Los Gallardos

The first thing you notice is the anemometer. A proper meteorological mast rises above the polideportivo, flashing real-time wind speed to anyone who’s parked at the Tuesday market. It’s not for show—local tomato growers check it before deciding whether to roll out the greenhouse plastic, and caravan owners at Camping Los Gallardos glance up while queuing for the curry buffet. In a village that’s only 132 m above sea level yet 12 km from the sea, the breeze is the daily talking point.

Los Gallardos doesn’t bother pretending it’s medieval. Most houses went up after 1990, when British estate agents discovered you could buy a three-bed villa with pool for half the price of a flat in Mojácar. The result is a place that feels like two villages bolted together: the original grid of white streets around the 16th-century church, and the adjoining estate of Huerta Nueva where the road signs are bilingual and the pharmacy stocks Marmite. Planning laws were generous; gardens are big; solar panels face south like sunflowers. If you want rustic beams and donkeys, head north to the Alpujarras. If you want reliable broadband and a dentist who speaks English, stay here.

The Plaza Calculator

Start at Plaza de la Constitución. Stand by the stone fountain; phone signal is strongest there. Face the town hall—cream paint, flagpole, clock that loses two minutes a week. Now count: three cafés, two banks, one boutique that turns into a tapas bar at 7 p.m. The circumference is 112 steps; locals do it every evening after the news. Order a café con leche (€1.40) at Bar Central and you’ll overhear today’s agenda: the price of olives, the roadworks on the AL-6110, whether the weekly market will move if it rains. Conversation stops when the church bell strikes on the hour, then restarts without changing gear.

Inside, the Iglesia de San Francisco de Asís is cooler than you expect. Thick walls, a single nave, a retablo gilded with silver leaf from the mines that once riddled Sierra Almagrera. The side chapel holds a statue of St Francis that was rescued from a bonfire during the Civil War; someone had mistaken the cord for a fascist sash. Sunday Mass at 11 a.m. is still in Spanish, but the hymn numbers are posted on a digital board bought with a EU grant.

Where the Sea Meets the Plastic

Drive south for twelve minutes and the almond groves give way to a shimmering ocean of greenhouses. This is the Poniente Almeriense, Europe’s winter vegetable basket. The air smells of tomato vines and seawater. Los Gallardos sits just above the plastic, close enough for pick-up vans to queue at the rotonda each dawn, far enough that you don’t wake to the hum of irrigation pumps. The village earns no tourist cut from the salad trade, but it benefits all the same: the medical centre stays open, the secondary school has 200 pupils, and the petrol station sells chorizo sandwiches at 6 a.m.

Back in the plaza, the Tuesday market is more utilitarian than photogenic. Stalls hawk €3 socks, torch batteries, and spring onions the size of golf clubs. Look for the woman with the plastic crate of saffron—three euros for a paper twist that flavours a dozen paellas. She’ll tell you, in a mixture of Almerían Spanish and East Midlands vowels, that the crocus stigmas come from her cousin’s farm outside Guadix. Bargaining is acceptable; smiling is compulsory.

Silver Dust and Cycling Brits

North of the village the tarmac narrows, climbing towards Sierra Almagrera. Silver, lead and iron were blasted out of these hills in the 19th century; the ore went to Swansea, the wages stayed to build the balconied houses you noticed on Calle La Vega. Most adits are fenced off, but you can still follow the old mineral track that switchbacks to the abandoned Cortona mine. The gradient is gentle enough for an e-bike, and the reward is a view clear to the Cabo de Gata lighthouse. Take water—there’s no bar, no fountain, and mobile coverage dies after the second bend.

Los Gallardos has embraced two-wheeled tourism with typical pragmatism. The council printed a map, laminated it, and stuck copies outside the tourist office (open 10–2, closed Thursdays). Route 1 is 22 km, flat, ends at a beach bar in Mojácar where the owner gives cyclists free tapas if they arrive before noon. British cycling clubs base themselves here in March: they get Costa warmth without coastal prices, and the campsite has a secure bike shed with hose-down facilities.

Winter Layers and Summer Bargains

Weather is the village’s unofficial export. July and August are hot—35 °C is normal—but the inland night drops to 22 °C, cool enough to sleep without air-con. January afternoons touch 18 °C, yet the thermometer can fall to 5 °C once the sun slips behind Sierra Cabrera. British residents learnt the hard way that villas need central heating; now most place radiators under the towel rail and still spend less on gas than they did on a single Surrey fortnight.

Property prices have risen 30 % since 2019, yet a two-bed townhouse with roof terrace lists around €140,000—half the equivalent in coastal Turre. Rental long-terms start at €550 a month, bills included. The catch is the commute: if you fancy a daily swim you’ll drive 20 minutes to Playa de la Venta del Bancal, pay €4 for parking, and share the sand with weekenders from Murcia. Most residents compromise: beach in the morning, back up the hill for lunch, siesta under the pergola while the seafront roasts.

Eating Without Instagram

Gastronomy here is for locals, not for likes. Bar La Noria does a three-course menú del día for €10: soup, pork shoulder in tomato, and a slab of flan. Ask for the ajillo—flash-fried prawns with garlic—and you’ll get six, not the customary three, because the cook misjudged freezer stock. Thursday night is curry buffet at the campsite: £8.50, all-you-can-eat, served by a retired Derbyshire firefighter who grows his own coriander in recycled olive tins. The wine list is short—house red from Jumilla—but the measure is 150 ml and no one rushes you.

If you need a fix of proper fish, head to the coast. Chiringuito Bananas in Mojácar grills sardines over a driftwood fire; a plate of six costs €7 and arrives with nothing but lemon and sea salt. Order a second glass of manzanilla and watch the sun drop into the Med; the drive back to Los Gallardos takes twenty country minutes, headlights picking out rabbits between the olive trunks.

Leaving the Village, Keeping the Rhythm

Los Gallardos will never top a “prettiest village” list. It doesn’t have a ruined castle or a waterfall, and the only museum is a single room above the library, open when the key holder is in. What it offers is continuity: bread delivered at dawn, the same barman who remembers how you take your coffee, the slow certainty that tomorrow the anemometer will still be turning. Stay a week and you’ll leave with a tan, a lower blood pressure, and the phone number of someone who’ll water your geraniums if you decide to come back for good. Many do.