Almansa

The A-31 slips away from Alicante’s coast and, within fifty minutes, the citrus groves give way to a single limestone crag that punches through the cereal fields. On top sits the Castle of Almansa, its honey-coloured stone glowing like a warning light at 712 m above sea level. You can spot the keep five kilometres out—long before the town itself appears—so the medieval builders still control first impressions.

Almansa’s population of 24,000 is too large to call a village, yet the centre behaves like one. Everything radiates from Plaza de Santa María, a porticoed square where mothers push buggies under Renaissance arcades and teenagers gossip beneath the same stone shields that once announced noble bloodlines. The distance from here to the castle gate is 400 m, almost all of it uphill. Wear trainers, not flip-flops; the rock is polished smooth by centuries of military boots and, more recently, by Saturday-morning market shoppers hauling sacks of local almonds.

A fortress that still keeps watch

English Heritage would have wrapped the castle in gift-shop gloss, but Almansa leaves it satisfyingly raw. The ticket booth sits inside the first gateway; entry is €4 and the keeper hands over a laminated plan in Spanish only. Climb the original Almohad staircase to the battlements and the view explains why this patch of Castilla-La Mancha was worth fighting for in 1707: open plateau to the west, Levantine corridor to the east—whichever side held the rock controlled the grain and the wine. Information panels stop at 1812, so bring a phone if you want to fill in the rest.

The keep locks at 14:00 sharp. Arrive at 11:00, allow an hour inside, then drift down through the Jewish quarter, a grid of narrow lanes where wrought-iron balconies nearly touch overhead. Halfway down, the Iglesia de la Asunción barges into view, its baroque tower patched with seventeenth-century blue and white tiles that look Dutch until you notice the Habsburg double eagle. The door is usually open; inside, the sacristy will try to charge you €1 for a photocopied guide. Pay it— the seventeenth-century choir stalls are worth a closer look and the gloom hides some surprisingly vivid reds.

Shoe leather and garnacha tintorera

Industry here never decamped to the coast. Circle the western bypass and you’ll pass Venta de Compton, Callaghan, and a dozen other British-sounding outlets shifting last-season leather boots at half the UK price. The factories themselves lie on the eastern industrial estate; most offer same-day sale rail to the public on Thursday and Friday afternoons. Bring cash—card machines are still considered exotic.

Wine is the other staple. The DO Almansa is tiny—just 7,000 ha—yet garnacha tintorera, the local grape, gives inky reds that taste like blackberry crumble laced with black pepper. Bodegas Piqueras offers tours at 12:00 and 17:00 (€8 with three glasses; book by WhatsApp). If you’re driving, the warehouse shop will cork bottles for the boot—Spanish limits, not UK duty, apply so long as you stay within the EU personal allowance.

Food built for cold meseta nights

Lunch starts late and finishes later. Kitchens fire up at 13:30, close around 16:30, then reopen after 21:00. If you’re still on British body-clock, head straight to Maralba on Calle Virgen de Belén. The chef trained in Birmingham—his tasting menu comes with English explanations and the wine flight won’t ambush you with 15% alcohol bombs. For something sturdier, Casa Chimo on Plaza Mayor does gazpacho manchego the old way: hunks of rabbit and quail simmered with flatbread until the stew sets like savoury porridge. One portion feeds two; ask for “medio” if you’re solo.

Sweet-toothed refugees from the Campos de Hellín should duck into Cafetería Castillo before 13:00—churros emerge in loops the size of bicycle tyres and the hot chocolate is thick enough to support them. Staff switch to English the moment they hear a clipped “please”, the only place in town that does.

When the drums start

The first week of May turns the orderly grid into a stage. Moros y Cristianos commemorates the 1707 siege with four days of gunpowder, brass bands and costumes heavy enough to require walking sticks. Saturday’s dawn parade starts at 06:00; by 07:30 the plaza smells of sulphur and strong coffee. Beds are scarce—book in March, or stay in Alicante and drive up early (the A-31 is police-patrolled but breath-tests are rare). If you prefer quiet, avoid the period entirely; even the castle shuts to casual visitors while the “Moors” scale its walls with plastic scimitars.

Seasons and sensible shoes

Spring brings waist-high wild asphodel along the farm tracks; temperatures hover around 18°C and the wind can knife through a denim jacket. Summer is fierce—35°C by 14:00—so tour the castle at opening time, then escape to the Parque de los Molinos where plane trees shade a small stream. Autumn is vineyard season: purple grapes line the roadside and every bodega needs extra hands for night harvest. Winter is crisp, occasionally snowy, but the town never closes; hotel radiators, however, are set to “Castilian frugal” so pack a jumper.

Getting here, getting out

Alicante airport is one hour away on the toll-free A-31. Car hire desks sit directly outside arrivals; signal can drop in the mountains, so download offline maps while still on Wi-Fi. Public transport exists—ALSA coaches every three hours—but the timetable favours commuters over day-trippers; missing the 17:30 return leaves you stranded until 21:00. Trains from Albacete connect via a tiny branch line; total journey from London via Madrid and Alicante is doable in a day, but you’ll arrive too late for dinner.

Leave space in the suitcase. Between the wine, the boots and the saffron sold by the gram from Saturday’s market stalls, Almansa quietly empties wallets while the castle keeps watch, exactly as it has since the twelfth century.