Orcera

The petrol gauge is nudging empty when the road suddenly straightens and a scatter of white cubes appears, clinging to a ridge at 730 m. Sat-nav signal vanishes. You have arrived in Orcera – or, more accurately, you have left everywhere else behind.

Morning in the Olives

At 08:30 the plaza smells of woodsmoke and coffee strong enough to float a horseshoe. Two bars face each other across the stone: Bar Central and Bar Nuevo. Neither advertises breakfast; ask anyway. A plate of migas – fried breadcrumbs, garlic, a handful of grapes – arrives with a glass of wine that costs less than a London bus fare. The barman explains that the olives outside the window were harvested last week; the oil in the bottle on the counter was milled the same afternoon. Cloud shadows slide across hills that roll eastwards until they become the Parque Natural de las Sierras de Cazorla, Segura y Las Villas. The silence is so complete you can hear a dog bark two valleys away.

Orcera’s population hovers around 1,735, but numbers feel meaningless. People are simply elsewhere – in the groves, on the trails, driving the mountain road to Villacarrillo for work. The village functions at the pace of crops, not commuters. If you need cash, the single Cajamar ATM is inside a portal that looks like somebody’s garage; when it jams (it will), the nearest alternative is 25 km back along the curves you just climbed. Fill your tank before you leave the motorway – the village garage shuts at 14:00 sharp and all day Sunday.

Up to the Castle, Down to the Pool

A five-minute shuffle up uneven cobbles brings you to the Mirador del Castillo. The fortress itself is mostly memory – a few walls and a rebuilt keep – but the view compensates for every leg cramp. South-west, the olive sea stretches to the horizon; north-east, pine ridges stack up like blue cardboard. The key must be collected from the tourist office (open 10:00-14:00, closed Monday) and returned before the keeper’s siesta. Forget the schedule and you’ll be explaining yourself in broken Spanish through a locked grille.

Back in the lanes, swallows nest in broken drainpipes and elderly women water geraniums with the concentration of bomb-disposal experts. Houses alternate between immaculate stone and half-collapsed roofs; renovation grants arrive slowly here, so each façade is a timeline of family fortunes. The Casa de la Tercia, once the grain store where tithes were collected, now hosts occasional exhibitions. Inside, the air is cool and smells of damp lime; outside, swifts ricochet between terracotta roofs.

Surprise number two: Orcera has a municipal outdoor pool, 50 m of turquoise pinned to the hillside above the cemetery. Entry is €2, lockers 50 c. In July and August Spanish families descend for the weekend; mid-week you may share a lane with two retired Sevillanos doing gentle breaststroke and discussing tomato prices. Water temperature rarely climbs above 24 °C – refreshing when the plateau hits 35 °C, chilly after a cloud drifts over. Bring flip-flops; the concrete burns bare feet by 11:00.

Walking, Mushrooms and the Wrong Shoes

Half a dozen footpaths leave from the upper edge of the village. The easiest, Sendero del Río, drops 250 m to the Segura river in 45 minutes; the return haul tests calf muscles grown soft on Costa del Sol flatness. Serious walkers link up with the 500-km network inside the natural park – multi-day loops to Cazorla or Santiago de la Espada. Waymarking is decent but mobile coverage is not; download maps before you set off and tell someone where you’re going. After rain the clay sticks to boots like wet cement; in August the same paths are powdery and stones roll underfoot.

October brings mushroom hunters. Cars park askew on verges, locals emerge with wicker baskets and knives sharper than your kitchen set. Rules are strict: two kilos maximum per person, no raking of the forest floor, identification books obligatory. Outsiders wandering cluelessly with plastic bags receive polite but firm lectures. If you’re invited to join a family recorrido, accept – and keep your mouth shut until they’ve confirmed what’s edible.

Food at Altitude

Lunch starts at 14:00 or not at all. The mesón adjoining Bar Nuevo offers a set menu for €12: salad of lettuce hearts and tinned tuna, trout from the Segura simply grilled with lemon, secreto ibérico that eats like the best bacon steak you’ve ever met, finishing with gachas – a sweet cinnamon porridge originally fed to shepherds. House red from the Villarrodríguez co-op costs €2.50 a glass and tastes of blackberries with a hint of railway sleeper; it improves after the first sip.

Evenings are quieter. By 22:30 the bars stack chairs on tables; the last drunk murmurs homeward past the 16th-century church whose tower doubles as the village clock – one bell, no chimes, strike count approximate. Night-time temperatures drop sharply whatever the season; in August you’ll still need a jumper. The upside is sleep: total, cave-black, broken only by the occasional hunting owl.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring is the sweet spot. From late April the hills glow acid-green, wild irises appear along the road verges and daytime temperatures hover around 22 °C. Book accommodation ahead if your visit coincides with the Cruces de Mayo (early May) when floral crosses, brass bands and communal paella turn the plaza into an open-air living room. The August fiestas are noisier: processions, fairground rides, amplified pop until 04:00. Rooms are scarce, decibels abundant; choose September instead for grape-stomping demos and gentler harvest cheer.

Winter has its own monochrome appeal – snow on the higher ridges, woodsmoke threading between houses – but the single hotel shuts in January and restaurants reduce hours. Mountain roads ice over; snow chains are rarely supplied with hire cars collected on the coast. Unless you crave solitude and thermals, wait for March.

Leaving, Probably

On departure morning the bread van toots its horn at 09:00 sharp; villagers emerge in dressing gowns and exchange gossip while the driver hands out loaves like a papal benediction. You queue for a bollo still warm from the oven, tear it apart in the car and wonder why the journey back to the motorway feels twice as long as the outward crawl. Somewhere around Villacarrillo the radio regains signal; traffic thickens, bilingual road signs reappear. Orcera has already slipped behind the horizon, but the taste of olive oil and woodsmoke lingers, a quiet reminder that parts of Spain still keep their own time – and it’s rarely on schedule.