Benalauría

The bakery opens at eight with a metal shutter clatter that echoes up the stone lanes. By twenty past, the village’s single bench is already occupied: one farmer, one walking party from Dorking, and a spaniel that knows the routine. This is morning rush hour in Benalauría.

At 667 m above the Genal valley, the air is several degrees cooler than the coast. In August that feels like mercy; in January it means frost on the cobbles and smoke threading from every chimney. The village perches on a narrow ridge; houses step down both sides so that every roof terrace catches a slice of mountain skyline. There is no flat ground large enough for a football pitch, let alone a hotel pool. Instead you get chestnut woods that start where the streets end, and silence that resets your heartbeat to something approaching sensible.

Getting there is half the story

From Málaga airport you follow the A-7 west, then swing inland at San Pedro. The last 45 minutes are spent on the MA-535, a road that coils like a dropped ribbon through cork oak and bright green chestnut. Guardrails are sporadic; stone walls are not. Hire the smallest car the desk will let you take – a Fiesta, not a Tiguan – and still you’ll meet locals who overtake on blind bends with the nonchalance of people born on these gradients. Fill the tank in Gaucín; Benalauría’s only fuel is a 25-minute descent away and it closes at lunchtime.

What passes for sights

The Church of Santo Domingo sits at the top of the hill because that is what churches do here. It is whitewashed, single-naved, locked unless mass is imminent. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; the priest’s vestments hang in a glass case that smells of cedar and candle smoke. That is essentially the monument ticked off.

The real itinerary is topographical. Walk up Calle Real past geraniums in olive-oil tins, notice how the street width matches a mule cart plus two elbows, then keep climbing until the lane turns into a footpath. Ten minutes later you are among sweet-chestnut trees older than the electricity supply. Follow the green-and-white waymarks west and you drop to Jubrique in just under two hours; turn east and you reach Genalguacil, an open-air sculpture park where even the bus shelter is carved from local timber. Both routes are stone-paved in parts, slippery after rain, and empty except for goat bells. A circular hike back to Benalauría clocks 12 km and 500 m of ascent – decent training if Snowdonia is on the horizon later in the year.

Eating without English subtitles

Pepe Verdugo’s restaurant is called 28 m² because that is its floor area. Three tables, one hob, no menu. You book by WhatsApp voice note and you eat whatever came out of the ground that morning. Lunch might start with hot gazpacho – a thick tomato-and-bread porridge topped with diced Serrano, nothing like the chilled stuff sold in Tesco. Follow with pork loin slow-cooked in its own fat until it surrenders like brisket, then a glass of young red served in a Duralex tumbler. Vegetarians get the same courtesy: chickpeas with spinach and cumin, finished with a splash of the local moscatel. The price is €14 including wine; card payments are accepted only if the total exceeds €10, so bring a friend or order a second bottle.

There is no evening trade. By nine the village is dark and the lanes are lit by doorways. If you are self-catering, the tiny grocer stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, and leeks the size of toothbrush holders. The bakery sells sugar-dusted buñuelos at nine sharp; by ten they are gone.

Festivals that still belong to locals

The first Sunday of August brings the Moros y Cristianos fiesta. It starts with a recorded artillery blast at dawn and ends with a foam machine in the plaza at two in the morning. Locals kit out in medieval fancy dress; visitors are handed spare helmets and pressed into the Christian side. Nobody explains the plot, but the direction of march is downhill and the bar opens at eleven. Book accommodation a year ahead if this matters to you; otherwise avoid the weekend and you will have the place to yourself.

Chestnut Day on 1 November is calmer. Fires are lit in oil drums, nuts are roasted, and aniseed liqueur is poured from enamel jugs. Entry is free; you pay €2 for a paper cone of chestnuts and stand around pretending you understand rapid-fire Andaluz jokes about the weather.

Winter versus summer

Between June and September the coast is a furnace. Up here night temperatures dip below 18 °C; you will want a jumper for the terrace and a blanket in the rental. Most cottages have chimneys – owners leave a starter basket of olive wood and instructions in Spanish that translate roughly as “open flue or die”.

December to February is a different deal. The sun still shines but frost whitens the windscreens and the mountain road can ice over. Chains are rarely needed, yet the council grits only at dawn; if you plan a day-trip to Ronda, leave after ten. On the plus side, you get empty trails, wood-smoke perfume, and almond blossom by late January. Easter brings processions so short you can watch the entire circuit from one doorstep: hooded penitents, a single trumpet, and the thud of a drum bouncing off stone walls before everyone files back inside for brandy.

The honest verdict

Benalauría will not suit travellers who measure holidays by tick-box attractions. There is no beach, no museum, no souvenir shop. Phone signal flickers; the nearest cash machine is 17 km away. What you get instead is a village that has not rebranded itself for export. Laundry still hangs across the lanes, old women still sweep their doorsteps at seven, and the loudest noise after eleven is the church bell counting the hour. If that sounds like relief rather than deprivation, book the smallest car, download Spanish offline, and arrive with a sense of altitude – both literal and mental.