Thursdays when the owner's been hunting. Vegetarians aren't forgotten: tabirnas colorás combines potatoes, peppers and onions into something that tastes like Spanish comfort food should.

The village's one proper restaurant, Casa Paco, occupies a former schoolhouse on the main road. No menu del día here—Paco cooks what he bought that morning. Might be choto (young goat) slow-cooked with almonds, might be a simple omelette made with eggs from his neighbour's hens. Three courses with wine rarely tops €18, but bring cash—cards melt in this heat, or so Paco claims. For pudding, track down rosquillos de vine, doughnuts flavoured with sweet wine that taste like Spanish fairground memories.

When the valley parties

August's fiesta transforms the place. The population quadruples as former residents return from Barcelona, Madrid, even Birmingham. Processions wind through streets barely wide enough for the bearers, brass bands competing with firecrackers until 3am. The plaza fills with temporary bars serving €1 cañas and paper plates of grilled sardines. It's brilliant chaos, but book accommodation elsewhere—the village has no hotels, and locals aren't renting spare rooms when family needs beds.

September's San Miguel marks the grape harvest with rather more dignity. The village wine—rough, red, drinkable—flows freely during the Saturday night verbena. Even if your Spanish extends only to "hola" and "gracias", you'll find yourself dragged into conversations about the weather, the olives, the price of everything. Accept the offered glass. Refusing would be like declining a handshake.

The practical bits that matter

Getting here requires wheels. Almería airport sits 35 minutes away via the A-92A and A-348, the last stretch winding through river-valley countryside that makes the drive feel like arriving somewhere secret. Car hire is essential—there's no bus service on Sundays, and Saturday's final departure from Almería leaves at 2pm. The nearest cash machine is nine kilometres away in Alhama de Almería; small bars here operate on cash-only principles that would make a London landlord weep.

Staying overnight means looking beyond the village itself. Balneario San Nicolás in Alhama offers thermal pools and English-speaking reception, useful for navigating the area's quirks. Closer still, Terque village (four kilometres) has cave-house rentals owned by a British couple who've already made the mistakes you're about to. They'll explain why the shower water runs orange for the first minute (iron in the aquifer) and which walking routes avoid the farmer's dog that hates strangers.

Spring brings almond blossom that dusts the hillsides in white, while autumn offers temperatures perfect for walking—24°C at midday, cool enough for layers at dawn. Summer hits different: 38°C by noon means scheduling activities for 7am or 7pm, with siesta hours spent in the pharmacy's air conditioning or Paco's dining room. Winter surprises newcomers with sharp mornings where breath clouds and the mountains wear snow, but days usually warm enough for lunch outside.

Alhabia won't change your life. There's no bucket-list attraction, no Instagram moment that hasn't been shared a thousand times elsewhere. What it offers is something increasingly rare: a place where tourism feels incidental rather than essential, where the rhythm of daily life continues regardless of visitor numbers, and where a simple walk through almond groves can reset perspectives dulled by overexposure to the spectacular. Come for two days, stay for three, leave before the silence becomes too addictive.