Canillas de Albaida

The church bell strikes seven, and the village switches on. Lights flicker across whitewashed walls, someone fires up a motorbike, and the evening air carries both woodsmoke and jasmine. From the terrace of Posada La Plaza you can watch the last sun catch the Mediterranean 25 km away while your plate of grilled goat arrives with a glass of chilled muscatel. This is Canillas de Albaida at dusk, and it feels nothing like the Costa del Sol half an hour below.

At 630 m above sea-level the village sits just high enough to dodge the coastal sauna yet low enough to keep the sea in view. The relationship works both ways: locals pop down to Torrox for fresh fish on Saturdays, while weekenders from the beach bungalows drive up for cool air and proper sleep. The road linking the two — the MA-4103 for map readers — is a 60 km ribbon of hairpins that averages 30 mph in a nippy hire car and considerably less if you’ve unwisely picked a camper. First-timers arrive with white knuckles; repeat visitors treat the drive like a slow-motion scenic railway and keep the window down to smell the wild rosemary.

Inside the village the gradient only gets steeper. Streets were laid out long before mobility scooters, and some hit 30°. Elderly residents tackle them at a dignified shuffle; visitors in flip-flops usually reconsider after the first slither on polished cobbles. Sensible footwear matters, but you don’t need mountain boots unless you’re heading for the trails that start literally from the church door. Signposts point north into the Sierra Almijara where limestone peaks top 1,500 m and the path to Cómpeta — the next white village along the ridge — makes a pleasant 25-minute stroll even for families, provided you turn back before the proper ascent begins.

What passes for a high street

There isn’t one. Commerce clusters around Plaza de la Constitución: a chemist, a small grocer, two bars and a cash machine that still thanks you in Spanish then beeps hopefully for a tip. The baker opens at 07:00, shuts at 14:00, and will sell you a still-warm pan de leña for €1.20. If you need anything more exotic — hummus, Marmite, a UK plug adapter — walk the footpath to Cómpeta where Eroski stocks an “international” shelf largely colonised by baked beans and Tetley tea. Canillas itself keeps things local: cured goat cheese wrapped in esparto grass, jars of dark honey labelled simply “Sierra”, and the thick, sweet vino de pasas that tastes like liquid Christmas pudding. Buy a bottle chilled from the fridge behind the bar; it costs €7 and the barman will insist on plastic cups if you plan to drink it on the church steps.

Eating without the sea view

Coastal restaurants trade on paella and sunset photos; mountain kitchens focus on whatever keeps a farmer upright. That means soups — ajoblanco chilled with grapes in summer, hot garlic and bread stew in winter — and anything that can be stirred into migas: breadcrumbs fried in olive oil until they resemble savoury granola. Restaurante Cerezo does the classics without fuss: plate of jamón, bowl of gazpacho, grilled pork with chips, bill under €20. Posada La Plaza ups the ante with rosemary-scented goat and a wine list that ventures beyond the local coop. Both observe Spanish siesta, so don’t expect lunch after 15:30 or dinner before 20:30. If you’re starving at 18:00, Café-Bar Sierra Almi-Jara will make you a toasted sandwich and let you sit with the domino players nursing tiny glasses of beer.

When the village throws a party

Fiestas here are emphatically not for tourists; visitors are simply tolerated extras. Santa Ana at the end of July fills the plaza with plastic tables, free paella and a disco that thumps until the Guardia Civil suggest 04:00 is quite late enough. August’s feria adds fireworks you can watch from your balcony if you’ve booked the right house, and a procession where the statue of the Virgin is carried at shoulder-height through streets barely wider than her skirt. February’s almond blossom brings a gentler crowd: photographers with tripods and Dutch homeowners organising guided walks to the best blossom slopes. Winter itself is quiet — some days only the cats move — but the trade-off is log-burning stoves, empty trails and hotel rooms at half-price.

Walking off the roast goat

The tourist office (open Tuesday and Thursday, mornings only) hands out free maps showing eight circular routes. The easiest, “Ruta de la Fábrica de la Luz”, follows an old irrigation channel for 4 km with barely 100 m of ascent and ends at a disused hydro-electric hut now favoured by mountain goats. The hardest, “El Saltillo”, clambers along a boarded catwalk bolted to a cliff face and requires a head for heights and a spare hour for the final ladder. Whichever you choose, download the GPX before you leave; waymarks fade and farmers occasionally block paths with electric fencing to keep goats in. Spring and autumn give the best temperatures; August walkers need to start at dawn and carry at least two litres of water — the higher fountains often run dry.

Sleeping on the slope

Accommodation is mostly self-catering townhouses carved out of 19th-century cottages. Expect stone stairs, beamed ceilings and roof terraces just big enough for two chairs and a bottle of vino de pasas. Two small hotels — Posada La Plaza and Hotel Almijara — offer en-suite rooms with breakfast; both have pools the size of a London bus, which is perfectly adequate when the evening air drops to 18 °C. Prices swing wildly: €65 a night in February, €140 over New Year when northern Europeans flee the dark. Booking early matters for Easter and July; at other times you can simply turn up, park (carefully) in the free top car-park and wander until you see a “se alquila” sign.

The honest verdict

Canillas de Albaida is not “unspoilt” — satellite dishes bloom on every roof — but it remains unpolished, and that’s the attraction. You will hear dogs, tractors and the weekly brass-band practice. You will climb hills every time you fancy a coffee. You will not find craft-beer bars, boutique olive-oil tastings or a cash machine that works on Sundays. What you get instead is a working village happy to rent you a room, sell you a drink and leave you alone to decide whether today’s plan involves a mountain, a hammock or simply watching the light change over the Mediterranean until the church bell calls you down for dinner.