Iznalloz

At 800 metres above sea level, Iznalloz sits high enough for the air to feel thinner than the coast, yet low enough for olive trees to carpet every slope. Dawn here starts with the clink of milk bottles and the smell of woodsmoke drifting up steep lanes. By eight, the bakery on Calle Real has sold out of mollete rolls; by nine, the bar next door is on its second pot of coffee and the day’s first game of dominoes is already turning competitive.

This is not a village that owes its rhythm to visitors. With 5,000 residents, Iznalloz is the administrative heart of Los Montes, a scatter of farmsteads and hamlets that stretch towards the grim limestone escarpments of the Sierra Arana. Tourism exists in the loosest sense: a handful of Dutch pensioners rent village houses through winter, the odd British couple use it as a cheap base for Granada, and Spanish school groups occasionally spill out of coaches to stare at the sixteenth-century tower of San Bartolomé. The rest of the time the place gets on with being itself.

A town that works the land, not the lens

The old centre is compact enough to cross in fifteen minutes, but the gradient keeps things interesting. Streets rise and fall like a cardiogram, paved in patches of granite worn glass-smooth by decades of tractor tyres. Iron balconies sag under geraniums; every third doorway reveals a tiled hallway smelling of floor polish and coffee. Laundry still hangs from window to window across the narrowest alleys, and neighbours lean out to exchange the price of diesel or the latest birth in someone’s granddaughter’s class.

San Bartolomé dominates the skyline, a brick-red bulk that looks more fortress than church. Inside, the nave is cool and faintly musty, the stone floor scooped into shallow bowls by centuries of footfall. A side chapel displays an eighteenth-century standard carried during a local uprising against Napoleon; the colours have faded to bruised purple and tobacco brown, but the gold thread still glints when the sun swings round at four o’clock. Entry is free, though the door stays locked outside mass times unless you ask at the presbytery opposite.

Below the tower, the Casa de los Condes de Castillejo presents a baroque façade that seems almost apologetic after the church’s bulk. The family died out in the nineteenth century and the building now houses municipal offices; you can peer into the courtyard where a stone lion lies half-submerged in fallen leaves, but don’t expect staterooms. The real pleasure is the stone carving above the door—two snarling boars and a shield that still keeps its paint after three hundred winters of freezing wind.

Walking country that starts at the edge of town

Iznalloz works best as a launch pad for short, leg-stretching hikes that need no permit, no shuttle bus and—crucially—no crack-of-dawn start. One straightforward circuit heads south along the old railway line, now a dirt track, to the abandoned station of Deifontes. The line closed in the 1980s, but the mile-long tunnel remains torch-black and echoing; take a headlamp and you emerge into a valley of almonds and wild rosemary. Round-trip distance is 10 km with 200 m of ascent; allow three hours including the obligatory stop to watch booted eagles circle overhead.

Keener walkers can climb to the Cerro del Castillo, the rocky bluff that looms north of town. The path starts between house numbers 42 and 44 on Calle Castillo (look for the yellow way-mark daubed on a drainpipe). It’s a steady 45-minute pull through kermes-oak scrub, gaining 250 m. The summit is a bare slab of limestone with a single iron cross and a view that, on crisp days, stretches from Sierra Nevada’s snow-plastered Veleta to the tin roofs of distant Guadix. Take a windproof; the same height that cools summer nights funnels a savage draught across the ridge in winter.

If you prefer horizontal mileage to vertical, drive ten minutes north to the Puerto de la Mora. From the pass a farm track undulates through rolling olive groves, each tree spaced exactly ten metres from its neighbour as if drawn with a ruler. In late October the harvest starts: mechanical shakers clamp trunks and vibrate for thirty seconds, sending a hail of fruit on to nets. Farmers are usually happy to explain the difference between picual and lucio varieties; accept the offer of a thimble-fresh oil and you’ll understand why locals drizzle it over toast instead of butter.

Calories and caffeine: what, where and how much

Food is filling rather than fancy. Lunch menus in family bars hover round €10–12 for three courses, bread and a glass of wine that would cost £6 back home. Try the gazpacho montañés—a thick stew of beans, ham hock and paprika that arrives still bubbling in its clay bowl. Evening tapas crawl starts at Bar Central on Plaza de la Constitución; order a caña of lager and you’ll get a complimentary plate of migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, chorizo and enough oil to make the paper transparent. A second beer brings a different dish, and so on until you cry uncle.

For something you can actually identify, Mesón Los Montes fires up a wood oven at weekends. Half a roast kid (cabrito) feeds two greedy adults, costs €24 and tastes like turbo-charged spring lamb. Vegetarians are stuck with tortilla or salads heavy on tinned tuna; this is not the place to hunt for vegan quinoa. Pudding is usually a slice of sticky almond cake; order it with the local honey, thick as set custard and scented with rosemary.

Coffee culture is strong but brief: espressos knocked back at the counter, no £3.50 flat whites. If you need a British-style caffeine fix, the café inside the Consum supermarket opens at 8 a.m. and stays awake through siesta—handy when every other door is bolted between two and five.

Getting there, getting round, getting stuck (sometimes)

Granada airport is 35 minutes south by hire car; Málaga is 90 minutes if you use the toll stretch of A-92 (€7.50, cards accepted). A regional bus leaves Granada’s main station at 7 a.m., 2 p.m. and 6 p.m., costs €4.30 and drops you beside the health centre. Trains also run to Granada city in 25 minutes for €3.55, but the service is aimed at commuters—last return departs at 8.30 p.m., so don’t plan a late flamenco show.

Iznalloz itself is walkable, but if you’re staying in one of the cortijo rentals on the outskirts you’ll need wheels. Roads are single-track, with passing places cut into the rock; meet an olive lorry and someone has to reverse. Snow chains are worth packing between December and February—800 m feels alpine when an easterly sweeps in from the plateau and the thermometer dives to –5 °C.

When to come, and when to stay away

March to May is prime time: daytime temperatures in the high teens, wild marjoram flowering along paths and the Sierra still white enough for photographs. September and October trade flowers for amber light and the smell of new oil. Summer is hot—34 °C is routine, 38 °C not unheard of—and most locals shift life to the 7–9 a.m. and 9–11 p.m. slots. If you must come in July, book a room with air-conditioning; nights drop to 20 °C, but only after a furnace day that makes walking feel like wading through custard.

Winter has its own stark appeal: empty trails, wood-smoke haze, and almond blossom as early as January. Yet daylight is short, cafés close early, and heavy rain can turn clay paths into skating rinks. Bring layers and a sense of flexibility; the weather changes faster than a British rail apology.

The bottom line

Iznalloz will never tick the Instagram boxes of cobalt pots and bougainvillea-draped alleys. It is scruffier, quieter, more stubbornly itself. You come here to walk without permits, to eat lunch for the price of a London sandwich, and to remember what Spain felt like before the souvenir shops arrived. Stay a couple of nights, fill your lungs with mountain air, then drive south to Granada if you need moorish tiles and tour buses. Or simply stay put, order another beer, and watch the light fade behind the castle rock while the village cats stretch across the warm pavement.