Serón

The road to Serón climbs steadily through olive groves that have seen better centuries. By the time your ears pop at 600 metres, the Mediterranean's glittering coastline is nothing more than a distant memory. What lies ahead is proper mountain country—grey stone houses clinging to a hillside, tractors parked wherever they'll fit, and a temperature that drops several degrees with every hairpin bend.

This isn't the Andalucía of package brochures. Serón sits at 822 metres in the Sierra de los Filabres, where winter mornings can bring frost and summer evenings demand a jumper. The village grew around mining rather than tourism, and it shows. Terraced allotments replace infinity pools. The local economy still depends on almonds, olives and the occasional bit of game—not on Brits buying second homes.

Stone, Slate and the Smell of Wood Smoke

First impressions matter. Park by the 16th-century Iglesia de la Anunciación and you'll notice the church tower looks slightly lopsided, as if it's had one too many. Inside, baroque altarpieces gleam with gold leaf that survived Napoleon's troops, the Civil War, and several centuries of agricultural decline. The building anchors Plaza de la Constitución, where elderly men in flat caps argue over dominoes and teenagers scroll through TikTok on the same stone benches their grandparents used.

Wander uphill and the streets narrow to shoulder-width passages. Houses here aren't the gleaming white cubes of coastal postcards—they're built from local slate, their walls thick enough to keep interiors cool in August and warm in January. Iron balconies hold geraniums that somehow survive the altitude. Washing lines stretch across the street at improbable heights, a practical solution when horizontal space comes at a premium.

The Castle of Serón crowns the ridge above town. What's left is more atmospheric than impressive—crumbling walls and a metal walkway that gets uncomfortably hot after 11 am. But the 360-degree views explain everything. To the north, the Sierra de las Estancias rolls away towards Granada. Southwards, the Almanzora Valley spreads like a green carpet, its irrigation channels glinting silver in the sunlight. On clear days you can spot the Cabo de Gata's hazy outline, 85 kilometres distant.

What Grows Between the Rocks

February transforms these mountains. Almond trees burst into flower overnight, turning hillsides white and pink against the grey stone. The spectacle lasts barely three weeks—catch it wrong and you'll find bare branches and scattered petals on the tarmac. Local farmers call it "el momento de la verdad" because frost during blossom means no crop, no income, no holiday in Benidorm come August.

The harvest itself happens in September, when mechanical tree-shakers arrive like oversized spiders. Families who've grown almonds for generations watch nervously as machines grab trunks and shake until nuts rain onto tarpaulins. It's efficient but brutal—branches snap, smaller trees sometimes topple, and the air fills with dust that tastes of bitter almonds.

Olive picking follows through autumn and early winter. Watch for signs advertising "visita de almazara" outside farm gates—these aren't polished tourist experiences, but chances to see proper cold-pressing in action. One producer near the cemetery offers 500ml bottles of emerald-green oil for €8, pressed from trees planted when Victoria was on the throne. The flavour is peppery, almost aggressive, nothing like supermarket versions diluted with second-pressings from Tunisia.

Eating What the Land Provides

Serón's gastronomy reflects altitude and austerity. Game appears on every menu—rabbit, partridge, wild boar when someone's been lucky with the hunting. Galianos stews rabbit in tomato and local red wine until meat falls from bone. It's comfort food rather than haute cuisine, served in terracotta cazuelas that retain heat long after reaching the table.

Jamón de Serón deserves its own paragraph. The village's air-cured ham is milder than Jabugo's famous export, less aggressively salty, with a nutty sweetness that comes from pigs fattened on almond husks. The Bodega de Serón (ring ahead—English tours aren't guaranteed) shows the entire process from hoof to plate. Their tasting room serves paper-thin slices that dissolve on the tongue alongside glasses of tinto de la sierra, a light red that won't overpower the delicate meat.

Vegetarians face limited choices. Migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and bacon bits—appear everywhere. Piononos sponge rolls provide sugar hits for those flagging after morning walks. Most restaurants offer one set menú del día, typically €12-15 for three courses including wine. Sunday lunch is the week's big event—locals book tables weeks ahead for family gatherings that stretch past siesta time.

When to Brave the Heights

October through May offers the best walking weather. Temperatures hover around 15-20°C, perfect for exploring tracks that wind through abandoned terraces and past old mine workings. Summer brings fierce heat—35°C isn't unusual—but mornings remain pleasant until 11 am. Winter nights drop below freezing; snow occasionally dusts the highest peaks, though rarely settles in the village itself.

Access requires wheels. Almería airport sits 85 kilometres south—hire cars essential since no buses serve the village direct. The final 20 kilometres twist through mountain passes where meeting an oncoming lorry means reversing to the nearest passing place. It's not white-knuckle driving, but concentration helps. Allow ninety minutes from airport to plaza, longer if you're towing a caravan.

Accommodation remains resolutely Spanish. One three-star hotel, several guesthouses, a handful of rural cottages. Prices reflect local wages rather than tourist premiums—double rooms from €45 nightly, entire cottages under €80. Don't expect minibars or spa treatments. Do expect spotless bathrooms, mountain views, and owners who'll recommend their cousin's bar for dinner.

Evenings wind down early. Bars serve last drinks around 11:30 pm—this is agricultural country where 6 am starts matter more than cocktail lists. What you get instead is authenticity: conversations with farmers who've never visited Britain but know exactly what their almonds sell for in Tesco, mountain air that tastes of pine and wood smoke, and a sense that somewhere in Europe, traditional life continues regardless of Instagram trends.

Come February, when almond blossom snows across the hillsides, Serón makes perfect sense. The altitude keeps coach tours away. The mining history means pretty but not pretty-pretty. And the food—simple, hearty, based on what grows between rocks—tastes of a place that never learned to compromise with passing fashions.