Níjar

The first thing you notice is the light. At 350 m above the Med, Níjar’s white walls bounce the sun back so hard that shadows look cut with a blade. A single turn off the AL-3100 and the village appears, cuboid houses stacked like sugar lumps against the dark volcanic flank of the Sierra Alhamilla. Below, the sea glints 20 minutes away; above, the desert waits, bone-dry and bright.

This is not the manicured Andalucía of postcards. Lanes are barely two donkeys wide, paint flakes from cobalt doors, and the soundtrack is a neighbour’s radio and the soft thud of clay on a kick-wheel. Yet that rough edge is exactly why people drive past the golf resorts of Mojácar and keep climbing. Níjar still earns its living, not just from visitors, but from tomatoes under plastic, solar fields and the last coastal fishing boats that supply the village tapas bars.

Clay, carpets and a church that survived pirates

Start in the upper plaza where the 16th-century Iglesia de la Anunciación stands guard. Its Mudejar tower was raised to watch for Barbary corsairs who once rowed into these coves; inside, a Renaissance portal frames a cool, plain nave that feels more fortress than cathedral. Opposite, the pottery workshops keep the same hours they did two centuries ago: open at ten, close for lunch, reopen when the heat drops.

Step into Taller de Alfarería de José and you’ll see bowls drying on roof tiles and a woman brushing ox-blood glaze onto a serving dish the colour of rusted earth. The jarapa rugs – woven strips of old cloth too good to throw away – hang like stripy prayer flags. Prices are laughably low: a dinner-plate-sized bowl costs €12, a rug €35, and the artisans still wrap your purchase in yesterday’s Diario de Almería.

Carry on downhill past geraniums in paint-tin planters and you reach the only traffic jam in town: three cats sprawled across a Fiat Panda. There is no museum, no interpretation centre, no €15 audio guide. Instead, you peer through open doorways at looms clacking in front rooms and breathe in the warm, dusty smell of clay that has settled in every crevice.

Coast within reach – but check the wind map

Níjar’s municipality swallows 60 km of shoreline, yet the village itself sits inland, which keeps hotel rates sane and parking free. From the church plaza it is 19 km to Playa de los Genoveses – a scallop of blonde sand backed by dunes and the scent of juniper. On a levante wind day the sea turns bottle-green and cranky; when the poniente blows it flattens to glass. Either way, arrive before 11 a.m. in July or you’ll queue for a dirt parking space and the sand will already hum with Spanish families, their parasols aligned like regiments.

For something quieter, drive the track to Cala de San Pedro. The last kilometre is a 20-minute walk downhill through prickly pear; the uphill return, under full sun, explains why most people boat in from Las Negras. Naturists mix with backpackers in the ruined tuna-fisher cottages, and there is no loo, no bin, no kiosk – bring water and haul your rubbish out.

Divers rate the marine reserve highly: visibility pushes 25 m in May, and the volcanic rock creates ledges where grouper loiter like bouncers. Several operators in San José rent kit; a two-tank morning runs €65, wetsuit included. If you’d rather stay dry, the mirador at Cabo de Gata lighthouse puts you 30 m above waves that smash into ochre cliffs; January brings migrating flamingos to the salt pans behind, best seen at sunrise when the water turns pink and nobody else is awake.

When the tables empty

Food here is stubbornly seasonal. In winter it is gurullos – hand-rolled pasta stewed with kid goat and wild thyme – served in deep bowls that steam up your glasses. Summer means ajoblanco, the almond-garlic soup chilled with a handful of moscatel grapes, perfect when the mercury nudges 38 °C. Friday is espetón day: sardines impaled on cane stakes and roasted over a driftwood fire on Las Negras beach. A plate of six, bread and a glass of icy rosado from Bodega Laujar sets you back €9.

Yet timing matters. Arrive on a Sunday outside August and every kitchen is cold. Bars pull down shutters, the bakery’s dark, even the village cats look fasting. Stock up the night before or be prepared to drive 25 minutes to the motorway services. The same ghost-town rule applies to fiestas: 17 January (San Antón) and Easter week turn streets into a parade of hooded penitents and brass bands, but every shopkeeper locks up first. Plan ahead or go hungry.

Heat, hikes and Hollywood back-lots

Behind the village the terrain climbs fast. A 45-minute signposted loop, the Ruta de la Loma de la Vela, skirts old lead mines and gives views clear to the African haze. Spring is ideal: the tabaibas bloom yellow and the thermometer stays under 25 °C. Come June the path still exists, but shade does not; carry two litres per person and start at dawn. Mountain bikers use the same tracks – expect a polite ¡buenas! as they skid past on volcanic gravel.

If you fancy a western detour, the Tabernas desert lies 35 minutes north-west. Sergio Leone shot A Fistful of Dollars among those eroded badlands; nowadays you can pay €20 to watch a staged bank raid, but the landscape itself is free to view from the roadside mirador. Combine it with Níjar on a Monday when the pottery studios are shut – you’ll miss nothing and the desert light is kinder early.

Practicalities without the brochure gloss

Stay in the village if you want evenings quiet enough to hear swifts overhead. Hostal San José has 12 simple rooms from €55, parking included; the roof terrace looks straight onto sierra ridges that glow copper at dusk. Down in Las Negras apartments start at €90 and you’ll trade authenticity for sea views and a beach bar that plays Bob Marley on repeat.

Driving is easiest: the village is 45 minutes from Almería airport on the A-7 and dual-carriageway almost to the door. Buses exist but dwindle outside summer; Saturday service finishes at 15:00, so a day trip means a €70 taxi back. Petrol is cheaper at the roundabout station in Sorbas – fill up before you coast-hop.

Credit cards work in the supermarket and one hardware shop, but the potters prefer cash. The only ATM stands on the main ring-road next to the Santander branch; miss it and you’ll be hunting coins for coffee.

Leave the car, take the bowl

Níjar will not dazzle with cathedrals or Michelin stars. Its gift is simpler: the sight of a craft that predates mains electricity, a beach without a high-rise, a lunch that costs less than a London pint. Buy the bowl, wrap it in your jumper, and drive home before Sunday shuts the place down.