Cútar

A village that climbs its own slopes

Cutar begins in the car park at the top and tumbles downhill from there. Leave the hire car between the recycling bins and the olive-oil co-operative, then walk. The only flat stretch is the first ten metres; after that every lane is a staircase of rounded cobbles polished by centuries of farmers hauling grapes. At 331 m above the Vélez river, the air is a degree cooler than on the coast 25 km away, and the view stops you mid-step: terraced vineyards stitched together with dry-stone walls, almond blossom in February, and beyond them the sierra bruised violet at dusk.

The village is tiny – barely 600 souls – and it feels it. A tractor wedged between white walls can block traffic for twenty minutes while the driver leans out to gossip. There is no cash machine, no boutique hotels, no souvenir shops selling fridge magnets. What you get instead is the smell of wood smoke from the bread oven at Salto del Negro, the sound of someone practising Spanish guitar behind an open window, and the certainty that every passer-by will wish you “buenos días” even if you are clearly sunburnt and lost.

What the Moors left behind

Cutar’s name comes from the Arabic kutur, meaning “arch” – probably a reference to the old irrigation aqueducts that once carried water from the spring. The aqueduct is gone, but the street plan survives: a tight lattice of alleys just wide enough for a mule, designed to throw shade and channel any breeze. Halfway down Calle Real the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Encarnación rises on the foundations of the mosque; only the square minaret, now the bell-tower, betrays its earlier life. Inside, the nave is plain, the air cool, the baroque altar-piece gilded just enough to catch the light at five o’clock.

Below the church, two 17th-century wine presses have been patched up and fitted with explanatory panels. They are open whenever the municipal handyman remembers to unlock them – usually mornings only. Stone channels lead to terracotta jars half-buried in the floor; you can still see the dark purple stains where the grapes were trodden. Ask at the ayuntamiento for the key if the door is shut; they’ll probably send you to María in reception, who keeps it in her handbag.

Walking on raisins

Cutar is the quietest stop on the Ruta del Vino y la Pasa, a 14-village network devoted to the sun-dried Moscatel grape. The vineyards climb the hills in miniature terraces no wider than a dining table; every wall is hand-built without mortar, and every winter one storm or another collapses a section. Local men still spend March weekends rebuilding, passing stones down the line like a human conveyor belt.

The easiest way to see the system at work is the signed 5 km loop, the Ruta de los Viñedos. It starts by the co-operative, follows an irrigation channel, then drops through olives and almonds to the riverbed before climbing back past drying racks – waist-high bamboo trellles where the grapes shrivel into pasas for eight days each September. The path is rough: loose shale, occasional waist-high nettles, and one section where the trail has slipped into the ravine. Trainers are fine; flip-flops are asking for a twisted ankle. Allow two hours, longer if you stop to photograph every lizard.

Serious walkers can continue east on the old mule track to Comares, the white eagle’s-nest visible on its crag 7 km away. The ascent is 400 m of zig-zag; in April the air is thick with thyme and the sound of goat bells. There is no bar en route, so pack water and the almond-shortbread biscuits known as mantecados that the bakery sells by weight.

Lunch at Spanish time

Cutar’s single restaurant, Venta El Charcón, opens at 13:30 and stops taking orders around 16:00. Evenings are hit-and-miss – if six people turn up, the owner will cook; otherwise the kitchen stays cold. The menu is written on a chalkboard and rarely changes: ajo blanco (chilled almond soup with grapes), chivo al ajillo (kid stewed with garlic and bay), and arroz con leche thick enough to hold the spoon upright. A half-jug of local Moscatel costs €4 and tastes of honey and orange blossom; drink it too fast and the 15% alcohol creeps up like the village hills.

If the venta is closed, the only fallback is the bar by the church, where Manolo serves toasted molletes (soft white rolls) drizzled with olive oil and topped with crushed tomato. Coffee is €1.20, but the machine is switched off during siesta, so don’t linger over breakfast. For picnic supplies, the tiny ultramarinos stocks tinned tuna, rubbery local cheese and the last of last year’s raisins – sweet, wrinkled and still on the stem.

When the past puts on a costume

The village wakes up twice a year. The first burst is the Romería de San Isidro in May, when tractors are garlanded with paper flowers and everyone rides to the country shrine for a barbecue. The second, louder, event is the Día del Monfí every October. Monfí was the name given to Moorish bandits who refused to convert after the Reconquista; today their descendants dress up in fake beards and cardboard turbans, fire blunderbusses loaded with gunpowder, and chase a laughing crowd through the streets. The smell of sulphur hangs in the air for hours; dogs cower under benches and British visitors wonder what on earth they have wandered into. After the mock battle the plaza fills with long tables and free stew made from the previous year’s goat. Bring your own bowl and spoon – plastic ones are frowned upon.

How to get there, and away again

Cutar sits 55 minutes’ drive from Málaga airport. Take the A-7 east towards Motril, exit at Benamocarra, then follow the MA-3116 into the mountains. The final 6 km is a single-track switchback with stone walls on both sides; if you meet a lorry coming the other way, one of you is reversing. Petrol stations are scarce – fill up on the coast. There is no bus on Sunday, and the weekday service from Vélez-Málaga reaches Cutar at 09:00 and leaves at 14:00; miss it and you are sleeping under the vines. Parking is free but spaces are three-deep on fiesta days; arrive before noon or be prepared to reverse uphill for 200 m.

Mobile signal is patchy inside the village, non-existent on the surrounding trails. Download offline maps before you set out, and tell someone where you are going – the countryside looks gentle but a twisted knee on a deserted path can turn into a long, hot wait.

Worth it?

Cutar will not change your life. It offers no adrenaline sports, no infinity pools, no souvenir bragging rights. What it does give is the chance to see a corner of southern Spain that still functions for its own inhabitants rather than for the Instagram grid. If you are content to walk, taste raisins warm from the sun, and listen to Spanish spoken so slowly you can almost follow it, then the village earns its keep. Arrive with realistic expectations – and leave before the last bus, unless you fancy explaining to the mayor why you need a bed for the night.