Tahal

The almond trees are already turning the slopes white by the time the first British number plate appears on the mountain road. It’s late February, early morning, and the thermometer outside the village bakery reads 4 °C. Inside, a woman in an apron is sliding migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with pancetta—from a wide pan into paper cones. She charges two euros, takes only cash, and refuses to speak slower Spanish just because you’re clutching Google Translate. This is Tahal, altitude 1,050 m, province of Almería, population somewhere south of 400 depending whose cousins are in town.

Most maps of the Cabo de Gata coast don’t bother showing the Sierra de los Filabres. That suits the villagers fine. They’ve watched the coastal resorts double in size while their own streets remain stubbornly quiet, save for the odd tractor grinding up to an almond terrace. The result is a place that feels older than its sixteenth-century church: a compact knot of white houses pitched against a ridge, with views that stretch from the Tabernas badlands to the snow-bright peaks of Sierra Nevada on a clear day.

Getting Up There (and Why You’ll Need a Car)

The drive from Almería airport takes just over an hour—longer if you stop for photographs once the road starts corkscrewing. Leave the A-92 at Gérgal, swing onto the AL-5402, and prepare for 15 km of tight hairpins where sat-nav routinely gives up. Hire something small; a people-carrier will meet oncoming livestock with inches to spare. In winter the surface can be frosted until lunchtime; in July it radiates heat like a pizza oven. Either way, keep the tank half-full—there isn’t a petrol station for 25 km.

Public transport exists on paper. A Monday-to-Friday bus reaches Benizalón, 8 km below the village, at 14:35. After that you’re hiking uphill with your suitcase. Most visitors simply book a £70-weekly Fiat 500 at the airport and accept the mountain road as the price of solitude.

What You’ll Find Once You Arrive

Tahal doesn’t do landmarks. The Iglesia de la Encarnación squats in the main square with the practical air of a building that has weathered earthquakes, civil war and questionable restoration grants. Step inside and the afternoon light picks out gilded Baroque panels that deserve more attention than they get. Five minutes is enough to see the nave; linger longer and the caretaker will appear, keen to practise the only English sentence he knows: “No flash, please.”

The village layout is simple: one upper street, one lower street, and half a dozen alleys that double as drainage channels when the storms roll through. Houses are whitewashed yearly, their rooflines interrupted by the occasional terracotta pot of geraniums. Shutters are green or grey, never blue—that colour belongs down on the coast. Walking from end to end takes twenty minutes, thirty if you stop to read the hand-painted ceramic plaques that give each house its name: Vista Alba, El Refugio, Casa Paco.

Drop down the southern slope and you reach the old threshing floors, stone circles where donkeys once trod wheat. They’re now the best sunrise viewpoint in the Filabres. At 07:00 the light lifts slowly, first catching the church tower, then picking out almond terraces like contour lines on an OS map. Bring a jacket; even in May the wind has teeth.

Trails, Heat and the Right Season

Tahal’s real size lies outside its streets. Marked paths fan out through pine and kermes oak, waymarked in the Spanish fashion—faded paint slashes you spot just as you’re convinced you’re lost. The easiest route, the Ruta de los Almendros, is a 6 km loop that starts behind the cemetery and rolls across two valleys before depositing you back at the bar in time for coffee. February to March is prime time: white blossom, green grass, and daytime highs of 16 °C. Come August the same trail is a dust bowl where temperatures brush 38 °C by 11 a.m. Sensible walkers start at dawn, carry two litres of water, and retreat to the shade before the cicadas rev up.

Higher routes reach 1,600 m along the Cresta de los Gallos, a ridge where you’ll see more wild boar prints than humans. The village council prints a free map—pick it up at the ayuntamiento—but paths can disappear under winter landslides. After heavy rain the council simply closes the gates; respect them, because mobile reception is patchy on EE and Vodafone alike.

Food, Drink and the Cash Only Rule

There is no supermarket, only a venta that opens 09:00–13:00, sells tinned tuna, UHT milk and locally jarred honey, then shuts firmly for siesta. Stock up in Tabernas on the way up: fresh bread, tomatoes, a bottle of decent red from Laujar valley—light enough to drink with lunch and still walk afterwards.

Eating out means Bar Filabres, one street back from the church. It has four tables, a television no one watches, and a handwritten menu that changes according to what the owner’s mother feels like cooking. Expect migas (think savoury stuffing), caldo colorao (paprika-laced fish soup) and, if you’re unlucky, gurullos stew featuring whichever rabbit lost the morning’s chase. Main dishes run €8–€10, house wine is €6 a bottle, and payment is cash only—there’s no ATM for 25 minutes’ drive.

On feast days the bar extends into the street. The Fiesta de la Almendra (usually the second weekend in February) brings a communal paella pan the size of a satellite dish and almond-themed sweets that would bankrupt a London confectioner at three euros a box. The summer fiestas in mid-August are rowdier: late-night verbena dancing, children riding tractors decorated with crepe paper, and fireworks that bounce off the surrounding cliffs like artillery. Even then the noise subsides by 23:30; Tahal’s residents have fields to tend at sunrise.

Where to Sleep (and Why You Might Leave Early)

Rural cottages dominate the rental market. Most are restored labourers’ houses—thick walls, wood-burning stoves, Wi-Fi that clocks 10 Mb on a good day. Prices hover round €70 a night for two, falling to €45 outside blossom season. Because the village is small, neighbours know whose courtyard light stays on past midnight; if you want clubbing, you’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere around Gérgal.

Winter visitors divide into two camps: those who relish the silence—broken only by church bells and the occasional hunting dog—and those who find the darkness absolute, the streets empty, and the bar closed on Tuesdays. If you need constant stimulation, book three nights maximum and plan day-trips to Cabo de Gata beaches (90 minutes) or the Alhambra (two hours). Otherwise bring hiking boots, a stack of paperbacks and a tolerance for your own company.

Leaving Without a Scratch (or a Scratch Card)

Check-out is simple: strip the beds, lock the door, drop the key through the letterbox. The mountain road rewards a cautious descent: use second gear, ignore the queue of local 4×4s tailgating behind you, and pull in at the first lay-by to let them pass. By the time you reach the A-92 the thermometer has jumped ten degrees, the almond blossom is a white smudge in the rear-view mirror, and the coast smells of diesel and fried seafood again.

Tahal doesn’t sell souvenirs; the village’s only nod to merchandising is the honey stall outside number 24, where an honesty box is nailed to the wall. Three euros buys 250 g of thick, dark honey that tastes of rosemary and altitude. Take a jar home, spread it on toast, and you’ll remember—briefly—what mornings sound like when the loudest thing is a donkey two valleys away.