Pechina

The thermometer outside the Balneario reads 42 °C at eleven in the morning, yet the pool inside is a steady 58 °C—hotter than most British kettles. This is Pechina, 98 m above sea level but still low enough to feel the full force of the Almerían furnace. The village sits in the wide, flat Vega, ringed by plastic-greenhouse glare and the distant glint of the Cabo de Gata. From the motorway it looks like a white smudge against brown earth; up close it is a working place of 5,000 souls who grow oranges, pack lettuces and, when the shift ends, slip into thermal waters first exploited by the Romans.

A Capital That Downsized

In the ninth century Pechina—then Bayyana—governed a province that stretched from the Mediterranean to the deserts beyond the sierra. The old mosque, tucked behind the parish church, is one of the few surviving reminders. You reach it by an alley barely two shoulder-widths across; the key hangs on a nail in the ayuntamiento next door. Inside, the horseshoe arch of the mihrab is still crisp, the stucco the colour of toasted almonds. No ropes, no headsets, just the guard’s radio playing flamenco from a windowsill. Entry is free, though a euro in the tin keeps the lights on.

The church itself was built on top, re-using the mosque’s stones and some of its craftsmen. Look up as you leave and you’ll spot brickwork zig-zags that would not look out of place in Córdoba’s Mezquita, though here they frame bells rather than minarets. The tower is open on request; the 67-step climb delivers a view of plastic roofs stretching to the sea like a giant’s poly-tunnel allotment.

Thermal Waters and Tuesday Queues

The Balneario de San Nicolás is Pechina’s real engine. The water bubbles up at 58 °C, rich in calcium and sulphates, and is cooled to a mere 38 °C for the main pool. A two-hour session costs €7; towel hire is another €2 but bring your own to avoid the queue. Spanish day-trippers arrive by coach at ten, so aim for the afternoon lull when you can float in relative peace and listen to the click of walking sticks being parked by the steps. The facilities are municipal-basic: coin lockers, hairdryers that wheeze, and a café serving tinned beer and toast. What you get is the water—milky, mineral-heavy, supposedly excellent for rheumatic joints after too much British damp.

Walking Between Plastic and Palms

Pechina is not a mountain village; the Sierra Alhamilla rises 15 km south and the highest local bump is a 250 m limestone ridge. Instead, the ramblas—dry riverbeds—provide the walking. The Rambla de Pechina heads east for 8 km to the village of Ríoja, past smallholdings of artichokes and the odd abandoned cortijo. Start at dawn between April and June and you’ll share the track with farmers on mopeds and the occasional greyhound trotting home from a night’s hunting. Summer walkers should carry two litres of water per person; 30 °C by 9 a.m. is normal and there is no shade until the first orange grove at kilometre three.

What Arrives on the Lunch Plate

Forget seaside paella. In Pechina the menu changes with the greenhouse calendar. October brings berenjenas—aubergines the size of rugby balls—stuffed with minced pork and baked until the skin collapses. Winter means caldo de pimentón, a smoky paprika broth thick enough to stand a spoon in, served with bread fried in local olive oil. The house wine is a cold rosado from the Alpujarras, light and strawberry-scented; a 500 ml carafe is €4 and arrives chilled in an old Fanta bottle. For the cautious British palate, order papas a lo pobre: soft potatoes, sweet onions, the mildest green peppers, all swimming in oil that tastes of olives rather than garage forecourts. Vegetarians should specify sin atún—even potato salad can arrive topped with tinned tuna unless you protest.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

Feria week starts the second Friday of September. A funfair is erected on the football pitch, the bars move their sound systems onto the street, and the night temperature barely drops below 25 °C. The highlight is the toro de fuego—a frame of fireworks pushed through the crowd on Saturday midnight. It is ear-splitting, mildly terrifying and definitely not covered by standard travel insurance. If you prefer something gentler, come for the Día de Andalucía on 28 February: free hot chocolate and churros in the plaza, children in flamenco dresses, and elderly men singing sevillanas until the wine runs out.

Getting Here, Staying Here, Paying for It

Almería airport is 17 km south—20 minutes by hire car or 45 on the number 20 bus that continues into the city. There is no train. Accommodation is limited: two rural houses in the old quarter and a modern hostal above the Balneario (doubles €55, breakfast €4). Most visitors base themselves in Almería city and drive in for the day; parking on Calle San Sebastián is free but you may need to squeeze between irrigation tractors. Petrol is cheaper than the UK, yet the motorway toll between Almería and Murcia will set you back €14 each way—factor it in if you’re planning a wider road trip.

The Honest Verdict

Pechina will not deliver the chocolate-box Spain of travel posters. The centre is scruffy, dogs sprawl across the road, and the prevailing soundtrack is beeping forklift trucks loading lettuces for Tesco. What it does offer is authenticity without the price tag: a tenth-century mosque you can enter alone, a thermal bath that costs less than a London coffee, and bars where an caña of beer is still €1.20. Bring Spanish phrases, cash and realistic expectations. Leave with soft skin from the sulphur waters, the taste of smoked paprika in your memory, and the odd lettuce leaf stuck to your shoe—proof you’ve been somewhere that works for a living.