Algimia de Almonacid

The road to Algimia de Almonacid climbs 486 metres in twelve kilometres of switchbacks, leaving the coastal plain behind with each hairpin bend. By the time the CV-215 finally levels out, the Mediterranean feels like another country entirely. This is Alto Palancia, Castellón's mountain hinterland, where almond terraces cling to limestone slopes and the evening air carries the scent of pine rather than orange blossom.

A Village that Time Misplaced

Two hundred and fifty-eight souls call Algimia home—fewer than the number of resident griffon vultures circling overhead. The 2019 census counted 249 inhabitants; the birds have definitely multiplied faster. Their six-foot wingspans cast moving shadows across stone houses that haven't changed much since the Moors named the place al-Yamya, 'the water source', eight centuries ago.

There's no main street, just a tangle of cobbled lanes wide enough for a mule and not much else. Whitewashed walls bulge where centuries of winter rains have seeped into the mortar. Wooden doors painted the colour of Mediterranean nights—deep indigo, terracotta, occasional rebellious yellow—stand ajar, revealing glimpses of courtyards where geraniums survive on morning dew alone.

The village architect appears to have been gravity itself. Houses step down the hillside in irregular terraces, their roofs becoming neighbours' patios. Somewhere in this vertical maze sits the church of San Miguel Arcángel, though you'll smell the incense before you spot its belltower poking above the almond trees.

Walking into the Horizontal

The GR-10 long-distance footpath skirts the village boundary, marking Algimia's southern edge like a dotted line on an OS map. This is serious walking country: the Sierra de Espadán rises another 600 metres beyond the village, its cork-oak forests shading wild boar and the occasional Iberian lynx. Marked trails strike out in three directions, each promising different degrees of calf-burning.

The almond route—locally signposted as Ruta de la Flor—circles the cultivated terraces below the village. February transforms these slopes into a monochrome photograph: white blossom against black limestone, the occasional splash of pink from an overachieving tree. The circuit takes ninety minutes if you stop for photographs, two hours if you count the time spent explaining to passing farmers why anyone would walk for pleasure.

More ambitious hikers follow the PR-CV 175 north towards Eslida, climbing through abandoned terraces where olive trees have gone feral, their trunks thick as railway sleepers. The path gains 300 metres in the first kilometre, then levels out along a ridge that delivers Valencia's coastal plain spread out like a Ordinance Survey map. On clear days—you'll get plenty—the blue stripe of the Mediterranean shimmers thirty kilometres distant, looking close enough to touch.

What Passes for Civilisation

Bar 7 Vidas occupies the only obvious commercial premises in the village square, though 'square' flatters what is essentially a widening in the lane. Its metal shutters roll up at eight sharp; roll down again when the owner decides he's had enough. This might be four o'clock, might be midnight, depending on who's buying rounds.

Inside, the menu reads like a GCSE Spanish textbook translated by someone who cares about food. Coca de muntanya arrives as a thin, crisp base topped with sobrasada—the spreadable Mallorcan chorizo—then drizzled with local honey. The sweet-spicy contrast works better than it sounds, particularly when paired with a glass of chilled rosado from vines grown at 700 metres.

The presa ibérica deserves its own paragraph. This shoulder cut from acorn-fed pigs arrives cooked medium-rare, which initially feels wrong for pork until you remember Spanish regulations on Iberian meat are stricter than British ones on organic beef. It eats like a tender steak, nutty from the acorn diet, served with chips fried in olive oil pressed from trees you walked past earlier.

Payment works on trust and decent Wi-Fi. Cards accepted, though the machine sometimes needs carrying to the doorway for signal. Cash works better—euros only, naturally. The nearest ATM lurks eight kilometres away in Eslida, so fill your wallet before you leave the coast.

Seasons of Silence

Summer brings heat that bounces off stone and the scent of hot pine needles. Temperatures regularly exceed coastal readings by five degrees; the village empties as families head for beach apartments in Grao de Castellón. August's fiesta sees the population temporarily triple—cousins return from Brussels and Berlin, elderly aunts emerge from Valencia apartments—but book accommodation early. The village itself offers precisely zero beds; nearest options cluster around Suera, six kilometres back towards the coast.

Winter arrives early at this altitude. First frosts appear mid-October; by December the surrounding peaks wear a dusting of snow that rarely reaches the village but chills the night air to zero. The almond blossom—February's agricultural miracle—draws day-trippers from Castellón city, their cameras clicking like mechanical insects among the terraces.

Spring and autumn deliver the sweet spot: warm days, cool nights, empty trails. October's tardor colours the cork oaks a rusty orange; wild mushrooms appear after rain, though locals guard their collecting spots with the same jealousy Yorkshire folk reserve for morel patches.

The Practical Bits No One Mentions

Getting here requires commitment. The CV-215 from the CV-10 motorway twists like a sailor's knot—twelve kilometres that take twenty-five minutes if you value your suspension. Petrol stations disappear after the motorway exit; fill up before you leave civilisation. The road surface improves after Algimia but don't count on it.

Parking occupies whatever flat space exists beyond the village entrance. Weekends see cars lining the approach road; arrive before eleven or prepare for a walk before your walk. The village itself drops steeply away from the road—what looks like a five-minute stroll to the church invariably becomes fifteen minutes of calf-stretching.

Mobile signal operates on mountain time. Vodafone and O2 users might manage one bar on the upper streets; EE roaming works better but disappears inside stone houses. Consider it permission to disconnect—WhatsApp can wait while you work out which century you're walking through.

Weather changes faster than British rail timetables. Morning mist burns off by ten; afternoon thunderstorms build over the mountains without warning. Pack layers, waterproofs, and enough water for walks that always take longer than the guidebook suggests. The village fountain flows potable but carries enough minerals to upset delicate stomachs—stick to bottled if you're unsure.

Algimia de Almonacid won't change your life. It might, however, remind you what Spanish villages looked like before tourism became an economic necessity rather than an accidental consequence of being somewhere interesting. Come for the walking, stay for the presa ibérica, leave before the twenty-first century remembers to look here.