Líjar

The declaration sits framed above the bar, yellowed and curling at the edges. Dated 14 October 1883, it announces that the good people of Líjar have resolved to wage war against the French Republic following "various outrages" committed against Spanish citizens. The document remains unsigned by any French authority, and the conflict—such as it was—fizzled out sometime before the First World War. Nobody in Líjar seems particularly bothered either way. They're more interested in whether the almonds have set properly this year.

Six Hundred Metres Above the Almanzora

Líjar hangs onto the northern lip of the Almanzora valley at roughly the height of Britain's highest Marks & Spencer. The difference is that here every street tilts. Cobbles run like watercourses between whitewashed houses, occasionally flattening into tiny plazas where elderly residents position plastic chairs to catch the last wedge of winter sun. Nothing is level, which explains why the village postman drives a quad bike that looks as if it has been salvaged from a Welsh hillside farm.

The altitude buys you two things: air clear enough to read the date on a coin at fifty paces, and a temperature drop that catches first-time visitors out even in May. Mornings start sharp; by midday the thermometer can leap fifteen degrees. Pack layers, and don't trust the weather app that claims "partly cloudy"—it will have been extrapolated from the coast 60 km away where the clouds go to gossip.

A Map the Size of a Napkin

There is no tourist office, only Bar Líjar. The owner, Manolo, keeps a hand-drawn map under the counter for anyone who asks. It shows three streets, the church, the cemetery, and a dotted line indicating "camino a Murcia" that disappears off the edge of the paper. The scale is optimistic; the entire village takes nine minutes to cross at funeral pace. Yet the map is accurate in what it leaves out: no souvenir shops, no ticketed viewpoints, no coach park. The nearest cash machine is 18 km away in Albox, so fill your wallet before you wind up the AL-9506.

What you do get is a working village that happens to be beautiful rather than the other way around. Laundry flaps from second-floor balconies. A tractor the colour of dried blood coughs past, its tyres chalked with limestone dust. Someone's caged canary sings over the guttural gossip of starlings in the orange trees. The place smells of woodsmoke and almond blossom depending on the month, and the only queue forms at 10 a.m. when the mobile baker opens his van hatch.

Limestone, Almonds and the Occasional Eagle

Walkers arrive for the ridge that loops behind the village like a broken halo. The Sierra de Líjar tops out at 1,300 m, a two-hour pull on a stony mule track that starts between house numbers 47 and 49. You will share the path with goat herds wearing antique bells; their clonk carries for miles and helps you work out whether the animals are ahead or above you. Griffon vultures cruise the thermals, wings fingered like theatre curtains, and on still days you can hear the river Almanzora turning over its stones 500 m below.

The loop is 8 km, moderate going if you have boots with ankle support. Limestone scree is baby-teeth sharp; sandals are a recognised form of self-harm. In April the slopes are polka-dotted with purple phlomis and white asphodel, but by late June the vegetation gives up and the track becomes a reflector oven. Start early, carry a litre of water per person, and do not rely on phone coverage—there isn't any between the second and fourth kilometre.

Paragliders sometimes hike up with 15 kg of nylon on their backs to launch from the west face. They rate the thermals as "addictive but sneaky" and appreciate the fact that, unlike neighbouring Algodonales, Líjar has no electricity cables strung across the landing zone. If you see colourful canopies banking over the cemetery, you've witnessed the closest thing the village has to rush hour.

What Passes for Gastronomy

Food options are binary: you eat at Bar Líjar, or you self-cater. The bar's kitchen opens at 1 p.m. and closes when the last local finishes, usually around 4. Weekends feature chivo en caldereta, kid stewed with bay and a splash of country wine. The meat is milder than spring lamb, falling off the small bones in sweet fibrous chunks. A plate costs €9 and comes with half a loaf of bread baked in Purchena—use it to mop up the sauce or the locals will assume you're ill.

Weekday staples include migas: fried breadcrumbs punched up with garlic, olive oil and scraps of bacon. Ask for "sin chorizo" if you prefer less smoke. Vegetarians get a plate of patatas a lo pobre—potatoes, peppers and enough olive oil to lubricate a Citroën. Pudding is often a slice of almond tart; the nuts grow within sight of the front door and taste faintly of marzipan even before sugar meets them.

To drink, order tinto de verano, red wine lengthened with gaseosa. It lands somewhere between sangria and a British shandy, light enough for lunchtime but still respectable. A caña of beer runs €1.60; tap water is free and safe, straight off the limestone aquifer.

Fiestas, Funerals and the Loudspeaker on the Church Tower

Life is announced via tannoy. At 9 a.m. the village loudspeaker crackles with the day's deaths, births and whose irrigation channel needs clearing. In August the same system blares pasodoble music for the fiesta patronal, a three-day event that triples the population. Visitors are welcome but rooms within the village are scarce; most people base themselves in Albox and drive up after dark. Expect fireworks that sound like a cupboard falling downstairs, processions at walking speed, and a dance that finishes when the wine runs out—historically around 5 a.m.

Semana Santa is quieter: two dozen hooded figures carry a single float depicting the Crucifixion, illuminated by household candles jammed into wine bottles. The procession squeezes through streets barely wider than the platform itself; bystanders step into doorways to let it pass. Nobody charges for a view, and nobody takes selfies either. The silence feels almost illicit, as if you've wandered into someone else's family grief.

Getting There, Getting Out

Almería airport is 95 minutes away on fast empty roads. Hire cars are essential; no bus company has made a profit here since the 1980s. From the A-92 take exit 376 towards Albox, then follow the AL-9506 for 12 km of hairpins. The asphalt is good but narrower than a Sainsbury's aisle—expect to reverse for the occasional delivery van. Petrol stations accept UK cards without PIN fuss; fill up before the final climb because the village pump closed in 2009.

Mobile signal is patchy on every network. Download offline maps and save your accommodation coordinates while you still have 4G. If the sat-nav loses its mind at the last junction, aim for the church tower; it's the only thing taller than two storeys and visible from kilometres away.

Leave time for the descent. The same road that demands first gear on the way up rewards you with a perfectly framed view of the valley that makes the detour feel less like a holiday whim and more like a small discovery. Just don't expect anyone in Líjar to understand the fuss. They've been here since 1883, still technically at war, still waiting for the French to notice.