Alpujarra de la Sierra

The morning bus from Granada wheezes to a halt at 1,050 m above sea level and the doors open onto air that feels thinner, cleaner, and definitely cooler than the city you left an hour ago. Step down and the first thing you notice is the sound: no traffic, just water trickling through stone channels built by the Moors five centuries ago. Alpujarra de la Sierra isn’t one village but a scatter of hamlets—Mecina Bombarón, Yegen, Picena—strung across a mountainside like loose change in a pocket. Together they add up to barely 900 souls, fewer than a single London commuter train at rush hour.

Cobbles, Castaños and Chris Stewart’s Front Door

The lanes are barely two mules wide, polished to a slippery gloss by centuries of hooves and hobnailed boots. Houses are whitewashed annually, their flat roofs capped with the signature clay pipes that look like miniature chimneys from a child’s drawing. Gerald Brenan nailed the appeal in the 1920s and locals still point out the house he rented in Yegen; Chris Stewart of Genesis fame lives a ten-minute walk away and, if the guitar is audible through the open shutters, he’s probably in. Neither dwelling is a museum—both are simply homes someone has to heat, sweep and repaint, which sums up the place: history you can lean against without a ticket booth in sight.

Walk south-east for fifteen minutes and the streets give way to agricultural terraces held up by dry-stone walls taller than a tractor. Almond, fig and chestnut trees grow at the same height as the chimneys, so blossom drifts into wood smoke in spring and roasted chestnut scent drifts downhill in October. The gradient is so steep that farmers still use the old irrigation channels—acequias—to step sideways rather than descend; follow one and you’ll reach a stone-built mill where wheat was once ground by snow-melt. No audio guide, just a rusty grindstone and a swallow’s nest.

What the Maps Don’t Tell You About Walking Here

The GR-142 long-distance path passes through the village, but the best outings are the unofficial loops that shepherds use. A steady two-hour climb north-east brings you onto the ridge at 1,600 m; from here the Mediterranean glints 40 km away while the white mass of Mulhacén stays within touching distance. Spring is the sweet spot—wild thyme underfoot, snowy backdrop above—but come prepared: a May afternoon that hits 30 °C in the valley can drop to 8 °C the moment the sun slips behind Trevenque peak. Winter is quieter, dazzlingly bright, and frequently freezing; the same cobbles that radiate heat in August become miniature ice rinks at dawn.

Boots are non-negotiable. The stone staircases were built for donkeys, not deck shoes, and after rain the acequias turn the paths into chocolate mousse. Carry water: there are no cafés on the ridge, and even below the treeline the only tap is a brass pipe protruding from a wall—delicious, but you need to know which hamlet you’re in to find it.

Eating (and Shopping) Like There’s No Tomorrow—Because There Isn’t a Supermarket

The entire municipality shares one grocery shop, a colmado the size of a London front room. Opening hours follow lunar logic: if the owner has driven to Cádiar for stock, the door stays locked. Top up on fruit, milk and wine before you leave Granada or Órgiva. What you lose in convenience you gain in immediacy: the baker’s van arrives three times a week and the horn sounds like a ships’ foghorn—run out and you’ll get a still-warm pan de pueblo for €1.20; miss it and toast is off the menu.

Evenings centre on the only bar that stays open year-round. There is no written menu; ask what’s cooking and the reply is usually “potaje” or “trucha”—trout wrapped in Serrano ham, grilled for three minutes each side, tastes like a British breakfast without the eggs. Vegetarians get migas: fried breadcrumbs with garlic, grapes and melon, a dish invented to use up stale bread and now the region’s comfort food. Prices hover around €9 a plate; cash only, and the nearest ATM is a 20-minute drive down a road that demands full concentration.

Festivals Where Nobody Stands on Ceremony

Mid-August brings the fiesta patronal. Processions are short enough that the brass band can pause for a beer outside the church without losing the rhythm. Locals loan visitors their own peineta combs so no one feels under-dressed, and the fireworks are let off from a tractor trailer because the square is too small for a proper castle. In late October the chestnut harvest is celebrated with free roast nuts and rough red wine ladled from a plastic drum; you’ll be expected to peel someone else’s bag as well as your own.

December turns the village into a low-budget nativity set. Bonfires of pruning wood light the terraces, someone’s grandfather plays the zambomba drum, and carols are sung in Spanish with the odd English verse thrown in for the three Brits who live here permanently. It’s the only time accommodation prices edge upward—book early if you fancy a Christmas where the Three Kings arrive by donkey rather than sleigh.

Getting Here, Staying Warm, Leaving Room in the Boot

Granada airport is 75 minutes away by hire car; Málaga takes two and a half hours on the A-44 and A-348, the last 25 km a corkscrew that climbs 900 m. Public transport exists—there’s a Tuesday bus—but it deposits you at 14:00 and leaves at 06:00 next day, so you need to be both nocturnal and optimistic. A car also solves the petrol problem: the municipality has no fuel station; the descent to Cádiar for diesel is not something you want to attempt with the warning light blinking.

Accommodation is scattered farmhouses turned into cortijos, most sleeping four to eight. Expect wood-burning stoves, thick walls, and starlight you forgot existed—light pollution is illegal up here. Nights drop below freezing from November to March; bring slippers because terracotta floors store cold the way a flask stores tea. Check whether heating is included in the quoted price; one night’s worth of olive logs adds €10 to the bill.

Check-out day will coincide with the baker’s horn, the smell of fresh bread mixing with wood smoke. Pack a loaf for the drive; you’ll hit the coast in an hour and the temperature will rise twenty degrees, but the taste of mountain crust lingers—and reminds you that 900 people already live where you’ve only just been.