Íllora

The road signs on the A-92 flash past at 120 km/h: Illora 2 km. Most Granada-bound traffic stays on the motorway, unaware that the real village sits 200 metres higher than the slip road, folded into a fold of olive-covered hills. Turn off and you climb past roadside tyre shops and polytunnel warehouses until the tarmac narrows, the verges turn to dry stone walling, and suddenly every west-facing balcony has a snow-tipped Sierra Nevada backdrop.

At 759 metres above sea level, Illora’s air is already thinner than the coast 45 minutes behind you. In July that translates to bearable mid-20s temperatures while Granada swelters at 38 °C; in January it can mean morning frost on the windscreen and the occasional flurry that melts before lunchtime. The village’s micro-climate is the first thing walkers notice: the same hike to the ruined castle that leaves you sweating in May requires a fleece by late October.

The Castle that Refused to Become a Theme Park

What survives of the 13th-century fortress is less a castle than a crag with battlements. After parking on the ring-road (the only sensible option – trust the Brits who have wedged rental cars in the Barrio del Castillo’s single-track lanes), a 15-minute zig-zag of stepped alleys delivers you to walls the Nasrids called “the Key of Granada”. Interpretation boards? None. Safety railings? Only where the drop exceeds 30 metres. The reward is a 270-degree sweep: olive groves ripple west towards Loja, while the eastern view frames the Veleta peak still clutching last winter’s snow. Sunrise photographers arrive with head-torches; everyone else shares the summit with a handful of local lads smoking roll-ups and arguing about football.

The absence of ticket booths is typical. Illora receives fewer foreign visitors in a year than the Alhambra admits before lunch, a statistic the village neither boasts nor bemoans. What that means in practice is that when the Tuesday-morning bell rings, the parish priest simply unlocks the sixteenth-century Iglesia de la Encarnación and leaves the door ajar. Step inside and you’re likely to be the only soul beneath the carved cedar ceiling, free to hunt for the small Zurbarán school canvas tucked on the south wall without a curator breathing down your neck.

Olive Oil, Goat and Other Staples

Come down the hill at midday and the air smells of wood smoke and garlic. Lunch is still the day’s engine: bars along Calle Real pull metal shutters halfway down to signal kitchens are open, but close again at 16:00 sharp. Order choto al ajillo and you get a clay dish of diced kid goat, bay leaf and enough sliced garlic to keep vampires at bay; mop the juices with pan de pueblo baked in the next street. Vegetarians survive on papas a lo pobre – potatoes slow-fried in local oil until they collapse, topped with a runny egg. Either way, the waiter will deposit a litre bottle of extra-virgin on the table; it’s pressed from the same groves you walked through earlier and costs the bar about €3 a litre wholesale, so nobody counts splashes.

If you’re self-catering, the Friday market stretches for one short block beside the health centre. Brits fresh from Granada’s touristy Alcaicería blink at the prices: a kilo of misshapen tomatoes for €1, a bunch of mint big enough to stuff a lamb for 50 cents. There’s no souvenir stall, no hawker with flamenco fans, just elderly women in black trousers arguing over cucumber quality in rapid Andalusian.

Walking Routes that Start at the Front Door

Illora sits on the Mozárabe pilgrimage to Santiago, but you don’t need a scallop shell to make use of the paths. Three way-marked routes leave the upper town, each threading through centenary olive groves where the trunks resemble melted wax. The shortest (5 km, yellow way-marks) circles the Cerro del Gallo ridge and returns via an abandoned stone aqueduct; the longest (12 km, red dashes) climbs to the abandoned cortijo of El Amparal before dropping into the dry riverbed of the Salado. Spring brings poppies and bee-eaters; autumn smells of wild thyme and second-bloom rosemary. In summer start before 08:00 or you’ll share the track only with lizards and the occasional tractor kicking up dust.

Winter walking has its own charm – crisp light, snow on the sierra – but be aware that the castle path turns slippery after rain. Locals keep a sturdy stick by the door for a reason.

When the Drums Start, Sleep Elsewhere

Peace has its calendar exceptions. Semana Santa processions squeeze through the alleys for four nights, brass bands echoing off stone, and the September feria installs a portable fairground whose dodgems thump until 04:00. October’s Virgen de los Remedios adds fireworks that ricochet round the ravine like artillery. Book rural houses well ahead or, if you need silence, simply avoid those weekends; the village returns to its default hush the moment the lorries cart the rides away.

Getting Here, Cash and Other Mundane Truths

Public transport exists but treats Illora as an afterthought. The last Granada bus leaves at 19:00; miss it and a taxi is €40 on the meter. A hire car from the airport (45 minutes) is the realistic option, though remember to refuel before the climb – the village’s single petrol station adds a rural premium of around 10 cents a litre.

Cards are still viewed with suspicion. The only ATM locks its doors at 14:00 for siesta and runs out of cash during fiestas; carry notes. The tourist office keeps academic hours (10:00-14:00, Tuesday to Friday), but the library next door keeps the same Wi-Fi password and the librarian will happily stamp pilgrim credentials after a quick “Buen camino”.

Worth the Detour?

Illora will never tick the blockbuster box. It offers no selfie-ready palace, no Michelin stars, no craft-beer taproom. What it does give is altitude without effort, prices that feel pre-euro, and the small jolt of realising that the old boys chatting outside the pastelería have probably never heard of TripAdvisor. Come for the castle sunrise, stay for the goat stew, and leave before the coach companies work out where you’ve been.