Purchena

The church bell strikes midday, yet the square remains in shade. At 555 metres above sea level, Purchena's white houses step down the slope like spectators in an amphitheatre, all angled toward the same view: a dry valley that only turns green where the Almanzora River sneaks through. This is interior Almería, 45 minutes from the coast but feeling half a lifetime away from the Costas' fish-and-chip queues.

With 1,645 residents, the village is small enough that strangers are clocked within minutes. A British-registered car will draw raised eyebrows and, more often than not, a helpful wave when the lane narrows. English is scarce; a few words of Spanish oil the wheels, though gestures suffice in the baker's or the Saturday-morning veg van on Plaza Nueva.

A geography of patience

Purchena sits in the transitional wrinkle between the Sierra de los Filabres and the valley floor. Almond terraces cling to the lower hills; higher up, the vegetation thins to thyme and bare rock. The climate is a compromise: cooler than the plastic-greenhouse coast at Villaricos, warmer than the pine forests above Serón. In February the almond blossom turns whole hillsides white; by late July the same slopes look sun-bleached and exhausted.

Rain, when it arrives, tends to be theatrical. A September storm can send a brown ribbon of water down the Rambla de Purchena, transforming the normally dry riverbed into a five-minute torrent. Locals watch from doorways, then sweep the silt away once the drama passes. Drought is the default, which explains the thick-walled houses, the tiny windows and the internal patios designed to trap any breeze going.

What passes for a centre

There is no pedestrianised high street, no souvenir strip. The parish church of San Ginés is the closest thing to a landmark: a 16th-century tower retro-fitted onto an older nave, its stonework patched so often it resembles a quilt. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; the interior smells of candle wax and floor-wax, the soundtrack the slow creak of ceiling timbers.

Radiating from the church are lanes just wide enough for a donkey and cart. Some houses are freshly limed, geraniums marching along wrought-iron balconies; others slump behind builder's netting, their roofs propped on pine trunks. A couple of cafés set tables outside from Easter onwards. Order a café con leche and it arrives in a glass, the spoon standing upright in the foam. Ask for a cortado and the barman will judge whether you really want the condensed-milk version or the espresso 'cut' with milk. Either way, the price hovers round €1.20 – cheaper than the parking meter at Alicante airport.

Eating without flourish

Forget tasting menus. Purchena's gastronomy is household food scaled up. Gachas – a thick porridge of flour, water and olive oil – sounds austere until you taste the almond-garlic version served during the Moorish Games. Migas – fried breadcrumbs with scraps of chorizo – is weekend breakfast fuel, best chased by a glass of cold gazpacho (the local take is more salady soup than Andalucian bloody Mary).

Meat eaters encounter choto (milk-fed kid) in winter, slow-stewed with bay and cloves. Vegetarians will live on berenjenas fritas con miel – aubergine chips drizzled with cane honey – and the region's exceptional olive oil. The nearest restaurant with a printed vegetarian menu is 12 km away in Olula; self-caterers fare better. Stock up early: the supermarket shutters at 14:00 and won't lift again until 17:30. Miss the window and you're down to the garage shop by the roundabout.

When the village remembers it has a past

Every first weekend of August Purchena drags out its Nasrid history for the Juegos Moriscos. The event re-creates 16th-century market life: mint tea decanted from copper kettles, blacksmiths shaping horseshoes, archery contests on the recreation ground. Even the town hall joins in, staff swapping suits for tunics. Visitors expecting Disneyfied pageantry are surprised by the lack of entry fees – and by the noise. Drums start at midnight; by 02:00 the square is a thicket of swaying costumes and impromptu flamenco.

Accommodation within the village disappears months ahead. The single hostel above the sports pavilion has twelve rooms; the rest is word-of-mouth casas rurales. Savvy Brits rent in Macael – famous for its marble quarries – and drive up for the evening show. Roads are patrolled by local police more interested in breathalyser numbers than speeding, so whoever draws the short straw sticks to mosto (non-alcoholic grape must).

Walking the dry sierra

Purchena is not dramatic hiking country; it's patient, shrubby, quietly revealing. A signed 7 km loop, the Ruta de los Almendros, leaves from the cemetery gate and circles through abandoned terracing. Stone huts known as cortijillos stand roofless, their beams long since burnt as firewood. In March the air smells of orange blossom and damp earth; by June you need two litres of water and a hat. Higher paths link into the GR-100 long-distance trail, threading north towards Serón castle or south to the lava caves under Sorbas. Either way, mobile coverage is patchy – download the map before you set off.

Winter quirks and practical truths

January can hit 20 °C at midday; after dark the mercury drops to single figures. Most village houses lack central heating – visitors book cottages with wood-burners or accept that 16 °C indoors is 'character'. The nearest cashpoint closed in 2021; fill your wallet in Olula del Río before you arrive. Wi-Fi is reliable enough for email but will stutter on iPlayer; download box-sets at home if rain-days matter.

Come expecting nightlife and you'll end up in the car. One bar stays open past 23:00; the rest fold before the church clock strikes ten. Locals socialise in kitchens, not pubs. Accept an invitation and you'll leave at 01:00 having discussed rainfall statistics, Brexit and the price of almonds – probably without speaking more than school Spanish.

Departing without souvenirs

There is no gift shop. The closest thing to a memento is a half-litre tin of locally pressed olive oil sold from a garage forecourt, labelled only with the cooperative's address. It will leak in your suitcase, but salad back home will taste of hot sun and stone for months afterwards.

Purchena doesn't sell itself because it isn't for sale. Turn up with a phrasebook, a tolerance for siesta shutdowns and an appetite for dishes that never saw a foam gun, and the village shrugs, offers a chair and carries on being itself. Some visitors find that dull; others realise they've been looking for exactly that since the M25 first began to resemble a car park.