Chercos

The road to Chercos climbs 800 metres through switchbacks that would make a rally driver sweat. One moment you're in dusty plains dotted with plastic greenhouses, the next you're threading between limestone outcrops while the temperature drops five degrees. By the time the white houses appear, clinging to the mountainside like architectural limpets, mobile signal has vanished and the only sound is your engine cooling in the thin air.

This is proper mountain Spain. Not the Costa del Sol version with its English breakfasts and sunburnt expats, but the sort of place where farmers still judge time by the position of the sun and neighbours know exactly who's bought what at the weekly market in Purchena. At 302 residents, Chercos isn't quite a ghost town, though during siesta hours you'd be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

The Village that Time Misplaced

Chercos splits into two distinct settlements, a detail that catches many visitors off guard. Modern Chercos spreads along the access road with its municipal swimming pool, doctor's surgery, and the only place to buy a proper coffee within twelve kilometres. Three kilometres uphill lies Chercos Viejo, the original hill-top settlement where stone houses date back to Moorish times and the population hovers around fifty determined souls.

The old village deserves its reputation as an open-air museum, though that description suggests something rather more curated than the reality. Here, Moorish arches frame passages barely wide enough for a donkey, while cylindrical chimneys poke from roofs like terracotta fingers. Flower pots cascade geraniums from every available ledge, their colours brilliant against the limestone walls. It's Instagram gold, certainly, but it's also someone's grandfather's house, someone's daily reality of hauling shopping up medieval steps.

The church of Nuestra Señora del Rosario squats at the highest point, its modest bell tower serving less as a religious statement and more as a navigational aid for walkers returning from the surrounding sierra. Inside, the air carries that particular scent of old stone and beeswax polish that British churches lost sometime around the Reformation. The figures of saints here aren't ancient masterpieces but rather objects of genuine devotion, their painted faces worn smooth by generations of fingertips.

Walking with Goats

The Filabres surrounding Chercos aren't the soft, rolling hills of the Cotswolds. These are serious mountains, dry and sharp-edged, where almond trees grow at impossible angles from ancient terraces. The marked walking routes are more suggestions than actual paths – stone walls crumble, markers fade, and occasionally you'll find yourself following a goat track that peters out at a cliff edge.

That said, the walking here rewards those willing to trust their sense of direction. From the village, paths strike out towards abandoned hamlets where roofs have collapsed but bread ovens remain intact. The GR-7 long-distance route passes nearby, though following it for any distance requires proper boots and more water than you think necessary. Summer temperatures hit 38°C regularly, and the mountain air is deceptively dry.

Spring transforms the landscape entirely. When the almond blossoms emerge in late February, the hillsides appear dusted with snow, a sight that draws photographers from across Europe. By April, wild herbs perfume the air – thyme, rosemary, and a local variety of sage that makes supermarket versions taste like cardboard. The village organises guided walks during blossom season, though these are conducted in rapid-fire Spanish and involve considerably more uphill marching than the promotional material suggests.

What Passes for Nightlife

Evenings in Chercos follow a pattern established long before package tourism. The bars – both of them – fill with farmers discussing rainfall statistics and the price of almonds over cañas of beer. The local asador fires up its massive grill on weekends, producing chuletones that would feed a family of four for a week. These enormous beef chops, rubbed with nothing more than local olive oil and coarse salt, represent the pinnacle of mountain cuisine.

The food here isn't fancy, but it's honest. Morcilla de calabaza sounds alarming – sweet pumpkin black pudding – yet converts even the most squeamish visitors. Potatoes arrive as patatas a lo pobre, poor man's potatoes swimming in olive oil with slow-cooked peppers, the sort of dish British vegetarians dream about but never quite replicate at home. The local goat's cheese, drizzled with honey from hives tucked into mountain crevices, has none of the aggressive tang that puts newcomers off stronger varieties.

For supplies, visitors face a twenty-minute drive to Purchena, where the SuperSol stocks everything from Cathedral City cheddar to Marmite, presumably for the benefit of the scattered British population who've made their homes in converted farmhouses. In Chercos itself, the tiny shop keeps irregular hours dictated by its proprietor's mood and social calendar. Best to arrive self-sufficient, or be prepared to knock on doors and practice your Spanish.

When the Mountains Call Time

The fiesta in mid-July transforms this quiet settlement into something approaching chaos. Six rental houses fill months in advance, camping appears in fields normally reserved for goats, and the population swells to perhaps a thousand. The event centres around a flamenco festival that brings performers from across Andalucía, their footwork echoing off stone walls until dawn. For three days, Chercos parties like it's 1999, then promptly returns to hibernation.

October brings the almond harvest and the patronal fiestas, a more sedate affair focused on religious processions and communal meals. This is when emigrants return, when London accents mix with Andalusian Spanish in the bars, when the village remembers it once had a population measured in thousands rather than hundreds.

Winter arrives early at this altitude. By November, wood smoke hangs in the valleys while the surrounding peaks turn white. Access becomes interesting – the council does its best with the twisting access road, but this isn't Surrey. Snow chains live in car boots from December through March, and the prudent keep emergency supplies. The upside is those crystalline winter days when the air is so clear you can see the Mediterranean, forty kilometres distant, glittering like scattered diamonds.

Chercos doesn't suit everyone. Those seeking boutique hotels, Michelin stars, or indeed any stars beyond the astronomical variety should look elsewhere. But for travellers who measure value in silence, space, and the sort of authenticity that can't be manufactured, this mountain village delivers. Just remember to fill up with petrol in Almería, download offline maps, and bring walking boots that have already been broken in. The almond trees will still be here, vastly outnumbering the humans, when you're ready to trade the Costa's crowds for something altogether more enduring.