Velefique

The tarmac begins its upward spiral at kilometre 25 on the AL-3402, just after the last plastic-greenhouse fades in the rear-view mirror. From here to Velefique the engineers have stitched twenty numbered hairpins into the mountainside, each one a degree tighter than anything Surrey can manage. British cyclists call it the Alp d’Andaluze, not because it’s higher—the summit stops at 930 m—but because the surface is velvet-smooth and, more importantly, empty. On an April morning you can descend the whole sequence without touching the brakes and meet only a single cortijo dog barking at your shadow.

The Village Above the Switchbacks

Velefique sits on a narrow shelf scraped from the Sierra de los Filabres, 70 km north-east of Almería city. The census claims 258 residents; mid-week it feels closer to 25. Houses are chalk-white, walls half a metre thick, windows the size of post-box slots to keep out July’s furnace. Streets tilt at angles that would shame Sheffield; elderly villagers treat the gradient as a vertical park bench, stopping halfway to chat while their shopping bags dangle like ballast. There is no centre in the British sense—just a triangle of concrete shaded by a pepper tree where the ayuntamiento has nailed up next month’s fiesta poster: “San José, 19 March, procession starts 11:00, bring your own chair.”

The church tower doubles as the mobile-phone mast, which explains why signal improves the closer you stand to the saints. Inside, the building is cool enough to store wine; the priest has left the door open since 1987 because the lock rusted shut. No gift shop, no audio guide, just a printed notice asking visitors not to ring the bell unless they intend to stay for the rosary.

What the Mountain Gives

Outside the village the land reverts to stone, thyme and abandoned almond terraces. Dry-stone walls crumble in slow motion, releasing the occasional iron ploughshare that someone left in 1962. Paths strike east towards the ruined pueblo of Benizalón and west to the marble quarry at Lubrín; both are marked by cairns the height of a beer can and the occasional faded ribbon tied by German trekkers who never quite finished the GR-142. Spring brings colour—poppies between the wheat stalks, broom flashing yellow against grey schist—but even April can throw in a 5 °C dawn. Bring a windproof; the Filabres act like a chimney for the Levante.

Cyclists rule the morning, walkers the late afternoon when the sun slips behind El Chullo, the range’s 1,609 m top. The classic loop is to climb from Tabernas, coffee in Velefique, then descend the north face to Sorbas and roll home across the badlands where Sergio Leone filmed Clint Eastwood squinting at the horizon. Total distance 82 km, altitude gain 1,450 m, water stops zero after the village fountain. If the day turns sour, hitch-hiking is surprisingly effective—local farmers have discovered that a bike fits perfectly in the back of a dented Land Rover Defender.

Eating Without Show

Food arrives when the family-run bar opens, which tends to coincide with the cook waking up. The menu is written on a paper plate: migas (fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic and soft chorizo), caldo colorao (paprika broth with shredded cod), and a slab of almond cake that stays intact in a jersey pocket better than any energy bar. Beer is served in 330 ml bottles kept in a chest freezer; Estrella de Levante tastes better at altitude, or perhaps it’s just dehydration talking. Vegetarians get eggs—scrambled, fried or disguised as a Spanish tortilla thick as a paperback. Prices hover around €9 for a plate; the cook adds €1 if you ask for “less oil” because it interrupts the rhythm.

There is no dinner service. By 21:30 the television is switched off, chairs stacked, and the owner drives home to the cortijo before the mountain road freezes. If you’re staying overnight, self-catering is the only reliable option. The tiny shop on Calle Real stocks UHT milk, tinned sardines and chalky Spanish onions; fresh meat arrives on Thursdays in a white van whose driver doubles as the village dentist.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April–May and late September–October give 22 °C days and 10 °C nights, perfect for riding or hiking without the 35 °C July furnace. In August the village doubles in size as second-generation emigrants return from Barcelona and Manchester; suddenly every house has a cousin on the roof adjusting the TV aerial and the bar runs out of ice by 11 a.m. Fiestas happen: San José in March, the summer verbena around 15 August, and San Juan in June when a bonfire of old almond branches lights up the dry riverbed. Visitors are welcome, expected to buy a raffle ticket and move their car so the brass band can park.

Winter is sharp. Night temperatures drop to –3 °C, the water pipes in the municipal toilets freeze, and the road can be blocked by a single lorry that misjudges black ice. On the other hand, the air is so clear you can pick out the Moroccan coastline from the upper mirador—200 km away across the Alboran Sea—and the village belongs again to the 258 people who vote here.

Leaving Without a Souvenir

Velefique does not sell fridge magnets. The nearest approximation is a hand-labelled bottle of local olive oil left on the bar counter with an honesty box fashioned from a tin of Scottish shortbread. If you want to remember the place, download the GPX of the climb; every time you replay the route on winter mornings in Kent, you’ll smell thyme and hear the chain click across the cassette like a metronome counting twenty turns towards the sky.