Montejícar

The first thing you notice is the hush. Not silence exactly—there’s always a dog barking somewhere and the distant clank of a tractor—but the kind of quiet that makes a Londoner realise how much white noise a city produces. Montejícar sits at 1,148 m on the northern lip of the Los Montes range, 2,200 souls scattered across whitewashed lanes that cling to a ridge like limpets. Below, a quilt of century-old olive groves rolls eastwards until the horizon blurs into the snow-dusted shoulders of Sierra Nevada. Above, the castle ruins keep watch, half-rebuilt by vultures and the wind.

Morning: bread, oil and a calf in the bar

Day starts early. By seven the bakery on Calle Real has sold out of pan de pueblo, the crusty two-pound loaves that locals balance on handlebars. Next door, Bar El Parque is already hosting its daily agricultural debate: rainfall figures, the price of picual olives, whose grandson has quit the village for Granada. Order a café con leche and you’ll get it with a side of livestock; the owner’s calf sometimes sleeps under the coat rack while he finishes breakfast service. Milk is steamed with olives still on the branches outside the window—this is a place where agriculture is not décor, it’s the payroll.

Walk off the caffeine by climbing to the Castillo de Montejícar. The path begins behind the church, narrows between garden walls sprouting geraniums and prickly pear, then turns to loose shale. Ten minutes later you’re on the summit with 360-degree repayment: to the south the ridge drops 600 m into the Cacín valley; westward the A-92 is a silver thread; northwards the olive sea glints like gunmetal. Interpretation boards are missing, so the stones do the talking—Moorish foundations, 14th-century Christian rebuild, dynamited during the War of Independence. Take a fleece; even in July the breeze up here has teeth.

Afternoon: when the village shuts

Lunch is the main event and everything else closes for it. The single ATM—inside the Cajamar branch on Plaza de la Constitución—spits out twenties until 2 p.m., then sleeps until five. If it’s empty (weekends, fiesta days, whenever the armoured van is late) the nearest alternative is twenty minutes away in Huétor-Tájar. Bring cash, preferably small notes; many bars still hand-write tickets and can’t break fifty euros. Try Bar Ventorro for migas: fried breadcrumbs, garlic, peppers and enough olive oil to make cardiologists wince. Locals mop the plate with bread, then order a chato (small glass) of house red from the Contraviesa hills—lighter than Rioja, perfect for lunchtime.

When the church bell strikes three the only sound is the click of dominoes in the social club. Siesta is non-negotiable. Tourists who march about photographing door-knockers will find themselves the only moving objects; even the cats yawn and give up. Use the pause to plan walks. A circular track leaves from the cemetery, descends past abandoned threshing circles and climbs back through pine scrub—6 km, ninety minutes, no shade. Sturdy shoes essential; the path is a dry river-bed in places and the stones roll like marbles underfoot.

Evening: food, fiesta and fleece weather

By six the village reboots. Grandparents claim benches, children wheel bikes still without helmets, the smell of charcoal drifts from rooftop barbecues. If it’s Saturday you’ll hear the rattle of a small procession: the brotherhood carrying the statue of Nuestra Señora de la Encarnación to the church for vespers. They move at devotional speed; traffic—what little there is—waits.

Dining choices are limited but honest. Restaurante Villa de Xicar has eight tables and a rooftop terrace that faces west into the sunset. The menu rarely changes: gazpacho when tomatoes are good, choto al ajillo (young goat in garlic) if you book ahead, piononos (cinnamon pastries from Santa Fe) for pudding. House wine arrives chilled even in January. Mains run €9–€14; they don’t take cards. Close by, La Posada opens only for lunch except on fiesta nights, when it becomes an improvised disco—expect flamenco playlists and villagers who dance like they’re at a wedding.

August fiestas transform the decibel level. Fairground rides squeeze into the upper car park, brass bands march at midnight, and fireworks ricochet between the houses until three. Rooms within the village are booked months ahead by returning emigrants; light sleepers should rent the country cottages (casa rurales) three kilometres out. Spring and autumn are calmer: wildflowers in April, olive harvest in November, temperatures that let you walk at midday without wilting.

Getting there, getting out

Montejícar is not on the way to anywhere famous, which is half its appeal. Fly to Málaga (2 h 30 min from most UK airports), collect a hire car and head east on the A-92 for 110 km. The final 12 km switchback up the A-338 is single-carriageway with suicidal moths and the occasional goat; allow twenty minutes and keep the window open—pine and wild thyme scent the air. Granada’s airport is closer (55 min) but winter flights are largely Gatwick-only. Buses exist in theory: ALSA runs three daily from Granada to Guadix, stopping at the Montejícar junction 7 km below the village. From there a local taxi will cost €20 if you can persuade the driver to leave his coffee.

Leave time for detours. The Roman baths at Alhama de Granada are thirty minutes west; on Sundays the village pool there opens to non-residents (€3, bring a swimming hat). Eastwards, the cave houses of Guadix glow ochre at sunset—worth a loop if your flight is late in the day.

The honest verdict

Montejícar will not dazzle anyone seeking flamenco floorshows or Moorish palaces. It offers instead the smaller pleasure of watching a place function on its own terms: bread delivered from a van horn at dawn, neighbours arguing over whose turn it is to water the municipal geraniums, the evening sky turning the colour of rosy wine. Come for two nights, three if you like walking, and pack a jumper even in August. The village does not need saving, discovering or putting on the map; it simply carries on, 1,148 m above the hurry, waiting for visitors polite enough to enjoy the quiet and leave the gates as they found them.