Pozo Alcón

The petrol gauge hovers near empty as the road corkscrews up to 854 metres. The last filling station was forty kilometres back on the A-32, and the dashboard insists you have eighteen miles left—eleven fewer than the sat-nav claims for Pozo Alcón. That arithmetic is the first lesson the village teaches: distances here are elastic, the sierra shrinks or stretches them according to heat, light and how many goats decide to block the tarmac. When the whitewashed houses finally appear, clinging to a ridge that drops away towards the sapphire slash of the Negratín reservoir, you realise the place is less a postcard and more a staging post—somewhere the serious business of mountains begins.

A Town That Faces Inland, Not Out to Sea

Pozo Alcón sits at the southern lip of the Cazorla range, just outside the official boundary of the natural park, but close enough that pine scent drifts in on the night breeze. There is no sea for a hundred kilometres; instead the horizon is filled with saw-toothed limestone and, down to the west, the man-made mirror of the reservoir. The town’s relationship with water is practical rather than ornamental—farmers argue over irrigation rights, and the local trout river, the Trujala, is measured by its usefulness, not its Instagram potential. Even so, British visitors repeatedly pull over on the road to the Pantano de Negratín to photograph the improbable colour clash of terracotta soil, olive groves and turquoise water. The best vantage point is the Mirador de la Polarda, five minutes by car above the town; go at dusk when the wind drops and the reservoir turns mercury-grey.

Streets Built for Mules, Not Minibuses

The old centre is a tight grid of calles that slope alarmingly, paved with rounded pebbles polished by centuries of hooves and tractor tyres. Houses are rendered in the local lime mix that glows butter-yellow at sunrise and chalk-white by noon. Iron balconies hold geraniums in faded plastic buckets; front doors open straight onto the street, revealing glimpses of tiled patios where grandmothers shell peas beneath a single light bulb. It is not pretty in the conventional, souvenir-shop sense—paint flakes, dogs argue over bins, and the weekly market on Thursday blocks the main road with stalls selling cheap trainers and giant colanders. Yet the place feels alive, unselfconscious. In high summer, when better-known white villages drown under coach parties, Pozo Alcón absorbs its own visitors—mainly Spanish families with bikes on roof racks—and keeps functioning.

Architectural set pieces are few. The sixteenth-century Iglesia de la Encarnación squats at the top of the hill like a weathered keep; inside, Baroque altarpieces glitter dimly beneath low stone vaults. Nothing is roped off, no one charges an entry fee, and if you arrive during the 11 a.m. Mass you can slip into a back pew and listen to the priest race through the gospel before the heat builds. Round the corner, the tiny Museo de Usos y Costumbres occupies a former olive mill. Exhibits consist of black-and-white photos of threshing teams, a wooden plough and a 1950s radio the size of a fridge. The curator, usually the mayor’s cousin, unlocks the door on request and follows you round switching lights on and off. Admission is free; donations go towards roof tiles.

Walk First, Eat Second

British hikers arrive clutching the same downloaded leaflet: “Ruta de las Canteras—8 km, 300 m ascent, circular”. The path starts behind the cemetery, climbs through rosemary and dwarf oak, then corkscrews onto a limestone bluff that overlooks the Guadalentín gorge. Griffon vultures circle at eye level; if you sit quietly you can hear the whoosh of their wings. The full circuit takes three hours, requires decent boots and at least a litre of water—there is no bar at the top. Come back down, calves shaking, and the town’s single cash machine will probably be out of order; several rural cottages still quote prices “sin tarjeta” and expect payment in twenties.

Lunch choices hinge on the clock. Kitchens shut at 3 p.m. sharp; arrive at 2.55 and you will be fed, arrive at 3.05 and you will be offered a packet of crisps. Bar El Paraíso on Plaza de la Constitución does a chuletón for two—an Andalusian T-bone the size of a laptop—served sizzling on a terracotta tile. House red comes from the northern Jaén co-operatives, fruity and gulpable at €9 a bottle. If you prefer river fish, ask for trucha a la almendrada, local trout butterflied and grilled with toasted almonds; the flavour is mild, closer to sea bass than the muddy farmed version sold in British supermarkets. Children generally approve of the homemade arroz con leche, a cinnamon-dusted rice pudding thicker than anything served in UK school dinners.

Gravity, Goats and the Canyoning Season

Adventure companies operate from garages on the industrial estate at the bottom of town. Their big sell is the Guadalentín gorge, a limestone slit that drops 200 metres in places. Between May and October they run guided descents: abseil, slide, jump into pools so cold that wetsuits are compulsory even when the air temperature hits 38 °C. British reviews on TripAdvisor enthuse about “proper abseils, not just glorified slides” but warn that groups need a minimum of four; outside July and August you may wait 24 hours while the outfitter tries to pair you with Spanish weekenders. Bring old trainers—hire boots are not supplied—and prepare for a 45-minute uphill walk back to the minibus.

If vertical water is not appealing, gentler options exist. The old railway line that once carried olives to the coast has been resurfaced as a greenway; rent a hybrid in the village (€18 a day) and pedal 14 km through tunnels to the abandoned station at Herrerías, where a lone bar serves cold beer and plates of jamón sliced by hand. Road cyclists favour the loop round the reservoir, 28 km with almost no traffic, though the climb out of town averages 7 % and will make Surrey hills feel tame.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April and late September are the sweet spots. Daytime temperatures sit in the low twenties, wildflowers or autumn olives add colour, and bars still have tables free at 9 p.m. In July and August the mercury can touch 40 °C; the village fills with families from Granada and Jaén, prices edge up 10 % and you will queue for ice cream. Winter is a gamble. January days are often brilliant, sharp and cloudless, perfect for walking, but by 6 p.m. the streets empty and half the restaurants close. Several British visitors have arrived in late December hoping for a “living nativity scene” only to find the main street shuttered and the only open bar serving microwaved croquetas to bored truckers.

Accommodation splits between rural cottages signed up to the local “Turismo Rural” scheme and two small hotels inside converted townhouses. Expect stone walls, beams, Wi-Fi that flickers whenever the wind blows, and heating that runs on bottled gas. Prices hover around €70 a night for a two-bedroom cottage, breakfast not included. If you want a pool, book one with a private splash tank—there is no municipal lido, and the reservoir, tempting though it looks, has no lifeguards and a reputation for sudden drops in temperature.

Driving Home the Lesson

Pozo Alcón will never compete with Ronda’s drama or Frigiliana’s chocolate-box façades. It offers something narrower and, for many British travellers, more useful: a functioning Spanish mountain town that happens to sit beside some of southern Europe’s least-crowded walking country. Come for the canyons, the vultures and the €9 wine, but do not expect waiters who speak fluent English or gift shops selling fridge magnets. Fill the tank before you leave the motorway, carry cash, and remember that siesta is not a quaint tradition—it is the daily reboot that keeps the place alive. Treat the village as it treats the mountains: with practicality, sturdy shoes and a willingness to be quiet for a while.