Laujar de Andarax

The church bell strikes noon. From the terrace of the Iglesia de la Encarnación you can see two continents at once: the hazy blue of Mediterranean Africa to the south, and the snow-flecked summit of Mulhacén—continental Europe's southernmost 3,000-metre peak—to the north. Laujar de Andarax sits in the saddle between them, 918 metres above sea level, where the air smells of wild thyme and the sound of running water follows you down every alley.

A village that breathes with the seasons

Flat-roofed houses, their chimneys like miniature watchtowers, cascade down a ridge between two barrancos. The architecture is pure Alpujarra: white walls to bounce back summer heat, slate roofs weighed down with stones against the mountain wind, tiny windows facing north-south to keep interiors cool. In January the roofs carry a dusting of frost; by August the same terraces are draped with drying peppers and tomatoes. Nothing is staged for visitors—laundry flaps beside geraniums, and the plaza fills with tractors as readily as tourist cameras.

Water is the village soundtrack. Eighteen spouts still pour from the Fuente de los Dieciocho Caños, built by Arab engineers eight centuries ago. Local women fill plastic jugs here each morning before the Covirán supermarket opens, and the overflow races downhill in narrow stone channels that irrigate vegetable plots of kale-green perfection. Follow one of these acequias for ten minutes and you’ll find yourself in the vega, a kilometre-wide belt of terraces where walnuts, chestnuts and vines take turns to dominate the calendar.

Walking trails that don’t require crampons

You don’t need to be Chris Bonington to enjoy the hills. The Senda de la Hidroeléctrica is an undemanding seven-kilometre loop that starts behind the cemetery, follows the river through an oleander gorge, ducks through a 30-metre tunnel (phone torch sufficient) and passes the brick shell of a 1920s power station. Blackcaps and nightingales provide the playlist; the only steep section is a five-minute scramble back up to the road. Allow two hours, plus another twenty minutes if you stop to paddle in the rock pools.

For something more aerobic, the Ruta de los Castaños Centenarios heads straight up the southern slope. Within forty minutes the temperature drops three degrees and the vegetation switches from almond to sweet chestnut. Some of these trees have trunks you can’t fit your arms around; in late October their leaves turn the colour of burnt sugar and the path becomes a carpet of bronze. Continue another hour and you reach the PR-A-235, a long-distance trail that threads all the way to Trevélez—ham-drying capital of Spain—but most day-trippers turn round at the stone hut where shepherds once sheltered.

Wine that costs less than a London pint

Laujar’s altitude tricks the vine into thinking it’s much further north. Night-time temperatures in August can dip to 12 °C, giving the local garnacha tintorera a brightness rarely found at this latitude. There are three family bodegas within the municipality; none charges for tasting and all sell wine by the plastic five-litre jerry can for under €15. Bodega Fuente Victoria, signed from the upper plaza, opens weekday mornings and most evenings in summer. Ask for the vino dulce—chilled, it tastes like liquid Christmas pudding without the heaviness—and buy a bottle of the rosado for picnic duty. If you prefer labels you can pronounce, head to Bodega Cortijo los Acenos on the Órgiva road; their English-speaking son will talk you through organic certification while his mother slices Manchego.

Food is mountain-portioned. The menú del día at Patio Andaluz on Plaza Mayor runs to three courses, bread, house wine and change from €18. Expect garlic chicken, migas (fried breadcrumbs with pork belly) or—if you ask in advance—a vegetarian version starring wild mushrooms and roasted peppers. Pudding is usually arroz con leche, cinnamon-dusted and served in a terracotta bowl that keeps it lukewarm even on chilly March evenings. Across the square, Mesón La Fabriquilla does a decent olla de trigo, a thick wheat-and-chickpea stew that tastes like something your grandmother might have made if she’d holidayed in Granada. They’ll swap the chorizo for extra greens if you’re meat-free; just don’t arrive before 21:00 in summer—kitchens follow village, not tour-operator, clocks.

When to come, and when to stay away

April and May are the sweet spot. The vega is emerald, the temperature hovers around 22 °C at midday and the scent of orange blossom drifts up from the lower terraces. Accommodation is easier too: the village has only two small hotels and a handful of cortijo rentals; book six weeks ahead for Easter week or you’ll be commuting from Alhama de Almería. October delivers chestnut colour and wine-harvest buzz, though mornings can start at 8 °C—pack a fleece.

July and August are dry, bright and ten degrees cooler than the coast, but the landscape turns khaki and the best walking is finished by 11:00. Evenings compensate: the plaza hums with gossip until well after midnight and the local peña flamenca stages open-air song sessions on the last Saturday of each month. Winter is a gamble. When the azahar wind blows from the north, thermometers can read –3 °C at dawn; if a levante cloud creeps up from the Mediterranean the same day might touch 18 °C. Snow is rare but not impossible—Sierra Nevada’s ski station is only 75 minutes away—so carry chains if you’re visiting between December and February.

The practical grit beneath the grapes

You will need a car. The nearest airport is Almería, 90 minutes by mountain road; Málaga adds another hour but gives you the scenic A-92 through the gorge at Guadix. Fill the tank before the final climb—the village petrol station keeps siesta hours and card machines have a habit of “sin conexión” on Sundays. Cash is king: all three ATMs live inside Covirán, so if the shutters are down you face a 40-minute return drive to Órgiva. Mobile signal is patchy on the upper streets; WhatsApp works from the plaza benches if you stand near the fountain.

Evenings are quiet. Apart from the fortnightly quiz in the British-run tapas bar (yes, really) nightlife is a bottle of local red and the sound of swifts slicing the dusk. If you crave clubs or chiringuito beach bars, stay on the coast. What Laujar offers instead is rhythm: the thud of irrigation sluices at dawn, church bells marking the agricultural day, and the sight of an entire village walking its dogs at 20:00 sharp because the sun has finally dropped behind the ridge. It isn’t picture-postcard Spain; it’s the working version—and that, for many Brits nursing €2.80 glasses of garnacha as the lights come on across the valley, is precisely the point.