Puebla de Don Fadrique

The fleece comes out at ten o’clock. Even in July, when the Costa del Sol is sweltering through 35 °C, the evening breeze sliding down from the Sierra de la Sagra makes diners reach for jackets on the terrace of Bar La Muralla. That single detail tells you almost everything you need to know about Puebla de Don Fadrique: altitude changes everything.

At 1,164 m this is the highest municipality in the province of Granada, planted on a wind-scoured plateau where cereal fields meet limestone crags and the horizon keeps its distance. The village isn’t hidden—once you’re within 20 km you can spot the Mudéjar tower of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción from the road—but it feels removed. There are no souvenir stalls, no flamenco-tablaos, no English menus propped on plastic tables. Instead you’ll find 5,000 people who still close shop for the siesta and who greet strangers with the cautious friendliness common to places that tourists merely pass through.

The Stone that Survived

Start in the Plaza Mayor just after the church bell strikes eleven. Housewives queue at the butcher’s, the chemist pulls down his shutter for the mid-morning break, and old men swap newspapers at the metal tables outside Casa Paco. The façade of the town hall is painted the colour of ripe apricot, a cheerful contrast to the white-washed houses whose balconies are already in deep shade. From here it is a five-minute walk uphill—always uphill—to what remains of the castle. Do not expect battlements or audio-guides; interpretation boards blew away years ago and what is left is a knee-high outline of masonry and, more importantly, a 360-degree view. To the south the plateau drops away into the Guadiana Menor valley; to the north the Sagra keeps its snow long after the ski resorts have shut. On a clear day you can pick out the white roofs of Huéscar 23 km away, and if the turbines on the distant ridge are turning you can guess the wind speed without an app.

Back in the centre the church rewards a slower circuit. The doorway is pure 1540s plateresque, the interior smells of candle wax and floor polish, and the baroque retablo glows even on a dull morning. Drop a euro in the box and lights reveal a Virgin dressed in brocade that local women still embroider each August. Photography is allowed, flash is not, and the verger will close the door if he thinks you’ve seen enough. Respect the rhythm: this is a parish church, not a heritage attraction.

Walking the Dry Country

The GR-740 long-distance path skirts the village, but you need only follow the yellow arrows for 45 minutes to understand the terrain. The route to the castle sets off between wheat stubble and almond groves, then zig-zags through rosemary-scented scrub to reach the summit. Boots are advisable after rain—limestone flakes into razor edges—and carry more water than you think necessary; the altitude dehydrates faster than the coast. If you prefer wheels, the network of farm tracks south-west of town makes for quiet mountain-biking. Gradient is gentle but constant, and in June the air fills with lavender scent and the mechanical chirp of a thousand cicadas.

Birders should bring a scope. The plains hold great bustard and little bustard—both easier to see here than anywhere in Extremadura—and stone-curlew call at dusk from the fallow fields opposite the cemetery. A dawn start is non-negotiable: by ten the heat shimmer makes identification guesswork and the birds have gone to ground.

What Arrives on the Plate

Order lunch before two o’clock or the kitchen switches off. The set menú del día in the family-run Mesón La Sagra costs €12 and runs to three courses, bread and a glass of robust tintocountry wine that tastes better after the walk. Lamb chops arrive sizzling on terracotta tiles, the meat so young it needs nothing more than coarse salt. Migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with pancetta and a handful of grapes—provide the carbohydrate hit British walkers secretly crave, though the portion is half what you would be served in Yorkshire. Finish with a torta de aceite, a paper-thin pastry scented with anise and sesame that shatters at first bite. Vegetarians face slim pickings: the house gazpacho manchego contains game stock, and even the vegetable stew is bulked out with morcilla. Ask for “ensalada mixta grande” and you will at least get tomatoes that taste of sun rather of the supermarket chiller.

Evening drinking is centred on two bars. La Muralla does cold beer and acceptable Rioja by the glass; the adjoining tapas might be mushrooms sautéed in garlic or a saucer of local olives crushed with rosemary and lemon peel. Across the square, Bar Alhanda fills with domino players who treat the TV’s mute football as background art. Order a copa and you are given a tapa whether you want one or not—resistance is futile and, at €1.80 a drink, economically senseless.

When the Village Lets its Hair Down

Fiestas here obey the agricultural calendar, not the tourism office. Mid-August brings the patronal fair in honour of the Assumption: a procession, a brass band that has clearly been practising since Easter, and a marquee where teenage dancers attempt reggaeton before giving way to the older crowd’s pasodoble. Fireworks start at midnight and echo off the surrounding cliffs like artillery practice. If you prefer something tamer, the weekend closest to 16 January is San Antón, when bonfires blaze in the streets and dogs, horses and even the occasional sheep are blessed outside the church. British visitors often stumble on it by accident and leave convinced they have witnessed something medieval; in reality it is simply what happens when a farming community throws a mid-winter party.

Getting There, Staying Sensible

Alicante airport is the straightforward gateway: pick up a hire car, join the A-31, then drift inland on the CM-412 and A-330. The final 40 km cross empty steppe where the only distraction is the occasional herd of black bulls; mobile signal cuts out for stretches, so download offline maps before you leave the motorway. Murcia-Corvera is nearer (144 km) but flights from the UK are thinner on the ground. Granada airport looks equidistant on paper (181 km) yet connections via Madrid add half a day each way—fine if you are touring, maddening for a week’s break.

Accommodation is limited to three small hotels and a handful of village houses to rent. Book ahead for Easter and August; outside those periods you can usually find a room on the day. Parking is free and unstressful—follow the blue lines and feed the meter if you remember, though enforcement is relaxed. Petrol stations close by 21:00 and all day Sunday; fill up in Huéscar on Saturday morning if you plan a Sunday excursion. Cash remains king: the lone Cajamar ATM runs dry during fiestas, and the baker will not accept contactless for a loaf.

Winter visits deliver snow-capped backdrops and empty trails, but carry chains from December to March. The main road is gritted first thing, yet the shortcut to the castle becomes a toboggan run by mid-afternoon. Spring and autumn give the best balance: daytime 22 °C, night-time 8 °C, and the lavender fields photogenic without the summer haze.

Puebla de Don Fadrique will not seduce everyone. If you need room service, nightclubs or a beach within walking distance, keep driving. What it offers instead is a calibrated sense of scale: big skies, moderate ambitions, and the quiet realisation that high-altitude Spain has its own grammar of light, stone and silence. Bring a fleece, slow your stride and the plateau starts to make sense.