Bacares

The church tower appears long before the houses do. At 1,206 metres, Bacares rides the Sierra de los Filabres like a white saddle on a brown stallion, and the stone belfry of San Blas is its flagpole. From the final bend of the ALP-822 the whole Almanzora valley tilts into view: olive terraces, abandoned cortijos and, on the clearest winter afternoons, a silver seam that might just be the Mediterranean thirty-five kilometres away.

This is not one of those flattened pueblos where pushchairs rule the pavement. Streets were laid out for mules, not motors, and the gradient never forgets it. A five-minute stroll from the tiny Plaza de la Constitución to the upper fountain can leave calves tingling; carry shopping further and you’ll understand why most houses still have donkey-sized doorways. The reward is air that feels rinsed: ten degrees cooler than Almería city on summer nights and sharp enough in January to make British lungs remember Yorkshire.

Up here the sierra keeps the clock

Morning starts when the first farmer clatters past with a trailer of almonds; evening arrives with the clang of the church bell at nine. There is no bank, no petrol station, and—crucially—no cash machine. The single colmado opens when its owner finishes her own chores, so wise visitors stock up in Olula del Río before the 20-kilometre climb. Bread, tinned tomatoes and a slab of local goats’ cheese will do; anything fancier requires a 35-minute drive back down the switchbacks.

What Bacares does possess is walking country straight from the door. The Sendero de la Fuente del Espino sets off between vegetable patches and enters holm-oak scrub within minutes. Thirty minutes later the path dips to a stone trough where water trickles year-round—fill bottles, splash necks, enjoy the shade. Keen boots can continue west onto the fire-track that snakes towards Tetica de Bacares, the 2,088-metre summit whose limestone cap glints above the village all day. Count on six hours round trip, no springs after the fuente, and carry more water than you think civilised; the only other liquid on offer is the sun.

Cyclists arrive for the opposite reason: these roads are empty and brutal. The climb from Purchena averages 6 % but throws in ramps of 11 % just as you’re congratulating yourself. Descend towards Serón and you’ll freewheel for twelve kilometres, tyres squealing on melting asphalt in July. Mountain-bikers have a spider’s web of old bridle paths—download the Wikiloc files before you lose signal.

When darkness falls, the lights stay off

Bacares sits inside a natural bowl ring-fenced by even higher ridges; the nearest streetlamp glimmers ten kilometres away. Walk fifty paces beyond the last house and the Milky Way reverts to its Victorian glory. August brings shooting-star quotas that make the Perseids feel like a private firework display; February skies are so clear you can watch Orion rise over the chimney pots with a mug of supermarket brandy.

Food, when you can find it, tastes of altitude and thrift. The village bar (no nameboard, just the smell of coffee and frying olive oil) serves migas—breadcrumbs sautéed with garlic, pepper and scraps of chorizo—on days when the weather turns mean. A plate costs €4 and arrives with a glass of thin red that punches above its weight. If the owner’s son has shot a rabbit, the chalkboard advertises ‘gurullos’: hand-rolled pasta stew thick as a Yorkshire hot-pot. Vegetarians should ask for ‘olla de trigo’, a filling broth of wheat berries, beans and mint. Pudding is an orange, period.

Those needing comfort food drive fifteen minutes to Casa Paco in Olula del Río, where entrecôte is grilled to British brown and chips come in a tin bucket. Back in Bacares, supper ends when the generator hums down—many houses still run on a coin-fed meter—so finish your coffee quickly or drink it cold.

Fiestas that fill the empty Spain

The first weekend of February belongs to San Blas. Processions are short—priests, brass band, villagers clutching scarves against the wind—but the scent of aniseed and sizzling pork drifts through every doorway. Locals who left for Barcelona or Birmingham return with suitcases of fireworks and tales of rent; the population quadruples for forty-eight hours. If you crave silence, stay away. Come August the exodus reverses: summer fiestas mean late-night verbenas on a plywood stage, plastic cups of beer and children racing scooters until the church bell strikes three. Parking becomes a theory; patience with British politeness runs thin.

For the rest of the year Bacares reverts to its default soundtrack: wind in the pines, the clack of dominoes from the bar, and the occasional thud of almonds hitting corrugated roofs. Snow shuts the upper road two or three times each winter; if the forecast mentions ‘nevada’ fill the car before 5 p.m. or spend the night sipping brandy with whoever owns the nearest fireplace.

Directions, disclaimers and a parting shot

From the A-92 take exit 376 towards Purchena, then follow signs for Bacares for twenty kilometres of hairpins. The tarmac is good, the barriers less so, and meeting a lorry full of roof tiles will test your reversing nerve. Sat-navs lie: keep going upwards until you see the tower. Mobile data fades in and out; download offline maps before you leave the motorway.

There is no entrance fee, no souvenir shop, and no bilingual guided tour. What you get instead is a village that has not yet rearranged itself for the foreign gaze—where washing still hangs across the street and old men greet the baker by his first name. Bring sturdy shoes, a sense of vertical reality, and enough cash for migas. The Costa can keep its sun-loungers; up here the sierra does the booking for you.