Beires

The first thing you notice is the silence. Not the hush of a library, but the complete absence of mechanical noise that makes your ears ring. At 909 metres above sea level, Beires hangs above the Alpujarra Almeriense like an afterthought – 110 souls scattered across a ridge that drops straight into the Barranco de Beires, with views clear across to the Cabo de Gata coastline fifty kilometres away.

This isn't one of those villages that markets itself as an escape. It simply is one. The mobile signal flickers in and out. The only bar opens when Antonio feels like it, which might be 11 am or might be never. There's no cash machine, no souvenir shop, no Saturday market. What you get instead is altitude: the temperature drops eight degrees from Almería's coastal furnace, the air smells of rosemary and hot stone, and every path leads either straight up or straight down.

The Architecture of Survival

The houses here weren't built for Instagram. They're rectangular blocks of whitewashed stone designed to survive the Alpujarra's vicious temperature swings – flat launa roofs that collect precious rainwater, tiny windows that keep out summer heat, and those distinctive truncated-cone chimneys that poke up like miniature minarets. Walk the single cobbled street and you'll see the same pattern repeated: ground floor for animals, upper floor for humans, exterior staircase leading to a covered terrace called a tinao. It's medieval in origin, Moorish in influence, and entirely practical.

The sixteenth-century Iglesia de San Roque squats at the highest point, its rough stone tower more fortress than religious building. Inside it's dark and frankly unremarkable, but step out onto the church plaza at sunset and you'll understand why people make the drive. To the north, Sierra Nevada's peaks glow pink above the terraced almond groves. Southwards, the landscape drops away through layer upon layer of sierra until the Mediterranean appears as a silver line on the horizon. Bring a sweater – even in August the breeze up here has teeth.

Water, Stone and the Wrong Kind of Shoes

Below the village, the seventeenth-century bridge of La Pileta crosses the dried riverbed – though 'dried' is relative. A natural pool has formed beneath its single arch, fed by an underground spring that keeps the water at a temperature best described as 'Scottish loch'. Local families arrive from Almería at weekends, children screaming as they hit the water, grandparents settling in for the day with picnics and folding chairs. Mid-week you'll share it with maybe three other people and a lot of dragonflies.

The serious walking starts here. Sendero de la Hidroeléctrica climbs 400 metres through abandoned terraces to the ruins of a 1920s power station, a concrete skeleton slowly being reclaimed by ivy and fig trees. It's marked as 'medium difficulty' which translates as 'you'll need proper boots and water, not flip-flops and good intentions'. The path continues higher, linking into a network of Moorish irrigation channels that once watered the entire valley. In May these channels still run, the ancient acequia system working perfectly after eight centuries.

Food That Understands Hunger

When Antonio's bar is closed – and it will be – your options are the village shop or self-catering. The shop stocks basics: tinned tuna, local almonds, wine that costs three euros and tastes like liquid sunshine. Ask for migas ingredients and you'll get yesterday's bread, garlic, and a lump of chorizo that looks suspiciously like it came from someone's own pig. The casas rurals can arrange half-board with advance notice; expect migas alpujarreñas (fried breadcrumbs with chorizo and grapes), potaje de fideos (noodle stew thick enough to stand a spoon in), and trigo alpujarreño – a wheat and bean soup that tastes like Spanish peasant food because that's exactly what it is.

September brings the muscatel harvest. Vines tumble over every available wall, grapes so sweet they make British supermarket varieties taste like water. The local women still use the communal wood-fired oven for anise biscuits, timing their baking for when the bread's finished and the oven's cooling. If you smell sweet licorice on the evening air, follow your nose – they'll usually sell you a paper bagful for a euro.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring arrives late at this altitude. March can still bring frost, but April turns the almond terraces white with blossom and the temperature perfect for walking. May and June are golden – warm days, cool nights, wild thyme scenting every path. July and August drive the coastal Spanish inland; weekends get busy around the pool, accommodation books up, and the village feels slightly less like a secret. September and October offer the year's best hiking weather, though nights drop to 10°C – pack layers.

Winter is a different proposition. The road up from the A-348 twists through six hairpin bends that ice over from December to February. Snow falls occasionally, more often it's simply bitterly cold and incredibly quiet. Most casas rurals close. Those that stay open offer log fires, mountain solitude, and the kind of silence that makes city dwellers nervous. It's beautiful, but it's not for everyone.

Getting Here, Getting Cash, Getting Fed

Fly into Almería – Ryanair and easyJet run regular routes from London and Manchester, usually cheaper than Granada. Hire a car, point it north on the A-348 towards the mountains, and don't panic when the sat-nav directs you onto what appears to be a concrete driveway. Keep going. The track is perfectly driveable, just alarmingly narrow.

Bring euros. The nearest cash machine is in Ohanes, ten minutes down the mountain, and it doesn't always work. Fill up with petrol before you leave the coast – mountain driving drinks fuel and the nearest station is twenty kilometres away. Download walking routes from Wikiloc while you still have 4G; coverage disappears completely once you start climbing.

Stay two nights minimum. One night gives you sunset and sunrise, but you'll miss the rhythm of the place – how the village wakes slowly, how the light changes the mountains from ochre to purple, how the silence actually gets deeper after dark. Three nights and you'll find yourself recognising the same faces, nodding good morning, beginning to understand why people choose to live at the top of a mountain with nothing but almond trees and an unreliable bar for company.

Beires doesn't offer much. That's rather the point.