Almócita

The almond trees bloom first. By mid-February their white petals drift across the A-348 like confetti, warning drivers that the road is about to corkscrew upwards for the final 15 km into Almócita. At 835 m the village sits just high enough for the air to feel rinsed, yet low enough for the roofs to stay flat in the old Berber fashion. You notice the difference immediately after the coast: no souvenir stalls, no bilingual menus, just the smell of wood smoke and the sound of an irrigation channel that has carried melt-water from Sierra Nevada since the 13th century.

A village that never quite got the tourism memo

Whitewash, yes, but splashed on carelessly each spring rather than rolled to Instagram perfection. Chimneys lean, cats occupy doorways, and the single cash machine disappeared years ago—draw euros in Berja before you leave the main road. Almócita’s population hovers around 200; on weekdays it can feel like half that. Yet the place is alive: tractors clank past at sunrise, elderly women prop brooms outside houses to signal they are open for a chat, and the bakery (open 08:00–11:00 only) sells almond biscuits that never see a label, let alone a bar-code.

The church of Nuestra Señora del Rosario anchors the upper quarter. Sixteenth-century, mudéjar ceiling, small enough to circumnavigate in four minutes—yet it still rings its bell for every death, birth and fiesta. From the tiny square outside you can trace the village’s logic: lanes tumble downhill in stone cascades, each house built slightly into the slope so the neighbour’s roof becomes your front terrace. It is architecture by necessity, not design, and all the more convincing for it.

Walking without way-markers

Footpaths begin where the tarmac ends. One track heads east along an acequia to the abandoned hamlet of Los Pinos—roofless cottages, a threshing circle, silence. Another climbs west for 45 minutes to an unnamed ridge with a 30-km view over the Andarax valley: olives, almonds and the distant glitter of the Med on clear days. Maps are Spanish-only and sporadically out of print; downloading an offline GPS trace before leaving home saves a lot of confident guesswork.

Summer walkers should start early. At this altitude July temperatures still reach 35 °C by noon, and shade is negotiable. Spring and late autumn are kinder: 20 °C, skylarks, and the terraces striped green after rain. Winter can surprise—snowfall isn’t annual, but when it arrives the A-348 is chains-or-wait territory and the village enjoys a two-day power-cut tradition.

What turns up on the table

Migas—fried breadcrumbs riddled with garlic, pepper and chunks of pork—appears at weekends in the only bar that bothers with a written menu. Midweek you eat whatever María has decided to cook: thick chickpea stew, grilled choto (kid goat), or corn porridge sweetened with cinnamon if you request something vegetarian. Expect to pay €9–€12 for a plate that defeats most appetites. Wine arrives in 250 ml tumblers; the local rosado tastes better after the second kilometre of ascent.

Those self-catering can stock up on Thursday morning when the itinerant fruit van honks its way through the lanes. Almonds, sold in 500 g sugar-sacks, cost about €4 and fit neatly into hand luggage. Olive oil is decanted from 25-litre drums into whatever bottle you bring—expect grassy, peppery juice that clouds in the cold.

Beds, pitches and night-time volume

Accommodation totals fewer than 25 visitor beds, which keeps August honest. Camping Almócita, on the southern edge, offers 40 grass pitches, a small pool and wooden bungalows with air-con for €70 a night. British tourers praise the clean showers and the bar that still serves toasties when every other kitchen has closed. If you prefer stone walls, La Casa de Alma3cita rents a three-bedroom village house decorated with reclaimed timber and thick duvets—nights can drop to 5 °C even in April. Book early for Easter; Spaniards snap up weekends once almond blossom forecasts are released.

Evenings wind down fast. The last coffee is cleared by 22:30, the last brandy by 23:00. What passes for nightlife is the murmur of dominoes under the streetlamp outside the cooperative. Bring a paperback or learn to recognise Orion upside-down.

Fiestas without wristbands

The first weekend of October doubles the village population. The fiesta patronal packs the single square with paella pans the diameter of tractor tyres, a brass band that knows three songs, and a procession where the Virgin is carried shoulder-high through lanes barely wider than her crown. Visitors are welcome, but there are no tourist prices because there are no tourist stalls—just locals handing out plastic cups of warm rum to strangers.

In May, the Cruces festival dresses corners with shawls, geraniums and improvised altars; August brings open-air cinema projected onto the church wall—Spanish subtitles, even for the American films. Semana Santa is low-key: one hooded procession, absolute silence except for a single drum, more moving than many city extravaganzas.

Getting here, getting out

Almería airport is 95 minutes away by hire car—Ryanair and easyJet run year-round UK routes from around £45 return. Resist the sat-nav’s attempt to send you up the coastal A-7; the Alpujarra route via the A-348 is twistier but emptier and delivers those first almond vistas. Without wheels you are reliant on a twice-daily bus that links Almería city with Berja, 12 km below the village; a taxi from Berja costs €18 and must be phoned the night before. Petrol is sold from a pump behind someone’s garage—ring the bell, pay cash, hope they’ve not closed for siesta.

Leave time for the return descent. The road unravels through terraced slopes that change colour every month: white blossom, green almonds, golden stubble, then the odd winter flourish of purple crocus. Almócita looks smaller each time you glance in the mirror, yet the village sticks—partly because it never promised more than it could deliver, and partly because you will still find those biscuit crumbs in your rucksack weeks later.