Villamartín

The Grid That Time Forgot to Ruin

Look down from the castle ruins of Matrera and Villamartin reveals its secret: unlike the medieval tangles of neighbouring white villages, this one was drawn with a ruler. Straight streets radiate from Plaza de la Constitución like spokes from a wheel, an 18th-century planner's dream that still works. Children kick footballs along the same limestone-edged pavements where merchants once rolled barrels of olive oil towards Cádiz, and the evening paseo follows routes set two centuries before cars existed.

At 167 metres above sea level, the village sits just high enough to catch the breeze that drifts across the surrounding sea of olive groves. The air smells of crushed olives and wild thyme, not sea salt—Villamartin is inland, 45 minutes from Alicante airport, and that's precisely why it appeals. You get the Andalusian climate without the coastal prices, the village authenticity without the isolation.

Living Streets, Not Stage Sets

This isn't a place kept alive for postcards. Walk Calle Rafael de la Cruz at 8:30 am and you'll share the pavement with teenagers heading to the Instituto, bakery staff wheeling in trays of molletes (soft breakfast rolls), and farmers in battered Land Cruisers stopping for cortados. The bar on the corner serves coffee in proper glass cups, not tourist china, and nobody flinches when you mangle the Spanish for "no sugar".

Yet English drifts from nearby tables. Villamartin has become a favoured base for British expats who want Spanish life with training wheels. The post office clerk switches effortlessly between languages, the pharmacy stocks Paracetamol and Nurofen, and the Saturday market has a stall selling Marmite at €6 a jar. It's useful rather than intrusive—enough to stop newcomers feeling marooned, not so much that the village loses its accent.

Castle, Church and Calories

The 12th-century Castillo de Matrera sits four kilometres outside town, reachable by a dirt track that turns slippery after rain. What remains is skeletal: fragments of walls and an arch framing sky, with views stretching across to the Sierra de Grazalema. Bring boots, not flip-flops, and water—there's no café, no ticket office, just the wind and the occasional griffon vulture overhead.

Back in the centre, the Iglesia de las Virtudes dominates the plaza with its honey-coloured stone and tower you can spot from any approach road. Step inside during evening mass and the baroque interior glows under modest chandeliers. The priest's voice echoes off walls that have heard every human drama since 1780—births, marriages, departures to Seville or London, returns in coffins.

Food here sticks to the ribs. Try gazpacho caliente (the thick winter version, not chilled summer soup) at Bar La Muralla, where a bowl costs €6 and comes with a side of orange segments—traditional, though nobody quite knows why. Migas, breadcrumbs fried with garlic and chorizo, appear at weekends. Order them with a fried egg on top and you've got a meal that could resurrect a shepherd.

Fairways and Feathered Friends

Three championship golf courses—Villamartin, Las Ramblas, Campoamor—lie within ten minutes' drive. Green fees run €55-€75, roughly half what you'd pay for a decent UK course, and tee times are easier to secure than a table at a beachfront chiringuito in August. Early morning starts are glorious: dew on the greens, mountains silhouetted against pink sky, and only the occasional ibis stalking across the fairway.

Prefer binoculars to birdies? The surrounding cereal steppe hosts lesser kestrels and Montagu's harriers, best spotted at dawn from the dirt road towards Bornos. Spring brings rollers and bee-eaters, while autumn sees flocks of migrating storks riding thermals above the olive groves. Pack a scope and patience—the birds are plentiful, the traffic isn't.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April and May turn the countryside emerald. Poppies splash red across wheat fields, temperatures hover around 24 °C, and the Feria de San Isidro fills the streets with sherry and Sevillanas dancing. September repeats the weather trick, adding the grape harvest and the Feria de las Virtudes, when locals set up casetas (temporary bars) and grandparents teach toddlers to twirl.

August is a different beast. Thermometers touch 38 °C by midday, the plaza's terracotta tiles radiate heat like storage heaters, and even the swifts fly sluggishly. Spaniards retreat indoors until 6 pm; sensible visitors follow suit or head to the coast, 15 minutes away, where sea breezes make the heat tolerable. Accommodation prices drop 30 % if you can stand the furnace.

Winter brings crisp, bright days—lunch outside in February is feasible if you choose a sheltered spot—and empty roads. Some restaurants close, but those that stay open treat you like family. Nights drop to 6 °C; pack a jumper and expect log smoke drifting from chimneys.

The Practical Bits Without the Brochure Speak

You'll need wheels. Buses exist but run to agricultural timetables: 7 am market run, 2 pm return, nothing on Sunday. Hire a small car at the airport—petrol is €1.55 a litre, parking in town is free beyond the blue-zone centre. Driving to Granada or Seville makes long weekends feasible; both are under two hours on near-empty motorways.

Cash still rules the old town. ATMs dispense €50 notes that no one wants to break; get change when you buy your morning croissant. The nearest bank that handles sterling is in La Zenia's shopping mall, ten minutes towards the coast. For self-caterers, Mercadona in Los Dolses stocks Cathedral City cheddar, Weetabix and decent Rioja for €4.50.

Evenings centre on the plaza. Tables spread across the stone like a living room spilled outdoors. Children career between chairs until midnight; parents don't fret—everyone knows someone who knows their grandmother. Live music drifts from Bar Alameda on Fridays: a bloke with a guitar doing Eagles covers, inevitably. It's cheesy, it's loud, it's weirdly comforting when you're 1,200 miles from home.

Leave before sunrise at least once. The castle hill offers a vantage eastwards; watch the sky lighten behind the sierra and you'll understand why people trade Kent commuter belts for this. Not because it's perfect—August is brutal, bureaucracy maddening, and you'll never quite master the lisped Andalusian Spanish—but because on a clear spring morning, with the smell of olive wood smoke and the sound of the church bell drifting across the grid, it feels like the world hasn't entirely lost the plot.