Alpera

The A-31 drops you at a roundabout where wind turbines spin lazily above ochre fields. Turn south, bump onto the CM-412, and within twenty minutes the road tilts uphill to 823 m. Alpera appears suddenly—white cubes stacked against a limestone ridge, the square-towered Iglesia de la Asunción poking above them like a raised eyebrow. No fanfare, no billboards, just a brown sign that reads “Abrigos Rupestres” and a petrol pump that doubles as the village’s busiest social hub.

Rock, Wine and Ramparts

Pre-history first. Five millennia ago someone scrambled up the cliff that locals now call the Cueva de la Vieja and painted hunters, goats and what might be the earliest known doodle of a baby in arms. UNESCO lists the shelter, but Alpera refuses to turn it into a theme park. Visits are limited to ten people at a time, guided by Pilar from the tourist office who meets you at the cemetery gate and marches you across olive terraces for twenty minutes. There are no lights, no boardwalk, only a waist-high chain and Pilar’s laser pointer picking out ochre silhouettes that still carry the scrape-mark of flint tools. Ring the day before—her mobile number is taped to the town-hall door.

Back in the centre, the Castillo de Alpera does what ruined Moorish castles do best: provides a free viewpoint. A short cobbled lane squeezes between cottages whose lower walls are quarried from the same rock as the fortress, then dissolves into a stony path. Five minutes later you’re on the rampart that didn’t fall down, looking south across almond terraces that fade into the violet haze of the Monte Ibérico. The castle itself is mostly footings and one rebuilt tower locked at dusk to stop teenagers drinking inside; bring a torch if you plan to linger for sunset.

Downhill, the Museo de Arte Ibérico El Cigarralejo occupies a former primary school. Inside are the grave-goods of the Iberian tribe who farmed these ridges between the 5th and 2nd centuries BC: rusted iron swords, tiny perfume jars, and a ceramic horse whose tail someone broke off deliberately 2,200 years ago. Admission is free; opening hours are Tuesday morning, Thursday afternoon, and whenever the key-holder’s cousin is passing. Knock loudly.

Lunches that Run on Manchego Time

Alpera’s restaurants observe the rural clock: lunch finishes at 16:00, kitchens reopen at 20:30—unless it’s Monday, market day in Almansa, when half the owners drive off at dawn to sell melons and don’t bother opening at all. Restaurante El Chaman, on the corner of Calle Nueva, keeps more reliable hours. The €13 menú del día starts with gazpacho manchego (not the cold tomato soup—this is a hot game stew poured over flatbread) followed by migas, fried crumbs of day-old bread speckled with garlic and chorizo. Locals wash it down with house red from Bodega Santa Cruz, a co-operative five kilometres west; the Garnacha Tintorera tastes of blackberries and has enough tannin to cope with the chorizo fat. Craft-carrying locals mean the dining room fills quickly—reserve when you order your coffee.

For self-caterers, the Ultramarinos Isabel sells Manchego curado at €18 a kilo and vacuum-packs it for the flight home. The shop closes between 14:00 and 17:00; plan accordingly or you’ll be staring at metal shutters with a rumbling stomach.

Tracks, Trails and the Twenty-Five-Minute Rule

The tourist office hands out a free leaflet titled Rutas de Alpera. The easiest loop, Sendero de la Solana, is 6 km on farm tracks through vineyards planted with the red Bobal grape. Signposts are painted on old roof tiles; if you miss one, follow the irrigation channel—both end at the same metal gate. Spring brings poppies and the clacking of storks overhead; September smells of fermenting grape skins as tractors trundle to the co-op.

Serious walkers can link three prehistoric shelters into a 14-km circuit, but the path is simply the gap between stone walls that farmers use to reach their plots. After rain the clay sticks to boots like fresh cement; carry a stick to scrape it off. Mountain bikes work better—hire them at Finca El Romeral for €20 a day, though you’ll need to drive the 7 km of unpaved track first. The finca’s owner, Miguel, times the journey at “exactly twenty-five minutes if you don’t brake for rabbits.” He also issues a printed waiver that translates loosely as “if you fall down the ravine, we warned you.”

When the Drums Start at Midnight

Festivals here refuse to bow to tourism calendars. San Antón on 17 January is for the dogs—literally. The priest sprinkles holy water over border collies, spaniels and one bemused chihuahua dressed in a knitted jumper, then the village lights bonfires of vine prunings and toasts sausages on sticks. Visitors are welcome but there are no plastic pint glasses or ticketed grandstands; bring your own wine and expect smoke in your eyes.

August’s Fiestas Patronales begin with a procession at 23:00 and end at 06:00 when the brass band packs up. Ear-plugs recommended if your room faces the plaza. September’s Romería de San Benito involves a 4-km walk to an oak grove where families camp for the day, share paella from three-legged pans and dance the jota until the wine runs out. There is no public transport back—arrange a lift or prepare for a starlit stroll.

Beds Beyond the Last Street-Lamp

Alpera itself offers two accommodation choices. Hostal el Cazador, above the butcher’s, has six rooms with terracotta floors and bathrooms that fit exactly one person at a time. €45 buys a night, breakfast of churros and a view of the castle rock. Wi-Fi reaches the corridor; WhatsApp voice notes work from the landing.

Most visitors opt for the countryside. Finca El Romeral sits down a road that turns from tarmac to gravel to something resembling a dried river-bed. The reward is silence, a salt-water pool and supper plates of jamón, sheep’s-milk cheese and home-grown tomatoes served at 21:30 sharp. Mobile signal flickers between 3G and none; the owners cheerfully point out that “disconnection is included in the rate.” If you need cash, fill your wallet before you arrive—card machines dislike the intermittent broadband and the nearest ATM is, you guessed it, twenty-five minutes away.

Worth the Detour?

Alpera will not keep you busy for a week. It might not even fill an afternoon if Neolithic scribbles leave you cold. What it does offer is the chance to watch a place function for itself: tractors reversing into bars so the driver can collect a midday brandy, grandmothers sweeping dust straight into the street, a waiter who remembers how you like your coffee on the second morning. Come for the rock art, stay for the rhythm—or just fill the tank, buy a wheel of cheese and keep driving towards Valencia. The turbines will point the way.