Alborea

At seven-thirty on an April morning the bells of the parish church throw sound across empty cereal fields, and the only other noise is a tractor coughing into life. From the plaza you look east over a roll of land that drops 200 m towards the Levante; the air is cool enough to make you keep your jacket on, yet by midday you’ll be wishing you’d packed sun-cream. Alborea sits at 710 m, high enough for sharp night-time temperatures even when the meseta below is baking, and that altitude is the first thing that colours every plan you make here.

A Village That Never Learnt to Shout

There is no dramatic gorge, no Moorish castle keep, no Instagram-blue flowerpots. The houses are low, one or two storeys, their walls painted the colour of fresh yoghurt and their timber doors softened by decades of sun and dust. A short walk reveals three streets parallel to the main road, four cross-streets, and that is essentially the lot. What saves the place from dullness is the completeness of the scene: no vacant lots, no half-built apartment blocks, no estate agent’s sign promising “urbanización”. Just stone, whitewash, sky, and the occasional clatter of hooves from a farmer exercising his horse before breakfast.

The church, dedicated to Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, is the single vertical accent. Step inside and the temperature drops five degrees; the interior is plain brick and plaster, a single nave without gold leaf or baroque theatrics. Locals will tell you the tower was rebuilt after lightning in 1935, and if you climb the narrow spiral you can see the join where new brick meets old. The bell rope still runs through the ceiling into the sacristy – the priest rings the hours himself, no automated clockwork.

Round the corner, a wooden door stands ajar above three worn steps. Through it you glimpse stone stairs descending into a private wine cellar, one of perhaps fifty still carved beneath the houses. The temperature down there hovers around 14 °C winter and summer, perfect for the young Bobal and Tempranillo that locals bottle for their own tables. Knock politely and someone may let you taste last year’s vintage from an unlabelled demijohn; expect a bright, grapey red that bears no resemblance to the oak-heavy reds sold to tourists farther north.

Walking the Grain-Line Between La Mancha and Levante

Head out early and you can walk a 12-kilometre loop south-east towards the abandoned hamlet of Los Benitos, returning along a farm track that skirts vineyards belonging to the cooperative in neighbouring Villamalea. The path climbs barely 100 m, but the open horizon makes every rise feel bigger. In May the wheat is knee-high and rustles like dry rain; by late June it has turned the colour of pale ale and the air smells of straw dust. You will meet no one except the occasional shepherd on a moped checking his solar-powered fence.

If you prefer a longer stride, the PR-CU 251 starts at the petrol station on the CM-412 and follows the ridge westwards to Honrubia, 18 km away. The waymarking is scruffy – red-and-white stripes painted on fence posts – so download the track before you set off. Halfway, the path crosses the Arroyo de Alborea; after heavy rain in April you may have to hop across stones, but by July the streambed is a ribbon of white pebbles hot enough to burn your palm.

Summer hikers should carry more water than they think sensible. At this altitude the sun is fierce and shade is theoretical; holm oaks are scattered and olives grow low, offering nothing bigger than a handkerchief of shadow. Start at dawn, finish by eleven, and spend the middle of the day reading in the plaza where the plane trees give real cover.

What Appears on the Table

Food arrives without ceremony. The Bar Central opens at seven for coffee and serves lunch from 13:30 until the last person leaves – usually around 15:15. The menú del día costs €12 and runs to three courses, bread, and a quarter-litre of local wine. Expect a bowl of gazpacho manchego first: not the cold tomato soup Brits know, but a thick rabbit stew thickened with squares of unleavened bread. If game isn’t your thing, ask for ajoarriero, salt-cod whipped with potato and garlic; the kitchen will oblige, but only if cod has arrived that week.

Evening eating is more elastic. The same bar will grill a chuletón (rib steak) for two to share, but you must order before 21:00 because the owner likes the coals out by half-ten. Vegetarians survive on ensalada de la huerta – lettuce, tomato, onion, olives – and the excellent local cheese, a mild Manchego cured for only three months so it still tastes of milk rather than barn. Pudding choices are limited to almond biscuits or arroz con leche; take the biscuits, they travel well and the bakery sells them by weight.

There is no wine list. Ask for tinto de la casa and you’ll get whatever cask the owner tapped this morning; payment is tallied in chalk on the bar top. If you want something fancier, drive 20 minutes to the cooperative at Villamalea where tastings of barrel-aged Bobal are free and bottles start at €4.50.

When the Village Fills Up – and When It Doesn’t

Alborea’s population swells to perhaps 1,200 during the fiestas of the third weekend in July. The programme hasn’t changed in decades: Saturday morning encierro (no bulls, just heifers with padded horns), Saturday night verbena dancing to a cover band that last updated its set list in 1998, Sunday procession with the Virgin carried shoulder-high through streets strewn with rosemary. Accommodation within the village is booked months ahead; if you arrive without a reservation you’ll be driving 25 km to Almansa. Light sleepers should also note that fireworks start at 06:00 and continue at random intervals until the wine runs out.

Outside fiesta week the place empties. In February half the shutters stay closed; residents who work in Albacete leave at dawn and return after dark, so streets can feel abandoned. Winter brings sharp frosts – temperatures dip to –5 °C on clear nights – and though the roads are gritted, a hire car without winter tyres can slide on the ridge above the village. Come properly equipped or wait for March, when almond blossom breaks the monochrome and the morning air smells faintly of honey.

Spring and early autumn remain the sweet spots. Daytime highs sit in the low twenties, nights cool enough for a jumper, and the light is clean enough to pick out every furrow in the plain. British half-term weeks (late May and late October) coincide with near-perfect walking weather; flights into Alicante are still cheap, and the village’s two casas rurales have space mid-week without haggling.

How to Get Here – and What to Bring

No train stops at Alborea. From London, fly to Alicante, collect a car, and head north-west on the A-31 for 185 km (two hours). Petrol is cheaper at the supermarket filling station in Almansa than on the motorway, so refill before the final 20-minute hop. If you land at Madrid, take the AVE to Albacete (1 h 20) and drive 70 km on the CM-412; the road is fast but watch for speed cameras just after the turn-off to Mahora.

Bring cash. The village has no ATM, the bakery doesn’t take cards, and the nearest bank is in Hellín, 15 minutes away. Shops observe the classic siesta: open 09:00–14:00, close until 17:30, then unlock until 20:00. If you need groceries on a Sunday, drive to the 24-hour petrol shop on the CM-412 – expensive, but the only game in town.

Mobile coverage is patchy inside the old quarter. Vodafone and EE pick up a signal in the plaza; O2 users need to walk 100 m up the road towards the cemetery. Download offline maps before you leave the airport and save the coordinates of your accommodation – street names are unsignposted and house numbers follow no obvious sequence.

Pack layers. At 710 m the altitude seems trivial until you step outside at 07:00 in October and see your breath. By 11:00 you’ll be in shirtsleeves; by 22:00 you’ll be grateful for a fleece. A light windproof is useful on the ridge walks – the cierzo can sweep across the plateau without warning, rattling the olive branches and whipping dust into your eyes.

Leaving Without a Souvenir

There is no gift shop. If you want something tangible, buy a half-kilo wheel of cheese from the factory on the road out towards Peñas de San Pedro; it will survive the flight home in hand luggage and tastes of thyme and dry grass. Otherwise take the sound of the church bells, the smell of rain on hot earth, the sight of wheat heads lit from behind like filings on a magnet. Alborea offers no postcard moment, but it does something quieter: it lets you calibrate your own pulse against a village that has refused to speed up.