Paterna del Río

The first thing that strikes a visitor is the hush. At 1,193 m, engine noise thins, mobile reception flickers, and the loudest sound becomes water sluicing down stone channels built when Al-Andalus still stretched from here to Portugal. Paterna del Río, halfway up the southern flank of Sierra Nevada, has only 387 permanent residents, a number that drops further when almond-picking ends and shepherds follow the goats to lower pasture.

Whitewashed walls, flat clay roofs and the odd, conical chimney stack climb a ridge so steep that some streets turn into staircases without warning. Park at the entrance sign; anything wider than a donkey risks scraping drystone walls that have already withstood five centuries of mountain weather. The village ends almost as soon as it begins – one minute you are among geraniums in tinajones, the next you are looking across a 400-metre drop to the Andarax gorge, its terraces stitched together like patchwork.

Irrigation that predates the Reconquista

Follow the faint trickle echoing under the pavement and you will reach the main acequia, still flowing eight centuries after Berber settlers laid it out. The channel is no museum piece: every morning someone opens or closes a wooden sluice so that vegetable plots higher up receive their twenty-minute turn. Permission is rotated according to a medieval roster kept in the town hall, a system the locals call la tanda. Walk ten minutes east and you can see an alberca – a shallow stone pool – where the water rests long enough for soil to settle before the next descent. No ticket office, no interpretation board, just a mossy bench and the smell of mint crushed under irrigation boots.

What passes for a centre

The village square is the size of a London back garden, shaded by a single walnut and flanked by the church of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios. The building is plain, thick-walled, more watchtower than cathedral; its single bell rings the hour at chest-rattling volume. Inside, a 17th-century cedar retable shows the Virgin flanked by farmers rather than angels, their faces the weather-beaten bronze you still see outside after service. Mass attendance is modest except on 15 August, when the fiesta spills out of the porch and half the province drives up the mountain for night-long verbena dancing and the only fireworks display that does not compete with city rival budgets.

Trails that remember hooves

Maps sold in the bakery mark three signed footpaths. The easiest, the Ruta de los Bancales, is a 5 km loop that contours around abandoned almond terraces; allow two hours and carry more water than you think necessary because shade is sporadic. The path surface is compacted mule grit – grippy in July, lethal ice in January – and way-marking consists of painted horseshoes that fade faster than the council repaints them. Serious walkers can continue south-east along the old Mercadal mule track, dropping 900 m in eight kilometres to the village of Alhama de Almería, where an intercity bus returns twice daily (€2.40, exact change only). Going the other direction, the climb to the Trevélez ridge is spectacular but best left to anyone who enjoys 1,000-metre ascents on an empty stomach; the nearest shop back in Paterna shuts for siesta at 14:00 sharp.

Eating when the oven is lit

There is no restaurant, only two bar-grocer hybrids that open when the owner hears voices. Order a beer and you will be asked whether you want tapá or plato – the first is free, the second costs €7 and arrives heaped with jamón, morcilla and a fried egg whose yolk the cook will apologise for because it comes from her own hens and therefore “no es de cartón”. In late autumn families still carry out the matanza: pigs slaughtered at home, blood collected in enamel bowls, every cut converted into chorizo or chicharrones fried over vine prunings. Visitors who rent village houses are sometimes invited to help pull the intestines; accept and you will leave with a string of sausages and a bottle of anise that doubles as paint-stripper.

Seasons decide everything

Spring is short, brilliant and the safest bet. Almond blossom appears in late February, by which time daytime temperatures reach 16 °C and night frost retreats above the rooftops. From June to September the mercury can touch 34 °C, but altitude keeps humidity low and the siesta lengthens to three hours; carry a hat because UV is fierce. Winter brings snow every other year, cutting the road for a day or two and turning the village into a near ghost town – charming if you have firewood, lonely if the local generator fails and your phone battery dies. Accommodation reflects the calendar: two self-catering cottages open year-round at €60 a night, four more operate only April-October and must be booked by WhatsApp because nobody answers email.

Practicalities without the brochure speak

Drive from Almería airport in 75 minutes via the A-92 and A-348; the final 11 km climb from the gorge is paved but narrow enough that meeting a lorry means reversing to the nearest passing bay. Buses run weekdays at 07:00 and 15:00 from Almería coach station, returning at 13:30 and 18:00 – miss the last and a taxi costs €90. Bring cash; the nearest ATM is twelve kilometres away in Laujar and the village shop cannot always change a fifty. Mobile data drifts between 3G and nothing: download offline maps before arrival. Pack sunscreen and a fleece in the same day-bag; the mountain can swing ten degrees by the time you finish lunch.

Paterna del Río will not fill an itinerary with selfies or souvenir tea-towels. The reward is simpler: a place where time is still negotiated between sunlight and water, and where the loudest applause comes from the wind rattling sheets on a village washing line. Arrive expecting nothing more, and the altitude will do the rest.