Almogía

The Thursday morning bus from Málaga drops you at the top of the village, engine ticking as it cools in thin mountain air. From 357 metres up, the Mediterranean is a distant silver coin, and the valley floor spreads like a green counterpane stitched with olive groves. Almogía’s white walls glare against sandstone ridges; swallows cut arcs above roofs still wet with dew. It feels higher than it sounds, and a degree or two cooler than the coast—enough to make a British visitor reach for a jumper even in May.

A village that faces the fields, not the sea

Most travellers speed past on the A-357, bound for Antequera’s dolmens or El Chorro’s gorge. Almogía turns its back on that rush. Streets tilt steeply away from the road, funnelling downwards between houses whose lower walls are painted ochre to mask the dust blown up from almond terraces. The gradient is relentless; trainers are advisable, and anyone with dodgy knees should consider the ring-road car park instead of attempting the narrow lanes. What looks picturesque from a distance is, up close, a working village: irrigation pipes stacked beside doorways, a tractor wedged into a plaza scarcely wider than its wheel-base, the smell of diesel mingling with wild thyme.

At the bottom of the hill the sixteenth-century church of San Juan Bautista squats on a rare scrap of level ground. Its Mudéjar tower is open only when the sacristan feels like it—usually 11:00-13:00, but don’t bet on it. Inside, baroque retablos gleam with gilt that still bears soot marks from villagers lighting candles during the 2020 lockdown. There is no audioguide, no gift shop, just a sign asking for one-euro coins towards roof repairs. Drop one in; the woodworm are advancing faster than the diocese’s budget.

Verdiales in the shade of the Cruz

Climb five minutes past the last houses to the Mirador del Cerro de la Cruz and you’ll understand why the Moors kept a watchtower here. The valley unrolls westwards, the river Guadalhorce glinting where it catches irrigation overspill. On clear days you can pick out the railway to Ronda threading between avocado plantations. The viewpoint bench carries a brass plaque: “To the British cyclist who pushed his bike up here in 42 °C—never again.” Fair warning: midday sun is brutal, photography hopeless. Come at dawn when the sierras blush pink, or stay for dusk when swifts give way to nighthawks.

Sunday lunchtime is the moment for verdiales. Musicians gather under the lime trees in Plaza de la Constitución with violin, guitar and the strange square drum called cajón. The style predates flamenco: faster, brighter, lyrics that joke about village life and the price of olives. A circle forms; someone produces a plastic bottle of sweet moscatel that circulates clockwise. Visitors are welcome, but clap on the off-beat and you’ll be gently corrected. The session ends when the church bell strikes three, dispersing families to long lunches that last until siesta.

Almond blossom and goat stew

The Sendero de los Almendros starts 200 m beyond the fountain, signposted in paint that peels faster than the town hall can repaint. The path contours around the hillside through gnarled trees planted by the Moors and replaced ever since. February brings blossom so dense the mountains look sugared; by July the same branches carry green husked nuts that locals crack open on doorsteps. Allow ninety minutes for the full loop, less if you’re content to turn around at the ruined cortijo where a stone trough still holds rain-water for passing mules.

Back in the village, hunger points to Bar la Sociedad on Calle Real. Caldereta de chivo appears most weekends: lean goat slow-cooked with bay, saffron and a splash of the local sweet wine. It tastes like Welsh mountain lamb but arrives in a clay bowl with bones you negotiate yourself. Ask for “sin hueso” if you dislike playing anatomist. Vegetarians get sopa perota, a thick tomato-and-pepper soup crowned with a poached egg; mop it up with the heavy local bread that keeps for days and could double as building material. Pudding means roscos de vino, doughnuts flavoured with the same dark moscatel; two plus a café solo set you back €3.20. Cards are refused: the nearest cash machine is two streets up, frequently out of order, so bring notes.

When the valley parties

Almogía’s calendar still follows the agricultural clock. In mid-June the romería hauls San Juan Bautista down to his riverside hermitage on a cart draped with carnations. Half the village walks behind, the other half waits at the clearing with paella pans the size of satellite dishes. Outsiders are handed a plate and a plastic fork; donations are slipped into a wicker basket. The day ends with fireworks that echo off the crags like gunshots—brief, unsentimental, over by midnight.

Late August brings the Fiesta de la Juventud, essentially a municipal excuse to stay up singing. One night is given over to a gazpacho competition: giant glass bowls lined along the Ayuntamiento steps, each family convinced theirs has the perfect garlic balance. Voting is done by applause; British palates should head for the paler versions unless they relish the burn. Don’t expect Ibiza-style nightlife. Bars close at 23:00 even in summer; the last stragglers carry chairs inside while the streetlights dim to save electricity.

Getting there, getting out

Málaga airport to Almogía is 35 km but feels longer once the dual carriageway narrows to the MA-340. Car-hire desks at arrivals will offer a Fiat 500; upgrade if you dislike reversing uphill for 2 km when the ring-road is choked with delivery vans. Buses run from María Zambrano station at 07:30, 13:00 and 17:30; the return journey leaves Almogía at 06:45, 14:00 and 19:30. Miss the last one and a taxi costs €50. Winter tyres are unnecessary, but fog can sit in the valley from November to February, reducing visibility to a damp twenty metres.

Accommodation inside the village is limited to two guesthouses and a handful of rooms above bars. Most overnight visitors stay at Cortijo Puerto el Peral, four kilometres out on the road to Cártama. The track is graded but potholed; proceed at tractor speed. What you get is silence, a pool fed by mountain spring-water cold enough to make a Scot gasp, and hosts who press a bottle of their own olive oil into your hand as you leave. Book ahead for March blossom weekends; otherwise you’ll have the place to yourself.

Leave before checkout and you can be back on the A-357 within fifteen minutes, coast-bound, the white walls shrinking in the rear-view mirror. Almogía doesn’t mind. It will return to pruning almonds, watering tomatoes, arguing over next year’s fiesta budget—life continuing at the deliberate pace that first made you stop.