Castril

Castril sits 890 m above sea level, but the number that matters is the 45-degree angle of Calle Real. The street tilts from the main square straight up the limestone crag that the village calls home. By the time boots hit the top terrace of the ruined eleventh-century castle, lungs have clocked a morning’s worth of exercise and the view stretches from olive groves to the snow-dusted Cazorla hills. No gym membership required.

The village that grew out of stone

Every house is wedged into the slope. Alleyways are staircases, doorways open at shoulder height to the road below, and neighbours on the next terrace up can swap sugar without leaving home. Whitewash helps the houses stand out; thick stone walls help them stay cool. The effect is geometric rather than pretty: white cubes stacked like irregular Lego, capped by orange roof tiles and the occasional television aerial that hasn’t yet learnt about streaming.

The heart is Plaza de España, a pocket-handkerchief square edged by the Renaissance-baroque church of Nuestra Señora de los Ángeles. Its bell tower doubles as the village clock; the single hand (the other fell off years ago) still keeps reasonable time. Inside, the gilded altarpiece glints in the gloom while elderly residents shuffle through for the 10 a.m. mass, coats on even in July because the stone interior stays stubbornly cold.

Walk five minutes downhill and the streets dissolve into country lanes. Walk five minutes uphill and you are on bare rock, looking across a gorge where griffon vultures turn lazy circles. The transition from village to wilderness is abrupt: one moment the smell is coffee and detergent, the next it is thyme and damp limestone.

A river that comes out of the mountain

Three kilometres north of the last house, the Castril river appears in full adult form. Water bursts from a cliff, drops into turquoise pools, then snakes beneath wooden walkways bolted to the gorge wall. The sign at the car park calls it the “Nacimiento”, but the river is actually several kilometres old by the time it surfaces, having travelled underground through the limestone sierra.

The path is gentle, mostly flat boards and gravel, but narrow enough that passing requires a polite “Perdón”. Handrails are solid, vertigo less of an issue than the spray that mists camera lenses. Allow two hours there-and-back including photo stops; add another thirty minutes if you intend to swim. The water is brisk even in August—think Windermere in June—so most visitors dip toes, shriek, and retreat to the sun-warmed rocks.

Weekend crowds arrive after 11 a.m., turning the single-track access road into a polite Spanish version of the M25. Aim for 8.30 a.m. and you’ll share the gorge with only the resident kingfishers. Outside July–August you may have it to yourself, though in winter the walkways ice over and the park service closes them without much publicity. Check at the tourist office beside the square before setting out; it opens erratically but the staff know enough English to say “cerrado por hielo”.

Walking boots beat sun loungers here

Castril is a base for doing, not for lying by a pool. The Sierra de Castril Natural Park spreads north and east, a limestone fortress scored with canyons and pine forests. Marked trails range from 45-minute ambles to full-day assaults on 2,000-metre ridges. The most popular after the river walk is the ascent to Pico Relumbrón, a six-hour round trip that starts from the upper cemetery gate and climbs through holm oak to a summit balcony overlooking both Granada and Albacete provinces. Take a litre of water per person; the only bar en route is a goat shed with no beer licence.

Spring brings the wildest show: orchids on the lower slopes, then almond blossom, then late snow on the peaks—all within the same week. Autumn is sharp gold and wood-smoke, perfect for British hill-walkers who miss the Lake District colours but not the rain. Summer days hit 35 °C by two o’clock; locals vanish indoors and sensible visitors follow suit. Mornings and evenings are glorious, the air thin enough that constellations feel within arm’s reach.

Climbers cluster on the grey walls above the village: bolted sport routes from 4 to 7c, mostly single pitch, with names like “Tarta de Queso” scrawled at the base. A 60-metre rope and a Spanish phrasebook suffice; grades feel soft after Peak Gritstone, though the sun can melt boot rubber onto the rock.

Food built for cold nights

Menus read like winter survival manuals. Migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic, pepper and shards of pork—arrive in volcano-sized mounds designed for sharing. Remojón mixes the same crumbs with orange and salt cod, a surprisingly light starter that tastes like a Mediterranean bread-and-butter pudding. Gachas, a paprika-thickened porridge, is comfort food for shepherds; order the vegetarian version and the chef simply leaves out the chorizo, still delicious.

Local trout appears simply grilled, served head-on with lemon wedges familiar to anyone who holidayed in Cornwall circa 1995. Portions are huge; one fish feeds two if you add sharing plates of roasted peppers. Wash it down with house red from nearby Altiplano—£6 a bottle in the bar, £3.50 if you take away a plastic litre from the cooperative shop.

Sweet-toothed refugees will appreciate churros sold from a weekend kiosk beside the square. The dough is extruded into oil in full view, the proprietor dusting fingers of fried batter with sugar while gossiping with customers. They close at noon sharp; turn up late and you’ll find only oily paper and regret.

Vegetarians need to negotiate. Ham is considered a seasoning, not meat, so specify “sin jamón” even on dishes labelled “verduras”. Supermarkets stock tofu only on alternate Thursdays; stock up in Granada before you leave the motorway.

Getting there, staying sane

Castril sits 157 km from Granada airport, 276 km from Málaga. The final 40 km are on the A-92N, a smooth but empty road where petrol stations are rarer than rain. Hire cars are essential; public transport is one daily bus from Huéscar that does not run on Sundays or fiesta days. Satellite navigation sometimes tries to send you up a forestry track—ignore anything narrower than a single-decker bus.

Accommodation is limited: two small hotels, a handful of village houses to rent, one municipal albergue. August sells out months ahead; April and October still have space at forty-odd pounds a night. Most places include firewood; nights drop to 5 °C even in May, so accept the bundle gratefully. Mobile signal flickers between 3G and none; WhatsApp voice messages work better than calls. Cash is king—ATMs refill on Monday mornings and are empty again by Friday night.

Friday brings the weekly market: two fruit stalls, one hardware barrow, a van selling bras next to the church. Prices are low enough to make a Londoner weep: kilo of locally grown oranges 80 p, bunches of wild asparagus gathered that morning €1. It is also the best place to practise Spanish; elderly vendors speak zero English but infinite patience.

If the altitude, gradients or sheer quiet feel daunting, remember the Spanish phrase “poco a poco”. Little by little works for climbing the castle, for negotiating dinner, and for adjusting to a place where traffic is replaced by goat bells. Castril does not do instant thrills; it rewards those who stay long enough to let the rock, the river and the slow rhythm of mountain life seep in.