Comares

The cemetery sits higher than the houses, the houses higher than the church, and the church higher than everything except the ruined Arab fort. In Comares, even the dead enjoy the view. On a clear winter morning, their headstones point straight at the Mediterranean 35 kilometres away, a thin silver blade between brown hills and pale sky. Several British names are etched into the wall—expats who came for a week, stayed for decades, and asked to stay longer still.

A Village That Plays Hard to Get

Comares doesn’t do arrival drama. The MA-3403 coils upward for 17 kilometres of olive groves and sudden drop-offs, and every bend convinces you the village has slipped behind the ridge. Then it reappears: white cubes clamped to a limestone fin 703 metres above sea level, indifferent to whether you make the final turn. Park under the modern stone arch—spaces are free and usually plentiful outside August—and the engine temperature gauge breathes again. From here the streets are foot-only; the only traffic is the occasional farmer’s 4×4 and the municipal van that delivers bread at dawn.

Temperature drops five degrees between the coast and the upper lanes. In July that still leaves 34 °C at two o’clock, and shade is rationed. Bring water, a brimmed hat, and curiosity; the village supplies the rest grudgingly. Post office opens 13:00–13:30 weekdays, the small supermarket shutters for siesta, and if the church is locked (it often is) knock at the first house on the left. The owner sells local honey for six euros a jar and keeps the key on a nail.

What the Moors Left Behind

No visitor centre, no audio guide, just blue ceramic footprints pressed into the cobbles. Follow them and you’ll loop past the horseshoe arch of Puerta Antequera, the crumbling keep of the 11th-century fortress, and the cemetery where the footprints finally stop, as if to say “that’s enough”. Information panels are short enough to read while leaning on a walking stick; the history is in the gradients. Every street tilts toward the citadel, a reminder that Comares once guarded the frontier between the Nasrid emirate and Christian advance. When Granada fell in 1492 the mosque became the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Encarnación, its brickwork striped in the Mudéjar style, its bell tower squeezed inside the old minaret. The priest will unlock for strangers if the caretaker is about; otherwise peer through the iron grille and move on.

Lunch at Altitude

Menus are written in chalk and change with the weather. Migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, grapes and thin threads of pork—arrive in dented metal pans big enough for two. A plate costs eight euros, three less than down on the coast, and tastes of cold mornings in the olive yards. Order a glass of sweet local moscatel and you’ll probably share the terrace with builders on their break rather than coach parties; tour buses make the climb only between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m., and the drivers reverse down the access road like escapees. Come early or late and the village reverts to its population of 1,339, plus whoever is renting the old schoolhouse apartments for the week.

Walking Off the Crumbs

Three way-marked trails start from the cemetery gate. The shortest drops 300 metres to the abandoned hamlet of Mazmúllar, an easy ninety-minute circuit through almond terraces. After February’s blossom the petals lie like confetti on the path; by May they’re raisins underfoot. Longer loops probe the Montes de Málaga, shady pine country where wild boar root among fallen needles. None are Alpine hikes—stout shoes suffice—but the return climb is relentless; allow twice the descent time and carry more water than feels reasonable. Evening brings compensation: the air clears, the coast lights flick on, and photographers sprout along the cemetery wall like tripod mushrooms.

Noise, but Only on Purpose

For fifty-one weeks of the year Comares keeps its own quiet. Then, on the last Saturday of August, the Feria fills Plaza de Verdiales with competing folk bands. Violins, guitars and hand-beaten drums duel until dawn; couples dance on flagstones strewn with rosemary sprigs. The tradition, known as verdiales, pre-dates flamenco and sounds closer to Celtic jig than Spanish serenade. Visitors are welcome, expected even, yet the festival still feels like a family argument that spilled into the street. Beds are scarce for three nights; book early or base yourself in the lowland town of Riogordo and drive up after supper.

When to Bother

Spring and autumn give the best bargain: daytime 22–25 °C, nights cool enough for a jumper, almonds either blooming or fruiting. Winter can be sharp—frost whitens the cemetery at dawn—and summer is a furnace after ten in the morning. Rain arrives suddenly, sheets of water racing down the lanes like children released from school; within an hour the only evidence is steam rising off the stones. If the sky clouds over, the village turns cinematic, whitewash glowing against leaden hills. Photographers call it “God-light”; locals pull on an extra cardigan and carry on.

Getting Out Alive

The road down is easier than it looks: switchbacks are wide, tarmac intact, barriers solid. Allow 45 minutes to Málaga airport; ignore Google’s panicked ETA. Car hire desks at the terminal will try to upsize you—stick with the smallest that holds your luggage. Petrol on the coast is 10 c cheaper per litre than in the hills; fill up before the climb. If you insist on public transport, a Monday-to-Friday bus leaves Málaga’s main station at 15:00, returning at 07:00 next day. It carries mainly schoolchildren and pensioners, and the timetable is aspirational.

Comares does not need you, but it will tolerate your presence politely, like a cat that accepts a stroke then strolls off. Spend a night, buy the honey, photograph the cemetery at sunset, and you will have taken what the village offers without exhausting it. That is the arrangement, and both sides generally come out ahead.