Puebla de Arenoso

The road folds back on itself like a crumpled ordnance survey map. One moment you're cruising the CV-20 past orange groves, the next you're climbing through pine scrub, the Mediterranean shrinking in the rear-view mirror until it becomes a silver thread on the horizon. At 626 metres, Puebla de Arenoso doesn't so much overlook the coast as turn its back on it entirely.

What waits at the top isn't a chocolate-box village but something better: a place that still functions for its 169 residents rather than Instagram grids. The triangular plaza—claimed locally to be the only three-sided square in the Valencian Community—sits at the village heart like a wonky card table. Church bells mark time every quarter hour, echoing off stone walls that have seen off Moorish raiders, civil war skirmishes and, more recently, coach parties bound for Benidorm.

The Dam That Changed Everything

Seventeen kilometres downstream, the Arenós dam wall holds back the Mijares River, creating a turquoise wedge visible from most village rooftops. Built in 1978, El Chorro transformed what was once a remote mountain settlement into a viewpoint. British visitors tend to discover the reservoir first—usually while staying in nearby Montanejos for its thermal pools—then make the winding detour upwards.

The mirador at Los Estrechos de Chillapájaros delivers the money shot: a 100-metre gorge carved through limestone, with griffon vultures circling at eye level. There's no safety barrier, which makes for dramatic selfies but demands respect. Two TripAdvisor reviewers mention keeping dogs on short leads; the drop is sheer enough to turn a careless moment into a helicopter rescue.

Back in the village, the dam's presence is subtler. Evening light bounces off the water below, casting shifting patterns onto whitewashed walls. Locals claim the microclimate softened—winters less bitter, summers tempered by the thermal mass beneath. Whether meteorological fact or mountain folklore, the reservoir has become Puebla's unofficial coastal surrogate.

Walking Through Layers of Stone and Time

Footpaths radiate from the upper streets like cracks in dry earth. The PR-CV 147 follows an old mule track down to the reservoir's northern arm, passing almond terraces and abandoned charcoal platforms. Spring brings drifts of rosemary and thyme; autumn smells of damp oak and woodsmoke from village chimneys. Wild boar prints appear in muddy sections—fresh ones mean it's time to turn back.

Hardier walkers can link into the GR-33, a long-distance route that traverses the Alto Mijares. Heading east, the path climbs through holm oak to the 1,100-metre Cimo de Palomas, where views stretch clear to the Pyrenees on crystal days. The going is rough: loose scree, minimal waymarking, and no mobile signal. Proper boots and downloaded maps aren't optional.

For something gentler, the circular track around the village perimeter takes ninety minutes. It passes the old threshing floors—circular stone platforms where wheat was beaten until the 1960s—and the cemetery, where generations share surnames with current neighbours. The gravestones tell their own story: civil war deaths aged 19, a 1920s English surname (probably a railway engineer), and recent burials of expats who chose this mountainside over coastal retirement belts.

When Hunger Strikes

Food options are limited, honest about it. Restaurant L'Abadia occupies a corner of the triangular plaza, its menu del día priced at €14—grilled pork, chips, and a dessert that British visitors describe as "proper apple pie without the cinnamon". They open at 13:30; arrive after 14:30 midweek and you'll find chairs stacked and the chef gone trout fishing.

Local trout does appear, simply pan-fried with garlic and lemon. The flavour is mild, closer to British river brown trout than farmed rainbow. Goat and sheep cheeses come from a cooperative in neighbouring Villanueva—ask for queso semicurado, aged six weeks to a texture between Cheddar and young Manchego. House wine is Valencian bobal, light enough for lunchtime but with enough acidity to cut through the pork fat.

What you won't find: anything resembling a souvenir shop. This is refreshing until you need a bottle of water at 17:00 on Sunday. The nearest supermarket is 18 kilometres back down the mountain in Montanejos, so stock up before the final ascent.

Seasons of Silence and Celebration

Spring arrives late at this altitude—almond blossom appears in March, a full month after the coast. Temperatures hover around 15°C, perfect for walking without the summer sweat. Easter processions are intimate affairs: thirty locals, one brass band, and a statue of the Virgin carried through streets too narrow for the bearers to walk abreast.

Summer brings heat but not the coast's humidity. Days top 30°C; nights drop to 18°C, so leave the air-con unit in your Birmingham semi. August fiestas transform the village—population swells to perhaps 400 as descendants return. There's a communal paella cooked over vine prunings, dancing in the plaza until the generator-powered lights buzz off at 03:00, and a morning procession to the hermitage that involves more wine than religion.

Autumn paints the surrounding slopes in ochres and rusts. Wild mushrooms appear after October rains; locals guard their collecting spots like state secrets. Winter can bite—temperatures occasionally touch freezing, and the access road ices over. When that happens, Puebla becomes a snow-globe village cut off for days. The bakery van can't make it up; bread is baked in domestic ovens and shared neighbour to neighbour.

Getting There, Getting Out

The drive from Castellón de la Plana takes seventy minutes if you ignore Google Maps' optimistic estimate. Leave the A-23 at Onda, fill the tank—there's no 24-hour fuel beyond this point—then follow the CV-195 through switchbacks that would shame an Alpine pass. Meet a lorry coming the other way and someone's reversing fifty metres to the nearest passing place.

Public transport exists in theory. A Monday-only bus departs Castellón at 07:15, returning at 14:00. This gives you four hours in the village, which is actually sufficient unless you're hiking. But check the timetable—Alsa has cancelled the service more times than locals care to remember.

Leaving feels like slipping backwards through decades. The reservoir glints one last time in the rear-view mirror, then disappears behind a ridge. By the time you reach the coastal plain, the Mediterranean smells of salt and sunscreen, and Puebla de Arenoso already seems improbable—a stone triangle balanced between earth and sky, stubbornly refusing to play the Spanish village game.