Fiñana

The bakery opens at seven, even in February. By half past, the almond blossom is already catching light on the lower slopes, and the air up at 950 metres carries that particular Sierra Nevada chill that makes British visitors reach for proper layers. Fiñana doesn't do dramatic reveals—no sweeping beach promenades, no Moorish palace gates. Instead, the village lets its character leak out slowly: the smell of woodsmoke from chimneyed roofs, the sound of the butane delivery lorry negotiating streets barely wider than a Tesco trolley aisle, the way the morning sun picks out the lime-wash on houses that have been here since the 16th century.

This is interior Almería, forty-five minutes north of the provincial capital on the A-92, then a final swing west onto the A-348 where the road starts to corkscrew. What hits first is the scale. The village sits in a natural amphitheatre of almond terraces and limestone ridges; look south on a clear day and you can just make out the faint blue line of the Mediterranean, 70 kilometres away and irrelevant to daily life here. Fiñana faces the mountains, not the sea. That single fact explains the cuisine, the architecture, even the pace of conversation.

The Uphill Logic of a Moorish Street Plan

Park at the lower plaza—there's space, even in August—and start walking upwards. The medieval street pattern survives less as heritage statement, more as daily inconvenience. Calle Real twists into Calle Nueva, both barely shoulder-wide, both paved with the original river-stone slabs that turn lethal after rain. Houses grow organically from the rock: ground floor for the donkey (now a Renault Clio), first floor for the family, second floor for the drying peppers and the weekly washing. Gravity did the urban planning.

Halfway up, the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Anunciación blocks the way like a traffic filter. Parts of the tower are 14th-century Islamic ashlar, recycled after the Reconquista; the south doorway is pure 1530s plateresque, the interior a jumble of Baroque gilt and 1970s pine pews. No postcards sold, no audio guide. If the door's open, step inside and your footsteps echo. If it's locked, that's normal too. Fiñana doesn't stage itself.

Keep climbing to the castle remains—more a disturbance in the rubble than a ruin. What survives are fragments of curtain wall and a single horseshoe arch that once framed the gateway to the Alcazaba. The compensation is the platform view: west across the Rambla de Fiñana, east towards the marble-white village of Tíjola, north to the snow-streaked ridge of Calar Alto, home to Europe's most southerly astronomical observatory. Bring binoculars; vultures use the thermals here, and on still days you can hear the wind through their primary feathers.

Almond Blossom, Wild Boar Stew and Other Seasonal Certainties

The agricultural calendar rules the kitchen. From late January to mid-March the slopes glow white-pink with blossom; photographers arrive from Granada province, tripods lined along the GR-7 footpath, then vanish. By April the trees have set, and the conversation turns to rain. Fiñana measures wealth not in euros but in litres per square metre. A good spring fills the stone irrigation channels—acequias hacked out under the Nasrids—and lets vegetable plots survive July, when temperatures still brush 35 °C despite the altitude.

Local menus reflect the weather forecast. Winter means migas—fried breadcrumbs with pancetta and spring onion—served in cast-iron pans that keep the heat. Come April the same bars dish up espárragos trigueros (wild asparagus) scrambled with eggs from backyard hens. September brings jabali en adobo, wild boar marinated in bay leaf and matalahúga (aniseed) until the meat loosens. Portions are mountain-sized; the British habit of ordering two starters instead of a main course causes polite confusion.

Prices haven't budged much since the crisis. A menu del día—three courses, bread, house wine—runs €12–14 mid-week. Coffee is still €1.20 if you stand at the bar, €1.50 on the plaza. Cards are accepted, but the machine may be out of paper; carry cash.

Walking Tracks that Start from the Doorstep

The village functions as an unofficial trailhead for the northern flank of Sierra Nevada. Three waymarked routes leave from the upper cemetery, each following old mule paths paved, in places, with flagstones laid by Moorish workers eight centuries ago. The shortest loop—6 km, two hours—circles the Cerro del Castillo, gaining 300 m of height through almond terraces and thyme scrub. Spring brings bee-eaters and the smell of resin; autumn offers pomegranate and wild fig if you know which dry-stone walls to peer over.

Ambitious walkers can continue north-east along the GR-7 to the abandoned hamlet of Alcóntar, a six-hour traverse that tops out at 1,600 m among Spanish juniper and the odd ibex. The route is waymarked but carries no water after April; fill bottles at the public fountain behind the town hall before setting off. In winter, the same path may hold snow above 1,400 m—check the AEMET mountain forecast and carry the lightweight crampons that live in every British rucksack.

Cyclists arrive too, usually on organised transfers from Almería airport. The climb from the Guadix basin to Fiñana is 22 km at an average 4 %—manageable on a 34×28, murderous on holiday legs. The reward is the drop down the northern side: 30 km of near-deserted road to María, then coffee and churros before the van collects the bikes.

When the Village Decides to Party

Fiñana's fiestas are family reunions with loudspeakers. The main event honours the Virgen de la Anunciación, fixed for the weekend following Easter—dates shift, so check the parish website. Events start with a Saturday evening misa followed by a procession so slow it appears stationary. At 3 a.m. Sunday a despertá—brass band marching the streets—wakes even the steadfast. By Monday lunchtime half the emigrants who left for Barcelona in the 1960s are back on doorsteps, comparing grandchildren and arguing over property boundaries.

August brings the feria—three nights of open-air dancing on a polystyrene plaza floor. Music ranges from rancheras to reggaeton; the bar sells cañas for €1 and plastic cups of rebujito (manzanilla with lemonade) for €2. Foreigners are welcome, but there's no programme in English. Ask at the bakery; they'll know which night the orquesta starts at midnight and which at two.

Semana Santa is quieter, prized for its acoustics rather than spectacle. Narrow streets trap the drumbeat; processions pass so close you feel the candle heat. Stand on Calle San Antonio after 11 p.m. on Maundy Thursday and you'll hear the marcha procesional echoing off stone long before the hooded bearers appear.

Getting There, Staying Over, Knowing When to Turn Back

Almería airport receives year-round flights from London-Stansted (Ryanair) and Manchester (TUI) in under three hours. Car hire is essential; public transport involves a train to Guadix and a twice-weekly bus that reaches Fiñana at teatime, if at all. The final 12 km on the A-348 are well-surfaced but lack barriers—drive like a local, hug the centre line, and watch for goats.

Accommodation is limited. The village has one small hotel, the Casa Grande, eight rooms built around a 19th-century patio, doubles from €65 including breakfast. Otherwise, look for casas rurales scattered through the almond terraces—expect wood-burning stoves, patchy Wi-Fi and the occasional scorpion in the shower (harmless but startling). Book early for blossom weekends; photographers reserve a year ahead.

Come prepared for altitude. At 950 m the sun is fierce even in March; SPF 30 is not optional. Summer nights drop to 18 °C—pleasant for Britons, but Spanish visitors wear fleece. Winter can bring snow, rarely lasting more than 48 hours, enough to close the A-348 for half a day. Carry snow chains December–February; the Guardia Civil turn cars back at the first flake.

Fiñana will never feature on a Costa package leaflet. It offers, instead, the particular satisfaction of a place that functions for itself first and visitors second. Turn up expecting gift shops and you'll leave within the hour. Arrive ready to walk at dawn, eat stews you can't identify, and listen to Spanish spoken without an Andalusian accent slowed for foreigners, and the village quietly folds you in. Just remember to fill your water bottle at the fountain on the way down; the next one is two valleys away.