Paterna del Madera

The road to Paterna del Madera climbs so steeply that even hire-car engines grumble. From the valley floor at 700 metres, the CM-3216 wriggles upward through switchbacks where stone pines lean in like impatient spectators. At 1,130 metres the tarmac finally levels and the village appears: a tight cluster of slate-roofed houses clinging to a ridge, their walls the same honey-grey as the bedrock. There is no plaza mayor, no ornamental fountain, just a single bar whose terrace catches the last of the sun at 3 p.m. when the temperature drops ten degrees in ten minutes.

Air You Can Taste

Altitude changes everything. In July the plain below swelters at 38 °C; up here midday barely touches 30 °C and night-time thermometers slide to 12 °C. Pack a fleece even in August. The air is thin enough to carry the scent of resin for miles: hot pine in the morning, damp earth after four o'clock when clouds bubble up from the Segura gorge. Locals claim the sky is darker than anywhere else in Albacete province; on moonless evenings the Milky Way looks like spilled sugar across black marble. Astronomers drive up from Alicante with tripods and thermos flasks, then curse when frost forms on their lenses—another high-altitude surprise.

Winter arrives early. The first snow can fall in late October and the CM-3216 is occasionally closed after heavy storms; the council keeps a small plough in Bogarra, sixteen kilometres away. January daytime highs hover round 5 °C, nights dip to –5 °C, and the stone houses—built for summer heat—hold the cold like a fridge. Off-season visitors find half the shutters bolted; the permanent population, officially 351, shrinks to about a hundred retirees who migrate to warmer family flats in Albacete until Easter.

Forests Older than the Village

Paterna's name remembers timber. Until the 1960s mule teams dragged pine trunks down to the sawmills at Liétor, the ox-carts returning with sacks of flour and sugar. The trade is gone but the forest remains: 8,000 hectares of laricio pine, holm oak and juniper protected inside the Calares del Mundo y de la Sima Natural Park. Three way-marked footpaths start from the upper edge of the village, their difficulty advertised by the thickness of the paint on the tree blazes. The easiest, a five-kilometre loop to the abandoned corral de Navalayo, takes ninety minutes and drops only 150 metres; roe deer watch from the undergrowth, unbothered unless you light a cigarette—the crack of a lighter sends them bounding.

Serious walkers continue east along the PR-A 320 to the Cueva de los Chorros, a limestone cliff riddled with springs that feed the Madera River. The twelve-kilometre return haul gains 400 metres of ascent; in April the path edges through drifts of lavender and pink cistus, by July the same soil is powdery and pale. Carry more water than you think necessary: the altitude dehydrates faster than coastal walks, and the only fountain en route dried up in the 2017 drought. Mobile signal vanishes after the second ridge—download the track before leaving the bar Wi-Fi.

Mountain bikers arrive with full-suspension bikes and knee pads. The forest service has graded several old forestry tracks: the classic 25-kilometre descent to Liétor loses 800 metres and requires two cars or a very understanding partner willing to collect you at the bottom. Expect loose volcanic grit, sudden drop-offs, and the odd free-range pig that refuses to vacate the track. Bike shops in Albacete will rent Scott or Bergamont hybrids for €30 a day; reserve in advance because Spaniards book weekends first.

What Passes for a Centre

There is no tourist office. Directions are given by pointing: left for the church, right for the mirador, straight on until the tarmac turns to earth. The seventeenth-century parish church of San Bartolomé stands at the highest navigable point; its bell rings the hour slightly late, a mechanical fault nobody has bothered to fix. Inside, the walls are whitewashed every spring, obliterating the faint traces of fresco that once decorated the apse. The retablo is carved from local pine, gilded in 1892 and never restored; the paint has oxidised to a dull bronze that suits the sober mood of the place.

Below the church a narrow alley opens onto the only mirador worthy of the name: a waist-high stone wall bolted to bedrock, no safety fence, no interpretation board. From here the view plunges south across a sea of treetops to the ridge of El Sabinar, forty kilometres away. On clear winter days you can pick out the white turbines of the Villarrodas wind farm spinning like toothpicks. Sunset is busiest in August when returning emigrants bring buckets of San Miguel and plastic chairs; the rest of the year you will share the ledge with a pair of red-billed choughs who nest in the cliff below.

Eating Without Show

Forget tasting menus. Paterna keeps two bars, both open the same eccentric hours: 08:00–11:00 for coffee and churros, 14:00–16:00 for lunch, 20:30–23:00 for beer and tapas—close at other times even if customers remain. Menus are hand-scrawled photocopies taped to the wall. Order the gazpacho manchego and you receive a clay bowl of game broth thickened with unleavened cakes, more stew than soup; ask for "sin liebre" if rabbit feels too adventurous. The ajo de mataero—salt-cod pounded with garlic and potatoes—looks like beige cement but tastes of woodsmoke and olive oil. House red from Almansa costs €2.50 a glass and arrives at cellar temperature, cooler than the terrace thanks to the mountain night.

Vegetarians get migas: fried breadcrumbs with grapes and scrambled egg. Vegans should pack sandwiches. Dessert is whatever the owner's wife has baked; on Saturdays in autumn this means honey-coated pestiños, deep-fried pastries that shatter like shortbread. The honey comes from hives two kilometres away—buy a 500 g jar for €6 before you leave, the label handwritten because printers jam in the dry air.

How to Get Up, How to Get Down

The practical bit. Fly London-Stansted to Alicante with Ryanair or EasyJet (2 h 30), collect a hire-car with decent tyres—winter tread is legal but mountain roads eat balding rubber. Take the A-31 towards Murcia, exit at Almansa, then CM-3203 and CM-3216. The final 35 kilometres twist through pine forest; allow 2 h 15 total including a coffee stop. Sat-nav loses signal after Elche de la Sierra—download offline maps. Petrol is cheapest in Almansa; the village has no fuel, the nearest pump is 22 kilometres back.

No bus reaches the village. One school service leaves Alcaraz at 07:15 on term-time weekdays, returns at 14:00; non-residents are politely refused. Taxis from Albacete charge €90 one way and drivers refuse the fare if snow is forecast.

Accommodation is limited. Hostal Sierra del Agua has twelve en-suite rooms, electric heaters, and bike storage; doubles €55 mid-week, €70 August weekends, breakfast an extra €6. Hostal El Mirador is cheaper but walls are thin and hot water runs out after the third shower. Both places close January–February unless you phone ahead and persuade them a week in advance. Camping is tolerated beside the municipal pool outside July–August; no hook-ups, toilets locked overnight, bring your own loo roll.

The Honest Verdict

Paterna del Madera is not pretty in the postcard sense; some houses slump, others sport half-finished extensions of bare brick. The silence can feel oppressive after dark when every footstep echoes off stone. Rain turns streets into rivulets of slate-grey mud. Yet the place delivers what southern Spain's coast lost decades ago: altitude without ski-resort prices, forest without entrance gates, night skies without jet-skis. Come for the walking, stay for the moment when the church bell stops and the only sound is wind moving through millions of pine needles. Just remember to fill the tank before the climb—petrol gauges fall faster than the temperature once you cross the 1,000-metre line.