Benassal

The sheep start down the lane at six-thirty sharp, bells clanking like loose change. By seven the tractors follow, engines cold enough to cough. At 830 metres above sea level, Benassal’s mornings arrive crisp even in July; mist clings to the almond terraces until the sun clears the crag of Penyagolosa. This is work, not scenery. Nobody apologises for the diesel fumes or the manure you tread into the cobbles.

Stone, Woodsmoke and a Spa that Predates the Romans

A walk through the old centre takes eight minutes end to end, longer if you stop to read the stone lintels carved with dates and owners’ initials. The parish church of the Assumption squats at the top, its eighteenth-century facelift still peeling after the last storm. Inside, the baroque altarpieces smell of candle wax and old incense; no ropes, no audio guide, just a printed card requesting a one-euro donation for the roof. Light a taper if you wish, pocket change gratefully received.

Behind the apse, the lane narrows to shoulder width. Here the houses turn their backs to the wind, walls a metre thick, tiny windows barred against the cold that sweeps down the Maestrat plateau. Woodsmoke leaks from chimney vents; someone is boiling beans for the midday olla. The sound is not traffic but clattering plates and the occasional mobile ringtone—village Wi-Fi reaches only as far as Plaça de l’Església, so teenagers cluster on the church steps like pigeons.

Five minutes south, the Font d’en Segures springs from the rock at a steady 25 °C. The Romans wrote about the water; locals still fill plastic jerry cans for free and swear it clears eczema in a fortnight. The modern balneario alongside charges fifteen euros for a day-pass to the thermal pool—no slides, no soundtrack, just turquoise water under a glass roof and an attendant who will shush you for splashing. Book ahead at weekends; half of Castellón province drives up for lower-back massages and the €32 “circuito termal” that ends with herbal tea and a biscuit.

Walking Maps that End in Cheese

Three way-marked trails start from the fountain. The easiest, Ruta de les Fonts, is a 6-km loop that links five springs and a restored lime kiln; allow two hours and carry water because the shade is patchy. Blue-and-white stripes painted on stone guide you through almond groves and the scent of wild thyme. In February the blossom turns the hillsides pink; by August the grass is bronze and grasshoppers snap at your ankles. Serious walkers can continue north to the summit of Tossal Gros (1,086 m) where the view stretches to the Mediterranean on a clear day—bring a windproof, the breeze is knife-sharp.

Cyclists borrow the same paths: mountain-bike hire is theoretically available at Hotel Novella, but they own two bikes and one has a buckled wheel. Better to bring your own and accept that every route starts with a climb. Road riders head east on the CV-15 towards Ares del Maestrat, a 12-km ascent that averages 5 % and delivers a café con leche in a medieval square at the top.

Hunger is solved back in the village. The fixed-price menú del día at Novella costs €12 mid-week and arrives in three courses: soup or salad, roast chicken with chips, and the local flaó, an aniseed sponge that tastes like a cross between Madeira cake and licorice. Ask for media ración of olla de la Plana if you’re wary of mountain-sized portions; the stew combines pork belly, chickpeas and morcilla, dark as a December evening. Vegetarians get eggs and peppers—no negotiation—and should stock up on fruit at the lone Coviran supermarket before it shuts for siesta at two.

When the Village Throws a Party

August turns the volume up. Fiesta week honours San Roque with a procession that begins at the church, pauses for blessings at every street corner, and finishes with sweet Muscat poured from enamel jugs. Brass bands play pasodobles until two in the morning; teenagers detonate firecrackers that echo off the stone like gunshots. Brits who cherish sleep should book a room on the outskirts or join in—earplugs are useless against Spanish enthusiasm.

September brings the Feria del Queso Artesano, a modest affair in the sports pavilion: a dozen goat-cheese makers offer samples, and the winner receives a ribbon and a crate of wine. Entry is free; buy a round for the cheesemaker from Culla and you’ll leave with enough semi-curado to alarm airport security.

Winter is quieter. By December the population drops below 900; some bars close until the almond blossom returns. Days are bright, nights drop to 5 °C, and the balneario’s outdoor pool steams like a kettle. Snow is rare but not impossible—if the white stuff falls, the CV-155 becomes a toboggan run and the village stocks up on bread like a siege.

Getting Here, Staying Here, Leaving

Fly to Valencia or Barcelona; both airports have hire-car desks in the terminal. From Valencia take the AP-7 north, peel off at junction 45 and follow the CV-10 inland—toll €18, journey 1 h 45 min. Barcelona adds an extra hour but you gain a motorway café that serves proper bacon bocadillos if you’re already homesick. Public transport exists in theory: a weekday bus from Castellón departs at 16:30 and reaches Benassal at 18:10; miss it and you’re sleeping in the city. Taxis from Vinaròs train station cost €80 pre-booked—cheaper than a night in a hotel, but only just.

Accommodation is small-scale. Hotel Novella has twelve rooms, sturdy Wi-Fi and a bar that shuts at eleven sharp. Casa Rural El Tossal offers stone cottages with log burners; firewood is extra and the owner speaks fluent German but no English—Google Translate and a smile suffice. Campsites are non-existent; campervans can overnight by the sports ground if they ask at the town hall first.

Check-out time is noon, but nobody rushes you. The village carries on feeding sheep, pruning almonds, bottling spring water. When you finally turn the car downhill, the temperature rises a degree every five minutes—coastwards, back to the land of schedules. Behind you, Benassal resets to its own rhythm: church bell, tractor, woodsmoke, silence.