Full Article
about Castro de Filabres
Small slate-and-stone village in the sierra; well-preserved traditional black architecture
Ocultar artículo Leer artículo completo
The school bus leaves at 07:15. If you miss it, you wait twenty-four hours. That single fact tells you most of what you need to know about Castro de Filabres, a white scatter of houses clamped to the north slope of the Sierra de los Filabres, 960 m above the Mediterranean and exactly 109 souls above the nearest traffic light.
From Almería airport the road climbs for fifty kilometres but feels like a hundred. The ALP-716 switchbacks past abandoned cortijos and almond terraces until even the goats look bored. Then the village appears: a slab of slate-roof cubes threaded by passages barely two metres wide, the church bell tower poking above the roofs like a after-thought. Park on the upper edge—there are no metres—and the whole basin opens westwards, ridge after ridge folding into hazy violet. At dusk the only sound is the hum of Calar Alto observatory’s radar dome, blinking red on the opposite peak.
Walking the old grain paths
Castro was never on the way to anywhere important; that is why its mule tracks survive. The GR-244 long-distance footpath passes through the lower plaza, way-marked with red-and-white flashes that lead east to Benizalón and west to Velefique. Either direction gives you three hours of empty sierra: thyme-scented air, stone walls built by Moorish labour, and the occasional boot print to prove you are not hallucinating. Stout shoes are enough; the gradients are gentle by Andalusian standards, but carry water—there are no fountains after the village trough.
If you prefer a loop, start at the Ermita viewpoint just before sunrise. A stony lane drops past abandoned almond terraces, then climbs back through pine regrowth. The return leg frames the village against the morning light: white cubes turn peach, then gold, then blinding white again. Total distance: 6 km. Height gain: 220 m. Probability of meeting another walker: close to zero.
Winter changes the rules. Night frosts glaze the cobbles and the GR-244 can hold snow above 1,200 m. The village school shuts if the thermometer hits –2 °C by 08:00, and locals swap motorcycles for 4×4 pickups. Come prepared with slippers—the cottages rely on log-burners whose warmth rarely reaches the bedroom.
What passes for gastronomy
There is one public food outlet: Casa Paco, half bar, half family kitchen, on the only corner wide enough for two pedestrians to pass. Opening hours obey lunar logic. Phone ahead (+34 950 xxx xxx) between October and March; otherwise you may find the door bolted and Paco asleep under the television. If the lights are on, order the gurullos—stubby hand-rolled pasta squares stewed with rabbit, rosemary and a splash of the local red. The almond tart arrives in slabs the size of house bricks; the custard is sweet enough to make a dentist wince and costs €3.50 a portion.
Self-caterers should shop in Almería before driving up. The village mini-mart stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and not much else. Fresh bread appears twice a week: Tuesday and Friday mornings, delivered from a van that toots its horn in the plaza at 10:30 sharp. Bring euros—there is no cash machine for 25 km, and Casa Paco’s card reader works only when Mercury is in retrograde.
Stars, silence and the observatory
Light pollution is measured in goats, not lux. On clear nights the Milky Way spills overhead like tipped sugar. Thirty minutes away by car, the Calar Alto observatory opens its domes to visitors most Saturdays (book online, €10, English tour at 18:00). Inside, the 3.5 m telescope feels like a Bond-film prop. Back in Castro you can replicate the experience with a pair of 10×50 binoculars and a coat. Stand on the upper car park, switch off your phone torch, and wait twenty minutes. Shooting stars are common; satellites even more so. The village clock strikes every half hour, but otherwise nothing moves except the occasional hedgehog rustling among the agaves.
When to come, when to stay away
April is the sweet spot. Almond blossom turns the slopes white-pink, daytime temperatures hover around 18 °C, and the GR-244 is firm underfoot. Easter brings a modest procession: twenty men, one brass band, statues carried shoulder-high through lanes so narrow the bearers have to shuffle sideways. Visitors are welcome, accommodation is not—book a cottage in February or you will sleep in the car.
August is complicated. The fiesta, usually the second weekend, draws descendants from Barcelona and Madrid. The population quadruples, Casa Paco runs a barbecue in the street, and someone will try to teach you the sevillanas at 03:00. Fun, but do not expect silence. Likewise, avoid Sunday afternoons and Mondays out of season: the bar is shut, the bakery van has left, and the only edible item in the village is a packet of crisps from the mini-mart.
Getting here, getting out
Fly to Almería from London-Stansted, Manchester or Birmingham (2 h 45 m with Ryanair or easyJet). Hire a small car with decent tyres—the final 12 km are steep and the safety barriers have seen better decades. Allow one hour from the airport; longer after dark when mountain lorries hog the centre line. Public transport is the school bus mentioned earlier: it carries locals and the odd backpacker, but only on weekdays, and never at weekends or in August. Taxis from the airport cost €90 each way—more than a week’s car rental.
Leave early for your return flight. Fog can blanket the high plateau until 10:00, and the Guardia Civil enjoy timing speed checks on the downhill bends. Fill the tank in Tabernas; the mountain stations close for lunch without warning.
Castro de Filabres will not change your life. It offers no beach, no souvenir shops, no Instagram pier. What it does offer is a yardstick: a place where the day still hinges on sunrise, wood smoke and whether the bar is open. Spend two quiet nights, walk the almond terraces, and the city you return to will feel louder, harsher and unnecessarily bright.
