Zújar

The first thing you notice is the colour of the water. Lake Negratín isn't the turquoise of Mediterranean postcards; it's a deep, mineral green that shifts to copper when the afternoon sun hits the surrounding badlands. Below the village of Zújar, 775 metres up the Sierra de Baza, this reservoir serves as both mirror and lifeline – a place to swim, fish, and understand why 2,500 people have stayed put in what guidebooks might politely call "inland Andalucía".

Morning Light on Calle Real

Zújar wakes slowly. By eight o'clock the baker on Calle Real has already stacked trays of mollete – soft white rolls that locals split, toast, then drizzle with olive oil and crushed tomato. There's no queue, just a nod and a "buenos días". Walk uphill and the street narrows; whitewashed walls reflect the light so sharply you understand why windows here stay small and deeply set. The only traffic jam you're likely to meet is a farmer easing a van past stone benches where elderly residents sit in exactly the same spot every day, walking sticks hooked over their knees.

At the top stands the Iglesia Parroquial de la Encarnación, a sixteenth-century church whose brick tower you can spot from kilometres away. The door is usually open; step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Mudéjar panels mix with a Renaissance stone altar that was hauled up the mountain by mules after a landslide destroyed the original chapel. The place smells of candle wax and pine cleaner rather than incense – this is a working church, not a monument, and Sunday Mass still packs the pews.

Tracks, Hills and the Smell of Pine

Outside the village, tracks fan out like spokes. Most are farm access roads, unpaved but driveable in an ordinary hire car if you take it slowly. Within ten minutes you can be on a ridge overlooking the lake, with only bee-eaters and the occasional goat for company. Spring brings poppies and wild asparagus; by late May the asparagus has been foraged and the poppies replaced by dried thistles that rattle in the wind. Summer walking starts at dawn and finishes by eleven – temperatures regularly top 35 °C and there is zero shade on the clay hills.

The marked PR-A 252 loop starts behind the football pitch and climbs gently to the Ermita de San Sebastián, a tiny hermitage ruined in the Civil War and never repaired. Pause here: the stone lintels frame a perfect view south to the snow-dusted peaks of the Sierra Nevada. Allow two hours for the full circuit; trainers are fine outside rainy season, though the limestone can be slippery when dust coats the path.

Hot Water and Cold Beer

Zújar's ace card hides on the southern shore of the reservoir: the Balneario de Zújar, a natural thermal spa whose outdoor pool stays at 38 °C even in January. British visitors tend to discover it on TripAdvisor first, then struggle to find the entrance – Google Maps sends you down a service road meant for farmers. Check opening times before you set off; the pool closes between two and five, an inconvenience if you've driven from Granada for the day. Entry costs €12 for non-residents, towels are extra, and children under fourteen are barred after six pm, which makes evenings surprisingly quiet.

The same complex houses the village's only full-service hotel. Rooms in the 1990s wing look onto water and hills rather than car park, worth the small supplement. Half-board is sensible because once the spa kitchen shuts at ten, the village itself offers only a couple of bars serving toasted sandwiches and plates of jamón. Ask for the menú del día (€14) and you'll get three courses plus a glass of local wine that tastes better than its plastic jug suggests.

Olive Oil and August Fireworks

Food here is fuel, not theatre. Migas – fried breadcrumbs scattered with garlic, pepper and grapes in season – appears on most tables at Sunday lunch. Gazpacho in Zújar arrives hot, thick with game and chickpeas; request "gazpacho andaluz" if you want the chilled tomato soup familiar to British palates. The nearest supermarket sits fifteen kilometres away in Baza, so restaurants rely on whatever small growers deliver. In November that means hearty stews with beans; in April it means artichokes, wild herbs and the year's first olive oil, peppery enough to make you cough.

The calendar revolves around the Virgen de la Encarnación, carried through the streets every 15 August behind a brass band that has clearly been marching since dawn. Visitors are welcome but there's no printed programme; ask at the ayuntamiento (town hall) and someone will produce a crumpled flyer. Fireworks echo off the reservoir at midnight, twice the volume you'd expect in a place this size. Book accommodation early if your trip coincides with the fiesta – Spaniards who left for Barcelona or Madrid decades ago still return to claim the family house for the week.

Getting There, Getting Out

Without a car Zújar is tricky. A single bus leaves Granada at 15:15, arrives at 17:00, and returns at seven the next morning – fine for a night at the spa, useless for day-trippers. Car hire from either Granada or Málaga airport is straightforward; the A-92 is fast and usually empty once you clear the city ring road. From the UK, Málaga normally offers more flight options, and the drive takes ninety minutes, almost entirely on motorway.

Winter brings crisp blue skies but night temperatures can dip below freezing; pack layers. Summer heat is dry rather than humid, so shade and water matter more than fancy clothing. Mobile coverage is patchy on the hillside – download offline maps before you leave the village.

Leave time for a final stop on the way out. Five kilometres north, a lay-by overlooks the badlands that stretch towards Guadix. The clay has eroded into miniature canyons that glow orange at sunset. There is no sign, no coach park, no entrance fee – just you, the wind, and a reminder that quiet corners still exist in one of Europe's most visited regions.