Alquife

At 1,190 m, the air is thin enough to make the diesel fumes from the last working lorry fade fast. Below the lay-by, a reddish scar the size of a football stadium drops away – the flooded iron pit that fed Sheffield furnaces in the 1890s and closed for good in 1996. A pair of griffon vultures circle the rim as if supervising the slow return of the mountain. This is Alquife, halfway between Granada and the lonely film-set badlands of Tabernas, and it is still deciding whether it is a village or a museum.

The census claims 586 residents; mid-week in March you will meet perhaps six of them. Streets tilt at angles that would shame parts of Sheffield or Swansea, and the stone houses – many empty – are painted the colour of rust so the dust from the old workings never really showed. Yet the place is alive enough: smoke rises from a dozen chimneys, someone is tuning a Spanish guitar behind shuttered windows, and the village dogs have perfected the art of dozing in the single patch of sun that reaches the plaza at midday.

The mine that refuses to leave

Roman slag heaps glint below the modern pithead; the Victorians shipped ore out through Cartagena to South Wales, and Franco’s engineers widened the cut until it became Europe’s largest open-cast iron mine. Today the lake at the bottom is an improbable teal, fenced off after a 2018 rockfall. A discreet hole in the wire 100 m west allows the curious to peer over the lip – locals shrug and say “at your own risk”, the only health-and-safety briefing you will get. Bring a wide-angle lens and a head for heights; the drop is 200 m straight down.

Across the road the English-style director’s villa still stands, built in 1905 for a Cornish manager who complained that Spanish winters were “too bloody dry”. The porch is collapsing, but the cast-iron bath he imported sits in the garden like a sarcophagus, filled now with rainwater and pine needles. Graffiti inside reads “No hay futuro” – there is no future – though someone has added in smaller letters “todavía” – yet.

Walking the red ridge

Alquife sits on the southern flank of the Sierra Nevada, so every path either climbs or descends. The easiest outing is the 3.5 km Minero trail to the neighbouring village of Lanteira, way-marked with old pickaxe symbols and almost level. Allow 45 minutes each way; the track skirts the upper terrace of the pit, then enters a holm-oak wood where wild thyme smells like a Kentish downs ramble until you remember you are 400 m higher than Ben Nevis.

For something stiffer, follow the dirt road past the cemetery until the tarmac runs out, then keep going. After 6 km the track becomes a footpath that climbs to the Collado de las Sabinas (1,950 m), where the view stretches north across the Tabernas desert to the Sorbas badlands and, on very clear days, to the marble quarries of Macael 60 km away. The return is 14 km with 800 m of ascent; in summer start before eight or the sun will fry you regardless of factor 50. Winter hikers should note that the same path can hold snow until late April – carry a fleece and expect a 10 °C drop from Granada’s balmy plain.

Food that understands cold

Mountain cooking here is built around what keeps when the thermometer touches –8 °C. Mid-week lunch is served in only one public place, the bar attached to the Casa Rural. The menu is chalked on a blackboard and rarely changes: migas with grapes (€7), garlic kid stew (€9), and papaviejos – doughnut fingers rolled in sugar – for pudding (€3). House red from Jerez del Marquesado is light, almost Beaujolais in style, and costs €2.50 a glass; they will fill a 75 cl plastic bottle for €4 if you ask nicely. Vegetarians get a plate of grilled courgettes and local cheese; vegans should probably self-cater.

There is no shop, so stock up in Ferreira, 8 km down the A-92, before you arrive. Sunday lunchtime is a ghost shift – even the bar closes at 15:00 sharp – and the nearest cash machine is in the same village. Cards are accepted, but the machine in Alquife disappeared when the last bank left in 2009.

When the mountain turns white

January brings the fiestas of San Sebastián, patron of both the village and the miners’ guild. Daytime temperatures hover around 4 °C, but the plaza fills with half the province come back for the weekend. A brass band plays under fairy lights strung between balconies, and every household seems to have a cauldron of chocolate on the hob for passing revellers. At midnight a procession carries the saint downhill to the old washery; fireworks bounce off the pit walls like artillery practice. Book the casa rural early – all four rooms go months ahead.

August is the mirror event: same people, hotter weather, water fights instead of chocolate. The difference is that now the Sierra Nevada ridgeline stays snow-free, so Alquife becomes an escape valve for coastal families fleeing the 38 °C furnace of Motril. Evenings cool to 20 °C by 22:00; bring a jacket or the breeze off the snowfields will have you shivering.

Getting here, getting out

By car from Málaga or Almería it is 90 minutes on the A-92 to exit 294, then 12 km of winding mountain road. The surface is good, but lorries still serve a gypsum works further up the valley, so keep left on the blind bends. There is no petrol station after Guadix – fill up there if the gauge is below half.

Public transport is essentially folklore: one school bus leaves Guadix at 07:15, returns at 14:00. That is it. A taxi from Guadix costs €25 if you can persuade the driver to climb; many refuse once the snow gates close, usually December to February.

The honest verdict

Alquife will not entertain you. It will not sell you fridge magnets, and the single souvenir on offer is a lump of iron pyrite the bar owner found in his garden. What it will do is give you half a day of genuine high-altitude quiet, a crash course in industrial archaeology, and the odd sensation of standing where British coal meets Andalusian sun. Combine it with the cave houses of Guadix 20 minutes down the road, stay overnight, and leave before the silence becomes unnerving.