Alcóntar

At 959 m above the Almanzora Valley, Alcontar is high enough for the air to feel thinner and the light to sharpen. The first thing you notice after the final hairpin is the hush: no hum of coast-road traffic, only the wind moving through thousand-year-old olive trees that glitter like pewter in the sun. Second comes the gradient. Streets were laid out for mules, not mobility scooters; what the village saves on charm it spends on calf muscles.

The Village that Refuses to Pose

Whitewash is scarce here. Houses are the colour of parchment and stone, roofs tiled in weather-beaten terracotta, chimneys leaning like veteran drinkers. Flowerpots exist, but they’re working pots—rosemary for the potaje, geraniums kept alive on dish-water—rather than Instagram bait. The Iglesia de la Inmaculada Concepción squats at the top of the hill, its Mudéjar brick tower visible for miles, guiding you upward through lanes barely two arm-spans wide. Inside, the nave is cool and plain; no baroque theatrics, just the smell of wax and a 17th-century virgin whose face has been repainted so often she looks mildly surprised to still be here.

Step out onto the small terrace behind the sacristy and the valley opens like a map: almond terraces, the pale thread of the river, the distant A-92 that brought you here now reduced to a silent grey stripe. Sunrise is the best time—temperatures in October can dip to 7 °C before dawn—when the Filabres glow peach and the first wood-smoke lifts from chimneys. Bring a jacket; altitude trumps latitude.

Trails, Goats and Abandoned Farms

Alcontar sits on the southern lip of the Sierra de los Filabres, so hiking starts where the tarmac ends. The PR-A 265 loop (7 km, 250 m ascent) circles the village past threshing circles, ruined cortijos and a spring locals insist still tastes better than anything bottled. Way-marking is sporadic; download the track before you set off and carry water—there’s no bar en route and summer shade is theoretical. For something stiffer, follow the old drove-road north-west towards the Puerto de los Pilones (1,450 m). The climb is relentless but you’ll meet more ibex than humans, and on a clear day the Mediterranean appears as a thin silver blade on the horizon.

Cyclists arrive in spring for the forest tracks that link Alcontar with Serón and Laroya. A gravel bike is ideal; road bikes hate the loose marble chippings left after winter rains. If you prefer company, the village sports club organises a 14 km “marcha nórdica” every second Sunday from February to May; sticks provided, pace civil, sandwiches afterwards in the bar at €3 a round.

Eating Without the Fanfare

There are two proper bars. At Bar Filabres the menu is written on a paper tablecloth: migas (fried breadcrumbs laced with chorizo and grapes), gurullos (hand-rolled pasta stewed with hare in winter, chicken in summer) and the house speciality, choto al ajillo—kid goat flash-fried with garlic, served smoking hot in a clay dish. A half-ración costs €7 and fills a gap fast. House red from the Laujar valley arrives in a glass rinsed with anís, giving it a faint liquorice edge; tourists pull faces, locals shrug.

The only shop, Ultramarinos Mari, opens 9–2, 5–8, six days a week. Stock up on local almonds—€4 for 500 g—before you ask for a card machine; the owner will laugh and point to the ATM across the square, which works on Tuesdays if the wind is in the right direction. Sunday lunch means driving 12 km down to Tíjola where Restaurante Almanzora does a three-course menú del día for €12 including wine. Book; half the province seems to have the same idea.

When the Village Lets its Hair Down

Fiestas here are for villagers first, visitors second. The Virgen del Rosario on 7 October turns the streets into a procession of brass bands and swaying lanterns; British second-home owners swap Kindle time for plastic chairs and free churros dipped in chocolate so thick it must be stirred with a stick. In mid-August the emigrants return—flights from Barcelona, coaches from Cataluña—and the fairground occupies the only flat patch of ground beside the cemetery. Expect late-night verbenas where cider costs €2 a bottle and nobody goes home before 3 a.m. If you prefer something quieter, Semana Santa is suitably sombre: hooded penitents climb the cobbles in silence, the only soundtrack the slow creak of a wooden float and the occasional cough echoing off stone.

Getting Up and Getting Away

Alcontar is 95 km north-east of Almería airport. Flights from Gatwick, Manchester and Leeds-Bradford run year-round; in summer easyJet adds Luton and Bristol. Hire cars are plentiful—book ahead for automatics—and the drive takes 1 h 20 min on the A-92, exit 376, then the ALP-712. The final 8 km wriggle uphill through a gorge where goats outnumber crash barriers; meeting a lorry requires reverse poetry. In winter the road can ice over; carry chains if you’re travelling December–February.

Buses exist on paper. Monday and Friday a single ALSA coach leaves Almería at 14:15, returning at 06:55 next day. It is used mainly by pensioners with season tickets and should be considered a cultural experience rather than transport.

Accommodation is limited. Casa de los Olivos has three self-catering apartments carved out of an 1890 townhouse: wood-burning stoves, slate showers, Wi-Fi that collapses when the wind picks up. From €70 a night for two, minimum stay three nights in fiesta week. Two kilometres outside the village, Finca del Río offers yurts and a shared pool; the track is passable in an ordinary car if you enjoy slow-motion pothole slalom. Otherwise base yourself in Serón 20 minutes away and drive up for the day.

The Catch

Alcontar is not pretty in the postcard sense. July and August bake, the stone houses absorb heat and release it slowly; air-con is rare and swimming pools non-existent. Evenings are cooler than the coast, but daytime highs still touch 36 °C. In January the thermometer can fall below zero, pipes freeze, and the single bar may close early if the owner’s fire won’t draw. Mobile coverage is patchy; Vodafone gives up entirely near the church. And if you arrive expecting boutique olive-oil tastings and artisan soap, you’ll leave disappointed—production here is industrial, the co-operative sells in 5-litre plastic jugs, and nobody apologises for it.

Come instead for silence that has texture, for paths that demand attention, for a place where the cashier still asks which part of England you’re from and means it. Stay two nights, walk one trail, eat migas at a formica table, and you’ll understand why half the village left for Barcelona yet still come home for the fair. Alcontar doesn’t sell itself because it doesn’t need to; it simply waits, 959 m up, for anyone curious enough to climb.