Lújar

At ten-thirty sharp a horn echoes up the ravine. Doors open, walking sticks appear, and the whole village shuffles into the lane to queue for crusty barra still warm from Castell de Ferro’s ovens. No one checks the time; the bread van is the clock. This is Lújar, a white-granite ridge settlement that gazes down on the Costa Tropical from the same height as Sheffield’s highest moor yet feels centuries older than anywhere in Yorkshire.

The mountain that refuses to rush

The GR-5204 climbs 14 km from the coastal sugar-cane flats to 900 m in one determined sweep. Olive terraces give way to holm-oak scrub, the air thins and cools by six degrees, and suddenly the Mediterranean lies stretched like hammered tin 25 km to the south. Sierra Nevada’s snow crest fills the windscreen; on winter afternoons the sinking sun paints the peaks watermelon pink while the sea stays gun-metal grey. It is the sort of view that makes drivers stop in the road – fortunately there is so little traffic the goats usually notice first.

Stone houses, all two storeys and tile roofs, butt hard against the slope. Streets are staircases; the only level ground is the pocket-handkerchief Plaza de la Constitución where the 16th-century Iglesia de San Miguel keeps watch. Inside, horseshoe-arched brickwork betrays its mosque foundations, but today the soundtrack is more likely to be the clack of dominoes from the bar next door than the call to prayer. Conversation drifts between Spanish and the soft, aspirated Granadan accent that drops final ‘s’ sounds: “¿Va’ a comer?” – “Are you coming to eat?” The answer is always yes, because mealtimes still matter here.

Sea on the horizon, sierra at the back door

Lújar’s relationship with the coast is practical, not romantic. Families own piso de verano flats in Motril or Castell de Ferro, but they retreat uphill each evening to escape the July cauldron. The beaches themselves – shingle coves and dark-grey sand – are 25 minutes away, yet feel like a different province. Down there you shower salt off in municipal footbaths; up here you rinse mountain dust from your boots at village taps fed by snowmelt. A bikini on the coast becomes a falta de respeto in Lújar’s lanes; throw a shirt over or the señoras will remind you with a stare sharp enough to slice jamón.

The same altitude that cools August nights also traps cloud in winter. Mornings can start at 4 °C even when Motril is t-shirt weather, and the pool (open mid-June to mid-September) stays several degrees cooler than the sea – blissful when the terral wind roasts the coast. January brings crisp cobalt skies perfect for the 90-minute drive up to Sierra Nevada’s ski station; be back on the coast for a seafood lunch and you will have skied and sunbathed in the same day, a trick that never gets boring.

Walking, eating and the art of doing very little

Footpaths strike out from the upper barrio like goat tracks – because they are. The signed circuit to Cerro del Conjuro is 7 km return with 400 m of ascent; the gradient looks gentle until your calves start filing a complaint. The payoff is a 360-degree platform: west to the Rif mountains of Morocco (visible roughly one day in three), east to the white flash of Almería’s greenhouse sea, north to the 3,000 m wall of Veleta. Photocopy the walkers’ map pinned in Casa Azul; winter cloud can descend faster than you can say “¿Dónde estoy?”

Back in the village, lunch is whatever Maria’s mother bought that morning. Thursday might be choto al ajillo – kid goat flash-fried with garlic and mountain thyme – or a cazuela of migas (breadcrumbed comfort food laced with chorizo and grapes). Pudding could be gachas dulces, a cinnamon-sweet wheat porridge that tastes like nursery school on a cold day. Set lunch €12 including a glass of mosto grape juice or beer; book the previous afternoon or they will not bother lighting the stove.

Evening entertainment is two bars, one telly, and the sky. Light pollution is so low that Perseid meteors streak across the Milky Way like chalk on a blackboard. Bring a jacket; at midnight in August the thermometer can dip below 16 °C.

When the village lets its hair down

Fiesta week, 25 August to 1 September, is the annual pressure-valve. A steel paella pan three metres wide appears in the plaza, a bucking-bronco is inflated between the church and the bar, and water fights soak the unwary. The €20 donation slipped into the organisers’ tin buys forgiveness for any noise you may make at 3 a.m.; failing to contribute guarantees a front-row seat for the speakers. Semana Santa is quieter – a single Viernes Santo procession that climbs so steeply the bearers stop twice to breathe – yet the drums bouncing off stone walls still raise goose-bumps.

November’s chestnut roast smells of smoke and wet leaves. Children chase each other between stalls selling almond nougat and miel de caña (molasses), while the village band plays pasodobles slightly faster than the conductor would like. It is small-town Spain at its most sincere: no tourist tat, just surplus chestnuts, free cider and a queue for the one cash machine that usually runs dry by nine.

Getting there, staying sensible

Málaga airport to Lújar is 130 km: A-7 east, peel off at Motril, then the A-44 inland for one junction before the GR-5204 turns uphill. The final 15 minutes is tarmac, double-track, no vertigo-inducing drops. A car is non-negotiable: the nearest shop is 15 minutes away, the nearest proper supermarket 25. If you arrive after dark, buy milk in the coast before you climb; the village’s only vending machine is often empty and the stray cats know how to look pitiful.

Accommodation is self-catering village houses – expect thick walls, tiny windows, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind is in the north. Bring slippers; traditional floors are cold terracotta. The medical centre opens twice a week; ring 112 for night emergencies and the locum drives up from the coast. EHIC/GHIC cards work, but travel insurance is wise – mountain rescue from Cerro del Conjuro is billed by the hour.

Leave the heels at home. Cobbles, gradients and the occasional mule dropping make sensible shoes essential. And when the bread van toots, drop whatever you are doing; the queue is the day’s social hub and the bar opens for café con leche the moment the last loaf is sold. Miss it and you will spend the next 24 hours explaining yourself.