La Torre d'En Besora

At 647 m above the citrus plains, the thermometer on the car drops a full five degrees between the coast and the last hairpin into La Torre d’En Besora. The change is instant: almond terraces replace orange groves, the air smells of damp pine instead of sea salt, and the only sound is the engine cooling in the empty mine car-park that doubles as the village’s unofficial mirador. Sunrise here can feel almost Alpine; clouds pool in the valley like milk in a saucer while the first rays catch the stone bell-tower that has overseen these ridges since the 1300s.

A village that still measures time by the olive crop

Permanent residents number 164, and the place behaves accordingly. Streets are barely two-metres wide, built for mules not motors; front doors open straight onto the cobbles, so conversation drifts out with the cooking smells. There is no supermarket, no cash machine, no Saturday-morning market. What the village does have is a functioning olive press, open Fridays only, where locals bring plastic buckets of fruit and leave with cloudy green oil that costs €4 a litre if you bring your own bottle. Ask at the ayuntamiento doorway and someone will stroll down with the key.

The church of Sant Miquel sits at the high point, its walls patched with limestone blocks lifted from the ruined Moorish watchtower that once stood on the ridge above. A single nave, a battered Romanesque portal, and a bell that strikes the quarters: nothing “spectacular”, yet the building anchors every walk you’ll take. Step inside and the temperature falls another three degrees; the stone floor dips where centuries of boots have worn a shallow groove down the centre aisle. Outside again, turn left, follow the alley that narrows until the walls brush both shoulders, and you’re on the old cart track to Culla within two minutes. No signage, no ticket desk—just keep the church tower at your back.

Walking tracks that favour curiosity over adrenaline

The Maestrat is not the Picos. What you get here are gentle loops of 4–8 km that dip through dry-stone terraces, past threshing circles and abandoned masías whose roofs have long since collapsed into the living rooms. Marking is sporadic: a stripe of yellow paint on a rock every half kilometre, sometimes just a cairn. The safest tactic is to download the free CV-171 GPS trace before you leave Wi-Fi; even then, expect to back-track once when the path vanishes among rosemary bushes.

The most rewarding short hike (2 h 30 min, 200 m ascent) leaves the village past the olive press, climbs to the ruined Torre Madoc, then contours along the escarpment before dropping back via an old mule bridge. Spring brings purple thyme and the clatter of stonechats; after October the same route is a study in beige and silver, with the only colour coming from persimmon trees that glow like lanterns in hidden gardens. Stout shoes suffice; poles are overkill unless you plan a full day.

Motor-home forums rave about the ridge-top car-park, but few walkers bother to continue uphill for another fifteen minutes. Do so and you’ll reach a second, smaller platform where the mine buildings stand. The brick chimney dates from 1923 when fluorite was hauled out by cable car; today it frames the whole of the Gulf of Valencia on a clear dawn. Light is brutal by 11 a.m.—photographers should be in position by seven.

Where to eat (and why you need a back-up plan)

There is no pub, no tapas trail, no chiringuito with chilled Estrella. The solitary bar, Bar Torre, keeps Spanish hours: open 07:00-11:00 for coffee and toasted baguette, again 18:00-21:00 for beer and crisps. Mid-week afternoons it is shut, and if the owner decides to visit grandchildren in Vinaròs the whole place simply stays dark. The smarter move is self-catering. Stock up in Onda’s Mercadona on the way up; the village bakery van calls Tuesday and Friday at 10:30, honking outside the church, but choice extends to white loaf, round loaf, or sponge cake.

The only formal restaurant sits beside the mine viewpoint and is called El Cortal. It does a respectable three-course menú del día for €14 (garlic soup, lamb shoulder, crema catalana) but opens weekends only outside July and August. Phone ahead—if the answer is “no hay cocina”, retreat to your own supplies and picnic on the wall. British visitors note: they close Sunday evenings too, so that leisurely drive-up-and-dine plan rarely works.

Seasons, silence and the small print

April and May are the sweet months: daytime 18 °C, night-time cool enough for the wood-burner in the village rental cottages. Wild asparagus appears along the paths; you’ll meet elderly locals carrying plastic bags and long knives. September repeats the trick, minus the spring chores. July nights stay above 20 °C even at this height, but the village water supply can hiccup when every holiday cottage is full—showers become two-minute affairs and the medieval cistern by the school starts to look less picturesque.

Winter is honest mountain weather: bright sun, then a wind that slices straight through denim. Day length shrinks to ten hours; by 17:00 the streets are lamp-lit and the only warm place is inside your own kitchen. Snow is rare but frost is not, so carry tyre chains if a gota fría is forecast. On the plus side, you’ll have the dawn ridge to yourself, and the silence is so complete you can hear your own pulse.

Mobile signal is oddly robust on the ridge—Vodafone UK roams at 4G—but vanishes in the alleyways. The nearest ATM is 18 km away in Albocàsser; none of the guesthouses accept cards for bills under €30, so bring cash. Petrol? None. Fill up in Culla before the final 12 km, and don’t trust the village pump legend on Google Maps—it dried up in 2008.

An honest good-bye

La Torre d’En Besora will never tick the “must-see” box, and that is precisely its appeal. Come if you want to walk at your own pace, eat when you’re hungry, and fall asleep to the sound of owls rather than karaoke. Leave disappointed if you need nightlife, souvenir shops, or someone to entertain you. The village offers height, history and hush; the rest is up to you.