Olula de Castro

The church bell strikes eleven somewhere above the rooftops, yet nobody appears. Not a single car engine interrupts the wind brushing through almond trees. At 1,050 m on the southern flank of the Filabres range, Olula de Castro is small enough—barely 180 permanent souls—that you can stand in the middle of the single paved lane and hear your own heartbeat echo off the slate tiles.

That stillness is the village’s first surprise. Most British travellers know Almería for its spaghetti-western deserts or the packed beaches of Mojácar. Forty minutes beyond the motorway, the ALP-716 begins to climb through rosemary-scented gullies, the temperature drops eight degrees, and the only traffic is the occasional shepherd’s pick-up. By the time the road squeezes between white walls topped with conical chimneys, the Costa del Sol feels like a rumour somebody once told you.

Stone, Slate and Winter Fires

The houses here were built for weather, not postcards. Walls are a metre thick, painted yearly with cal to keep out summer heat and winter damp; roofs are heavy grey slate quarried farther up the sierra, giving the hamlet a Pyrenean tint more suited to hot toddies than sangria. Doorways barely top six feet—handy defence against the Filabres wind that can knife through fleece in February. Inside, you’ll find wood-smoke, polished terracotta and the faint sweetness of almonds drying on roof terraces. Owners rent out a handful of village flats; expect €65 a night for two, but check whether firewood is included—night-time temperatures slide below zero in January and supermarkets don’t sell kindling.

There is no hotel, no boutique restoration, no gift shop. The sole grocery opens 09:00-13:00, shuts on Sunday and Monday, and stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and excellent local honey. Visitors who arrive after lunch without supplies usually drive twenty minutes down to Gérgal for a loaf and an ATM—Olula has neither petrol station nor cash machine. Pack as if heading to a bothy in the Cairngorms, add sun-cream for altitude glare, and you’ll be fine.

Walking into Empty Maps

Above the last street the tarmac gives out and the old mule tracks begin. One gentle 5 km loop heads east along an irrigation channel built by the Moors, then drops into the Rambla de Castro where abandoned almond terraces are being reclaimed by pine and dwarf oak. Spring brings drifts of rockrose and the metallic call of blue-rock thrush; after rain the scent of pennyroyal rises like Vicks on a radiator. Serious walkers can continue south to the ruined cortijo of El Berro, then climb 700 m to the radar domes of Calar Alto—the highest drivable pass in the province at 2,168 m. On a clear dawn you can see the Rif Mountains of Morocco, 160 km away, and the Mediterranean a silver thread at Almerimar.

Cyclists rate the same road “Alpine-lite”: smooth asphalt, gradients topping 10 %, and almost zero traffic outside July. Mountain bikers have a spider-web of forest tracks linking Olula with the even tinier hamlets of Benizalón and Alcudia de Monteagud—carry repair kit because there is no mobile signal once you leave the ridge. Vodafone and EE pick up again only in the plaza; stand beside the 1930s stone fountain and wave your phone like everyone else.

A Taste of the High Sierra

Food is mountain-plain but proud. The village women still shell their own almonds in front of the telly, and every household keeps a glass jar of rosemary stripped from roadside bushes. In winter you’ll be offered arrocillo—pork belly, white beans and wild fennel simmered for hours. Despite the name it contains no rice; the dish was nicknamed because the beans look “like little grains of arroz.” Tortas de alfajor, soft almond cakes dusted with icing sugar, taste like a cross between Bakewell tart and Scottish shortbread—dangerously moreish with a cup of tea. The only commercial product is turrón de almendra, a diamond-hard nougat cooked over open fires and sold in 200 g bars. One slice, slowly melted in the mouth, keeps you walking for another hour; it also survives the flight home better than a bottle of Rioja.

If you hanker for restaurant service, drive to Gérgal’s Bar El Parque for grilled lamb chops, or accept an invitation from villagers during fiesta weekends. The Moros y Cristianos celebration (third weekend in November) is Olula’s single rowdy interlude. Locals spend months sewing silk costumes, then parade through the lanes behind a brass band that has clearly practised since September. A British visitor last year described it as “like finding Notting Hill Carnival in a Cotswold hamlet—brilliant, baffling and very loud.” Book accommodation early; the village doubles in population for forty-eight hours, then empties overnight.

When to Go, When to Stay Away

April to mid-June is ideal: daylight lasts until 21:00, almond blossom scents the air and daytime temperatures hover around 22 °C—perfect for walking without the Sierra Nevada snow-melt. September and October glow with saffron thistles and the first wood-smoke; olive and almond harvests are underway and you may be handed a wicker basket and invited to help. Summer is dry but fierce—35 °C at noon—and most villagers retreat behind closed shutters until 18:00. In winter the place is yours, but the access road can ice over above 900 m; Spanish police sometimes check for snow chains after December frosts. Without them you’ll be turned back, and recovery trucks start at €180 from the motorway.

Practicalities in a Sentence

From Almería airport take the A-92 towards Guadix, exit 376 for Gérgal, follow signs for Olula de Castro up the ALP-716 for 19 km—allow 55 minutes in total, longer if you stop for photographs. Bring cash, food, chains in winter, and expect silence broken only by church bells and the occasional goat bell. If that sounds like hardship, pick the coast. If it sounds like bliss, the sierra is waiting.