Cuevas del Almanzora

The Tuesday morning market spreads beneath the Castillo del Marqués de los Vélez like a temporary city. Stallholders shout prices in rapid Spanish while British retirees finger €5 cotton dresses and debate whether the tomatoes taste like they did in the Seventies. This is Cuevas del Almanzora at its most honest: a working town where tourism happens incidentally, not essentially.

Fifteen kilometres inland from the coast, the municipality stretches from proper mountains to proper sea. The town centre sits 110 metres above sea level, far enough from the water that the Mediterranean feels like a distant cousin rather than a close neighbour. Yet this geographical split defines everything here. Half the population lives in cave houses carved into the Sierra de Almagrera, their white chimneys poking from hillsides like mushrooms. The other half clusters around Villaricos harbour, where fishing boats share moorings with yachts whose owners couldn't afford Mojácar's marina fees.

The Castle and the Caves

The sixteenth-century fortress isn't pretty. It's functional, built from the same honey-coloured stone as the cliffs behind it, with walls designed to keep out Barbary pirates rather than welcome coach parties. Inside, the archaeological museum displays pottery fragments from the Argáric culture - Bronze Age people who organised their settlements with the same practical mindset evident in today's market layout. The €3 entry fee includes access to the battlements, where you can see exactly why this spot mattered: control of the Almanzora valley meant control of the silver and lead mines that once made this region wealthy enough to warrant serious fortifications.

Those mines shaped more than defence strategy. Walk three kilometres north-east and you'll find abandoned railway tracks disappearing into mountainsides, their tunnels now home to bats rather than miners. The Sierra de Almagrera isn't beautiful in conventional terms. It's too harsh, too dry, too obviously exploited. But there's something compelling about landscapes that refuse to recover gracefully. Old spoil heaps glitter with galena ore. Rusted ore wagons sit where workers left them in 1960. Temperature drops ten degrees inside the larger tunnels - welcome relief in July, distinctly chilly in January.

Two Beaches, Two Personalities

Villaricos beach stretches five kilometres from the harbour breakwater to where the Almanzora river meets the sea. The southern end hosts apartment blocks and beach bars serving adequate paella to visitors who've discovered that Mojácar's prices verge on the ridiculous. Walk fifteen minutes north and concrete gives way to agricultural land. The sand darkens, mixed with volcanic particles that get uncomfortably hot under bare feet. On weekdays outside August, you might share a hundred-metre stretch with two dog-walkers and a retired couple from Yorkshire reading the Daily Mail online.

Playa de los Cocedores requires more effort. Park where the tarmac ends at the abandoned hotel development (bankruptcy, 2008 - the crane's still there, rusting like industrial sculpture) and follow the dirt track for twenty minutes. The cove's limestone arches appear suddenly, Instagram-ready except for the rubbish caught in tidal pools. Local teenagers use the flat rocks as diving platforms. The water's clear enough to spot sea urchins clustering in underwater caves, but bring shoes you can swim in - the sea floor's rocky and urchin spines mean business.

Food that Doesn't Cater to Tourists

Bar Canada occupies the castle's former stables, its terrace built into the old defensive walls. Wood smoke drifts from a grill that handles everything from sardines to T-bone steaks. The ribs arrive on plates sized for sharing, though portions assume Spanish appetites rather than British ones. Order chips and salad separately - they're not included, and the waiter won't mention this. House wine costs €2.50 a glass and tastes like it. Stick to beer or gin.

In Villaricos harbour, Restaurante El Tío Kiko serves whatever came off the boats that morning. This isn't marketing copy - the owner's nephew skippers one of the fishing vessels. Thursday's special might be dorada baked in salt crust, Friday's could be cuttlefish stew. Prices hover around €14-18 for main courses, cheaper than coastal towns further west but not the bargain they were five years ago. The menu's in Spanish only. Pointing works.

For breakfast, try rosquillos de anís from Panadería Loli on Calle Corredera. These aniseed biscuits dissolve in coffee and cost €3.50 for a paper bag containing roughly twenty. They're traditional festival food, but locals eat them year-round because they're practical - they don't go stale in arid climates.

When to Visit, When to Avoid

March brings almond blossom to the valley floors, turning agricultural terraces briefly pink. Temperatures reach 20°C most afternoons, though nights drop to 8°C - bring a jacket. This is walking weather. Trails from the town centre climb through abandoned terraces where elderly residents still cultivate olives and almonds using methods their grandparents would recognise. Paths are signposted but not maintained to UK standards. Carry more water than you think necessary - the dry air dehydrates without you noticing.

August hits 38°C regularly. Spanish families arrive from Madrid and Murcia, tripling the population. Parking becomes theoretical rather than practical. Beach bars blast reggaeton until 3am. The market expands to include stalls selling inflatable crocodiles and knock-off football shirts. If you visit then, book accommodation months ahead and accept that tranquillity requires driving twenty minutes inland.

November's when you see the real place. Temperatures hover around 18°C, warm enough for lunch outside but cool enough for proper walking. Restaurants reduce hours but don't close entirely. Hotel prices drop by forty percent. The Tuesday market shrinks to essentials: vegetables, fish, hardware, clothes. Spanish retirees dominate the clientele, discussing vegetable prices with the intensity others reserve for football.

Getting Here, Getting Around

Malaga airport sits three hours away via the A-7. The drive's straightforward except for the final forty minutes on the A-334, where lorries crawl uphill at 40kph and overtaking opportunities require Formula One timing. Car hire's essential - public transport involves a bus to Almería then another to Cuevas, total journey time five hours if connections align. They rarely do.

Without wheels, you're stuck. Taxis from the town to Villaricos cost €18 each way. The local bus service runs three times daily, timed for schoolchildren rather than beach visitors. Cycling's possible but ambitious - the road drops 400 metres in altitude over twelve kilometres, meaning an uphill slog back after a day swimming.

The cricket ground at Desert Springs golf resort offers an unexpected taste of home. Spain's only ICC-accredited pitch hosts amateur matches most weekends from October to April. The bar shows Sky Sports and serves acceptable Guinness at €5 a pint. It's popular with expats who've realised that permanent sunshine doesn't compensate for missing the Ashes.

Cuevas del Almanzora won't change your life. It's not that kind of place. But it offers something increasingly rare along this coast: a town that existed before tourism and will exist after it. The caves people still live in stayed cool through Roman times, Moorish rule, Franco's dictatorship and Spain's property boom. They'll stay cool through whatever comes next. That's either deeply reassuring or slightly depressing, depending on your perspective.