Júzcar

A white village that changed its mind

The first thing you notice is the colour, obviously. Not the soft Wedgwood blue of a Cornish cottage, but a loud, cartoon cobalt that makes your eyes water after too long in the sun. Júzcar used to be white, like every other village in the Serranía de Ronda, until Sony turned up in 2011 with buckets of paint and a film crew. They needed a Smurf village for the premiere of The Smurfs movie, promised to repaint everything white afterwards, then left. The villagers took a vote. They kept the blue.

Now 243 permanent residents live in what Google Maps politely calls the "Pueblo Pitufo". The joke hasn't worn off. Children hunt for 14 Smurf murals hidden around the village, scanning QR codes that still work even when the phone signal disappears into the cork oaks. Adults tend to wander about muttering that it feels like being trapped inside a child's lunchbox. Both groups usually leave after 45 minutes, slightly dazed, clutching photos that look artificially saturated even before the Instagram filter goes on.

Mountain light and mushroom shade

At 623 metres, Júzcar sits high enough for the air to feel thinner than the coast 40 kilometres away. Morning mist rolls up the Genal valley and sticks to the blue walls, turning them violet. By midday the sun bleaches everything into a flat, almost painful turquoise. Photographers do better early or late; the rest of us should time a coffee break for the harsh middle hours when contrast dies and feet begin to ache from the gradients.

The streets follow a Moorish knot: narrow, cobbled, suddenly ending in a flight of steps or a tiny plaza where geraniums fight bougainvillea for wall space. Church of Santa Catalina stands white at the top, stubbornly refusing to join the monochrome joke. From the small terrace outside you can see the pattern repeated across the valley – white villages clinging to folds in the mountain like stitches on tweed. Occasionally, on very clear winter days, a silver line on the horizon reveals the Mediterranean, though you might wait a week for the privilege.

Below the houses the land drops away into sweet-chestnut forest. October brings the Fiesta de la Castaña: roasted nuts, young muscatel wine, villagers who still know which tree produces the largest fruit. The woods also supply the mushrooms that appear on every restaurant menu. Order champiñones a la plancha and you get a plate of anonymous brown caps that taste faintly of earth and garlic – simple, honest mountain food rather than haute cuisine. Pair them with a glass of local almond wine; it's sweeter than sherry and twice as dangerous.

What lies beneath the paint

Walk ten minutes beyond the last blue wall and Júzcar reverts to type. A signposted track heads towards Cartajima through abandoned chestnut terraces, past ruined stone mills once powered by the river. The path is clear but stony; trainers suffice if you don't mind dusty ankles. Look for ibex prints in soft ground and, in spring, orchids that grow nowhere else in Britain. The return loop takes two unhurried hours and delivers you back to the village just when thirst becomes urgent.

Inside the village the only paid attraction is the Casa de los Pitufos, essentially a gift shop with a €3 ticket. Inside: plastic figurines, storyboards about the film shoot, a short video that still calls the village "Smurf Town Spain". Children love it; adults emerge wondering how three euros could have been spent on a coffee instead. Across the lane the tiny tourist office lends out walking route leaflets and explains why there are no longer life-size Smurf statues (licensing expired 2017; Disney did not renew).

Bars are limited to three, all on Plaza de la Constitución. Bar La Plaza does the best goat-cheese toast with honey, a dish that tastes like breakfast in the Alps. Wash it down with Cruzcampo lager – cold, fizzy, indistinguishable from San Miguel but 20 cents cheaper. Service is friendly; English is patchy, though pointing works. None of the kitchens opens before 13:30, so arrive early and you may wait, hungry, watching the cook finish his own lunch first.

Getting there, getting away

Leave the A-7 at San Pedro and the road begins to climb. The final 15 kilometres from Ronda are single-lane, barrier-free, with drops deep enough to make passengers claw the dashboard. Coaches manage it daily, which proves it can be done, but if you dislike reversing round hairpins while a German camper van breathes down your bumper, consider a taxi from Ronda (€35-40, book through your hotel). Petrolheads, on the other hand, will love it.

Parking is free but microscopic: four marked spaces at the entrance, a wider verge at the far end. Arrive before 11:00 or after 16:00 to miss the solitary coach party that appears most days. There is no bus service, no cash machine, and patchy 4G. Bring euros, download offline maps, wear shoes with grip – the cobbles are polished smooth by a decade of rubber soles.

When the colour fades

Winter empties Júzcar. Temperatures hover around 10°C, bars shut on random weekdays, and the blue walls look tired under low cloud. Summer weekends swing the opposite way: day-trippers from the Costa swarm the lanes, selfie sticks aloft, queues for the loo snake down the hill. The sweet spot is March-June or September-November, when the air is mild, the mushrooms plentiful and the village almost feels like a real place rather than a film set left running.

Stay longer than an hour and you begin to notice cracks: paint peeling where winter rain got in, a shuttered house with a faded "Se Vende" sign, the elderly man who sits outside the church every afternoon but never seems to speak. Júzcar's gag rescued it from obscurity, yet the gimmick grows thinner each year. One day the council may vote to return to white. If that happens, the photographers will vanish and Júzcar will slip back into the quiet business of chestnuts and mountain goats. Visit while it's still impossible to miss – just don't expect to spend a whole day being blue.