Ayna

The church bell strikes noon and the sound ricochets between limestone walls, bouncing down six hundred metres of vertiginous white houses until it reaches the River Mundo. From the roadside mirador above Ayna, the village appears to have spilled down the cliff overnight—cubes of whitewash clinging to cracks in the rock like barnacles on a ship's hull. It's the sort of sight that makes you reach for the handbrake, even on a hair-pin bend.

At 674 metres above sea level, Ayna markets itself as "La Suiza Manchega", a tagline that sounds absurd until you see the Alpine-style roofs poking above chestnut trees and realise the temperature is a full ten degrees cooler than the baking plain of Albacete an hour behind you. The air smells of pine resin and woodsmoke rather than olive oil and dust, and the soundtrack is water rather than cicadas.

Streets that demand calves of steel

Exploring on foot is non-negotiable: the single main road tunnels straight through the village, so drivers bypass the oldest houses entirely. Enter on foot from the lower car park by the Roman bridge—rebuilt so many times that only the footings are Roman—and you immediately start climbing. Calle Real tilts at gradients that would shame a Sheffield hillside; residents over seventy overtake tourists with the nonchalance of people who have never known anything flat.

Half-way up, the alleyways shrink to shoulder width. Laundry lines criss-cross overhead, dripping onto smooth limestone that turns lethal in the rain. Comfortable shoes are not a fashion choice here, they're survival equipment. Turn a corner and you're confronted with El Rincón, a buttress of rock that rears up behind the church like a ship's prow. A fifteen-minute scramble on a signed footpath leads to a natural balcony where the whole gorge opens out—vultures turn at eye level, and the river glints through the trees three hundred metres below. Go early: Spanish coach parties invade at weekends for the exact same selfie.

The church itself, Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, won't make the cover of any architectural magazine, but its sixteenth-century doorway is still carved with the original masons' marks. Inside, the cool darkness smells of beeswax and damp stone—welcome relief after the climb. Locals leave their shopping bags by the font; nobody bothers to lock a bike. With 575 inhabitants, everyone knows which scooter belongs to whom.

River pools and cliff-face routes

Below the houses, the Mundo has carved a string of natural swimming holes. Follow the signposted path past the recreational area and you reach a succession of emerald basins fed by a modest waterfall. The water temperature rarely climbs above 16 °C, even in August, but after a morning on the slopes the shock is medicinal. Families from Murcia arrive with cool boxes and stay all afternoon; British visitors usually last twenty minutes before retreating to the stones to warm up like lizards. Water shoes help—the rocks are slimy with algae and the current can be stronger than it looks.

Climbers rate the limestone walls around El Rincón as some of the most user-friendly in southern Spain. Two hundred and fifty routes range from gentle 4s to overhanging 8as, all within a five-minute walk of the village fountain. A 60 m rope covers everything; take care after rain—the rock weeps and protection can loosen. The local climbing federation publishes a topo (€15) in the tiny tourist office, open unpredictably from 10 a.m. till someone remembers to close it for siesta.

If you prefer horizontal ground, the riverbank trail heads upstream for three kilometres to an old flour mill, now roofless but still containing its grindstone. Kingfishers flash turquoise under the footbridges, and wild rosemary scents the air. Allow ninety minutes there and back, plus time for a paddle.

What lands on the plate

Food is mountain-weight rather than Mediterranean-light. Inside Bar-Restaurante El Casino, a single electric fan pushes hot air around a room decorated with sepia photos of the 1989 film crew that shot the cult Spanish comedy Amanece, que no es poco. The menu hasn't changed much since then. Order the galianos—strips of flatbread stewed with rabbit, peppers and saffron—proper winter food that appears on tables even in July. A half-ration is ample for two; full raciones could anchor a trawler. Vegetarians get a sympathetic shrug and a plate of pisto manchego (Spanish ratatouille) topped with a fried egg. House red comes unlabelled from Villarrobledo and costs €2.20 a glass; it's honest enough to take the edge off the climb back to the car.

Tuesday and Wednesday many kitchens close completely—shop in Liétor on the way up or make do with tinned tuna and bread from the only surviving grocery. Cash is king: the village lost its cash machine during the 2008 crisis and never got it back. The nearest ATM is a fifteen-minute drive, and the sole card reader in town belongs to the pharmacy, reserved for prescriptions.

Timetable quirks and temperature swings

Ayna follows mountain time. Breakfast finishes at 10:30 a.m., lunch runs 2–4 p.m., and turning up for dinner before 9 p.m. marks you out as either German or desperate. August fiestas honour the Virgen de la Asunción with fireworks that echo like artillery in the gorge; accommodation sells out months in advance and the decibel level trebles. Visit in late April instead, when blossom clouds the almond terraces and daytime temperatures hover around a civilised 20 °C. October brings wild-mushroom season—locals forage at dawn and restaurateurs adjust menus daily depending on what the hunters bring in.

Winter is a different proposition. Snow arrives unpredictably between December and February, and the CM-3203 is cleared slowly—hire cars rarely come with chains, so carry your own or risk being turned back at the pass. When the white stuff lands, the village belongs to residents again; smoke threads from every chimney and silence returns. It's beautiful, but cafés operate on a "whenever someone turns up" basis.

Mobile signal dies the moment you drop into the gorge. Download offline maps before leaving Albacete, and don't rely on contactless payments. The tourist office answers only Spanish landline calls (+34 967 295 001) and prefers two days' notice if you want a guide to the Bronze-age rock art in Cueva del Niño, four kilometres outside the village.

Heading home

Leave by the upper road at sunset and Ayna rearranges itself into a stack of sugar cubes glowing orange against dark rock. The thermometer on the car dashboard drops another degree with every bend until the plateau flattens out and La Mancha reasserts itself—olive groves, wind turbines, forty-degree heat shimmering on asphalt. Ten minutes later Switzerland feels like a dream, or perhaps a film set you wandered through by accident.