Capileira

The morning bus from Granada grinds up to 1,436 m – higher than Ben Nevis – and deposits walkers at the top of the Barranco del Poqueira. Below them, three villages cling to opposite walls of the chasm like white limpets. Capileira, the highest of the trio, spills down a south-facing ridge so steep that every lane ends in a flight of cobbled steps and every roof serves as the terrace for the house above.

This is still a working place, not a museum. Chickens scratch outside timber doors, smoke curls from chimneys even in May, and the irrigation channel that bisects Calle Real gurgles continuously – a soundtrack older than any parish register. Tourism matters, but it has not displaced the rhythms of smallholdings and vegetable plots. If you arrive expecting manicured squares and souvenir uniformity, the scruffy authenticity will either disappoint or delight.

Streets that forget the century

Orientation is simple: head downhill and you reach the gorge; head uphill and you bump into the cemetery. Between the two extremes, a lattice of alleys barely two metres wide keeps shade in summer and traps sun in winter. Flat-roofed houses, their walls limewashed the colour of fresh yoghurt, still use the medieval Berber system of rainwater spouts and shared dividing walls. Wooden balconies – tinaos – create covered passages just tall enough for a laden mule, though today they shelter Labradors and the occasional delivery van whose wing mirrors have been folded in for good reason.

The sixteenth-century church of Nuestra Señora de la Cabeca squats halfway up the slope, its modest Mudéjar tower the only vertical punctuation in a skyline governed by topography rather than ambition. Step inside and the nave smells of candle wax and chestnut smoke drifting through the open door. The artesonado ceiling, original and unrestored, shows why carpenters here were once paid in salt and hams.

Five minutes above the last houses, the Mirador del Calvario delivers the postcard view: a 600-metre drop to the river, opposite peaks still patched with snow into late May, and the white rectangles of Bubión and Pampaneira further down. On hazy afternoons the Mediterranean glints 40 km away, a silver coin pressed against the horizon.

Walking straight into National Park

Capileira sits inside both Sierra Nevada Natural Park and National Park, so the boundary of legally protected land begins where the asphalt ends. Two waymarked paths leave from the upper barrio. The gentler drops to the river Poqueira in forty minutes, shadowing an irrigation ditch still monitored by a part-time guard who can levy fines on anyone caught diverting water on the sly. The other, stiffer route climbs 1,100 m to the mountain refuge at 2,500 m, staging post for Mulhacén, mainland Spain’s tallest summit. Neither path requires technical gear between late May and October, but the altitude gain is serious: think Lake District plus sunshine minus oxygen.

A popular circuit strings together all three villages along old bridleways. The 7 km loop takes two and a half hours, passes almond terraces, ruined threshing circles and a tiny shrine where locals once left offerings to ensure rain. Signposting is adequate, but mobile coverage is patchy – download the route before leaving the village bar whose Wi-Fi password is inevitably “Cerveza1”.

What to eat when the altitude bites

Menus understand that visitors arrive hungry. Mid-morning bars serve thick hot chocolate with churros designed for dunking, while lunch plates favour whatever walked, grew or fermented within a 30 km radius. Migas – fried breadcrumbs with garlic, peppers and scraps of pork – began as field-workers’ fuel and still taste best after a cold ridge. Trevélez ham, cured at 1,700 m in neighbouring villages, arrives in paper-thin sheets that cost less than a pint of London bitter. Vegetarians are no longer an afterthought: Casa Ibero offers a goat’s-cheese and pumpkin lasagne that even committed carnivores finish without complaint.

Evening options are limited. Most kitchens close by 22:00; the liveliest post-dinner venue is usually the bench outside the pharmacy where teenagers share headphones and the village’s one policeman pretends not to notice under-age vaping.

Beds, buses and blister plasters

Accommodation ranges from seventeenth-century houses converted into self-catering studios to the family-run Finca Los Llanos, whose rooms overlook a walnut grove frequented by semi-wild boar after dusk. Weekend rates in April and October jump by 30 %; mid-week bargains include breakfast and hiking maps printed on waterproof paper. Book ahead for August – the fiesta honouring the Virgen de la Cabeza pulls expat grandchildren back from every corner of Europe.

Public transport exists but demands planning. The Alpujarras minibus leaves Granada’s main station at 08:00 and reaches Capileira by 10:30; the only same-day return departs at 16:45. If you miss it, the last taxi to Granada costs around €90 and drivers rarely accept cards. Hire cars solve timetables yet create parking headaches: both free car parks fill by 11:00 from Easter to late October, after which you face a sweaty 15-minute climb from the overspill field. Bring coins for the honesty-box water fountain at the upper lot – dehydration strikes faster at altitude than newcomers expect.

When the weather won’t make up its mind

At 1,436 m, seasons behave oddly. Snow can fall in April, yet July temperatures regularly hit 30 °C by midday. Mornings are clear and sharp; clouds bubble up over the peaks after lunch, sometimes dropping thunderous showers while the coast remains parched. Layered clothing is not travel-writer hyperbole but insurance against hypothermia and sunburn in the same afternoon. Winter walking is feasible – paths stay ice-free on south-facing slopes – but shorter daylight and the risk of sudden storms mean the high refuge closes from November to late May.

The catch behind the calm

For all its appeal, Capileira is not undiscovered. Coach parties shuffle through on day trips, clogging the narrow lanes between 11:00 and 15:00. English menus outnumber Spanish ones on Calle Parra, and rental properties have pushed long-term rents beyond the reach of many young locals. Spend an hour after sunset, however, and the tour buses feel like a mirage. Lights go out early, stars crowd the sky, and the only sound is the irrigation channel arguing with gravity on its way to the gorge.

Stay overnight, bring sturdy shoes and a sense of chronological elasticity, and the village rewards you with a glimpse of Andalucía before the coast invented itself. Just remember to carry cash – the nearest ATM is a 3 km descent to Bubión, and the machine there has been known to sulk for days.