Higueruela

At 1,050 m above sea level, Higueruela’s chemist sells factor-50 suncream and lip balm in the same display. The contradiction makes sense once you’ve spent a day here: the sun is fierce, the wind sharp, and the air so dry that everything crackles. The village perches on the last ridge of the Monte Ibérico before the land tilts east toward Valencia’s citrus belt. Stand at the mirador beside the church and you’ll see two Castillas at once: the cereal ocean you just drove through, and a hazy blue trench that is the Corredor de Almansa, 600 m below.

A town that never quite left the fields

Higueruela’s population hovers around a thousand, but that figure trebles during the almond blossom in late February when pruners and mechanics move into cousins’ spare rooms. The blossom is spectacular—whole slopes washed white against red clay—but it is also work. Ladders lean into every second tree and the morning traffic jam is three tractors and a van full of Moroccan pickers. By 10 a.m. the scent of thyme crushed under tyres drifts through the streets, mixing with diesel and fresh bread from the only bakery on Calle Mayor.

The old centre is three streets wide and stubbornly vertical. Houses are built from the same limestone they stand on; roofs angle just enough to shed the snow that still arrives most winters. Wooden doors, iron knockers, the odd coat of arms worn smooth—nothing is staged for visitors because there simply aren’t enough of them. If you want to photograph laundry drying on a balcony nobody will rearrange it for the shot.

What passes for sights

Santa Catalina church closes at lunchtime, reopens at six, and contains precisely one explanatory panel—in Spanish, printed in 1998. The tower is the thing: climb the 73 steps (the sacristan counts them for every tour) and you emerge above a sea of terracotta tiles. On clear days the view stretches 70 km to the Sierra de Alcaraz; after rain you can smell the wet slate of Almansa’s castle. Entry is free, but the sacristan appreciates a two-euro coin for the roof repairs.

Below the church the town’s single museum occupies a former grain store. Inside are agricultural tools labelled with the local names: a “trilla de sangre” is not as sinister as it sounds, merely a wooden sledge once dragged over wheat by mules. Opening hours are Saturday 11–1, or ask for the key in the ayuntamiento opposite. The caretaker, Felipe, will insist you sign the visitors’ book; last year 312 people did, 48 of them British.

Walking tracks that start at the petrol pump

Every route begins at the Repsol station on the edge of town—partly because it’s the last place to fill a water bottle, mostly because the surrounding lanes simply peter out into almond groves. The PR-CU 92 loops 12 km through pine reforestation and abandoned threshing floors; it’s way-marked by faded yellow dashes that take 20 minutes to locate and two hours to follow. Spring brings bee-eaters and a purple carpet of creeping thyme; October smells of damp mushroom and gunshot as hunters work the neighbouring fincas.

For something gentler, follow the paved lane signposted “El Castillo” past the cemetery. After 3 km the tarmac ends at a private farmstead—no castle, just a handsome 17th-century house whose owner will wave if you peer over the wall. Retrace your steps at sunset and the west face of Higueruela glows orange, every balcony pot outlined like a theatre set.

Food you can’t avoid—and one you should seek

Breakfast options are limited to Bar Central’s tostada con tomate (€1.80) or the supermarket’s plastic-wrapped muffins. By 11 a.m. the same bar serves churros if the delivery van from Chinchilla arrived; if not, you’ll be offered last night’s doughnuts, microwaved. Lunch is simpler still: whatever Merche at La Posada has simmering. On Thursdays it’s gazpacho manchego—not the cold soup Brits expect but a gamey stew of partridge or hare thickened with flatbread. Vegetarians get pisto manchego, a chunky ratatouille topped with a fried egg. Dinner requires planning; the only restaurant that stays open past 9 p.m. is Ideas on the main plaza, and it closes Tuesdays without warning.

The local cheese is worth the suitcase space. Queso de oveja curado arrives in 1 kg olive-oil tins at the Saturday morning market (Albacete brings it, Higueruela doesn’t make anything). Ask for “semicurado” if you prefer a milder bite; the stallholder will carve a wedge, wrap it in wax paper, and charge €12. Pair it with quince paste from the same stall and you’ve got a picnic that survives the flight home.

Where to sleep and how not to fry

Accommodation is essentially two choices: La Posada de Higueruela or the municipal albergue. The former is a 16-room posada built around a 1900s courtyard; air-conditioning is quiet, water pressure heroic, and the next-door Covap supermarket lets you self-cater if the restaurant is booked for a christening. Double rooms start at €55 including garage space—useful because the village streets are barely wider than a London black cab. The albergue costs €15 for a dorm bed but shuts November through March; heating is a coin-operated radiator that eats euros faster than the vending machine.

Summer nights can still hit 30 °C at midnight; spring and autumn hover around 18 °C, perfect for walking but pack a fleece for the wind that barrels up the plateau. Winter brings snow every couple of years; the CM-412 is gritted quickly, the back lanes are not. If you’re driving from Alicante in February, carry chains—hire companies at the airport charge €60 for the weekend set.

Practicalities that catch people out

Cash remains king. The nearest ATM is 14 km away in Bonete and it charges €2.50 per withdrawal. Cards are accepted at the posada and the petrol station; every bar prefers coins. Monday is the dead day—bakery closed, supermarket on half-day, bars serve coffee but no food. Sunday lunchtime is the opposite: every family within 30 km seems to descend on Bar Central for paella eaten at pavement tables. Arrive before 1 p.m. or queue for an hour.

Mosquitoes own the orchards from May to October. Locals burn rosemary sprigs on café terraces at dusk; tourists should bring DEET. Finally, silence is enforced after 11 p.m.—not by law, by neighbours who will appear on balconies if your car stereo exceeds the volume of the nightingale.

When to cut your losses

Come for the blossom if you want a pink-and-white photo, but accept that the village is a working agricultural depot: tractors start at dawn, pollen coats every surface, and the only boutique experience is the size of the supermarket queue. July and August are brutal unless your hotel room faces north and the pool is non-negotiable; Higueruela has neither. Choose late April or mid-October instead, when the thermometer behaves and the almond trees are either leafing out or turning gold. Stay two nights, walk one circuit, eat where the locals eat, and you’ll have seen the place in the depth it offers. Stay three and you’ll start recognising dogs by name—time to move on before the plateau wind begins to feel like home.