Altura

The Santander cash machine on Plaza de la Constitución has run out of money again. It's Saturday afternoon, and the queue of villagers muttering "no hay" under their breath tells you everything about Altura's relationship with the modern world. This isn't a village that bends to accommodate visitors—it's a working place where tourists remain pleasantly incidental.

Perched 400 metres above sea level in the Alto Palancia comarca, Altura squints down towards the Mediterranean without ever quite surrendering to coastal tourism. The journey here involves leaving the AP-7 motorway at Sagunto and climbing for forty minutes through switchbacks of almond and olive terraces. Each hairpin reveals another stone farmhouse, another abandoned threshing circle, until suddenly the village appears—whitewashed cubes clinging to a ridge, with the Sierra Calderona rising behind like a protective parent.

The altitude matters. Summer evenings arrive several degrees cooler than the coast, when locals emerge onto doorsteps with jumpers slung over their shoulders. In winter, morning mist pools in the valley below while the village basks in clear sunshine. The microclimate nurtures carob trees whose pods still feed local livestock, and almond groves that erupt into February snowstorms of blossom.

What the Guidebooks Don't Mention

Altura's medieval core remains stubbornly intact because nobody's bothered to sanitise it. Calle Mayor narrows to single-file width in places, where hanging baskets compete with satellite dishes for wall space. Washing flaps above doorways painted in municipal green, and the bakery on Calle San Roque still closes for siesta despite TripAdvisor's protests. This is precisely the point—Spanish village life continues regardless of whether British number plates appear.

The Cartuja de Valldecrist dominates every conversation, though reaching the ruins requires a twenty-minute walk along a track where wild rosemary brushes your ankles. Founded in 1385, the Carthusian monastery once housed monks who communicated only through sign language. Today their cells remain visible—small stone boxes carved into the hillside, each with its own vegetable plot. The Gothic church retains its original floor tiles from Manises, discovered during excavations and now protected by a simple rope barrier. It's magnificent precisely because it isn't perfect: walls stand open to sky, swallows nest in empty arches, and nobody's installed interpretive touchscreens.

Back in the village, the Museo de la Cartuja occupies a former priest's house beside the parish church. Medieval tiles lie displayed on wooden shelves alongside agricultural tools, presented with handwritten labels in Spanish. The curator, when present, offers explanations in rapid Castilian that somehow make perfect sense even to non-speakers. Entry costs two euros, payable into an honesty box.

Walking Without the Crowds

The Sierra Calderona swallows walkers whole. Paths strike out from Altura's upper streets, way-marked with yellow and white stripes that soon dissolve into proper wilderness. The Ruta de la Cartuja forms a gentle loop through pine plantations to reach the monastery, taking ninety minutes if you stop to photograph butterflies. More serious hikers tackle the PR-CV 243, which climbs 600 metres through holm oak forest to a fire-watch tower with views across three provinces.

Spring brings the best walking—temperatures hover around 20°C, and the scent of thyme rises from warming soil. Autumn delivers mushroom seasons when locals emerge with wicker baskets and knowing expressions. Summer walking requires early starts; by 11am the sun reflects off limestone with brutal intensity. Winter brings occasional snow that melts by lunchtime, leaving muddy trails and crystal air that reveals the Mediterranean glinting on the horizon.

Mountain bikers find salvation here. Forest tracks weave between terraces, climbing steadily towards passes where griffon vultures circle overhead. The serious stuff lies north towards the Espadán range, but Altura offers gentler introductions—rides that finish at village bars where bikes lean against walls alongside farmers' tractors.

Eating Like You Mean It

Food arrives without fanfare but with absolute conviction. Asador Río Palancia serves chuletón—a T-bone the size of a laptop—charred over oak embers and sliced for sharing. The meat comes from cattle raised in neighbouring villages, aged for thirty days until it develops that distinctive nutty flavour that makes vegetarians reconsider. Order it "al punto" (medium) unless you enjoy explaining rare beef to Spanish grandmothers.

Sunday morning market occupies a corner of Plaza de la Constitución from 9am until stocks run out. Local women sell honey in re-used whisky bottles and torta de Altura—anise-flavoured flatbread that tastes like communion wafers crossed with focaccia. The cheese stall offers queso de cabra wrapped in chestnut leaves; buy some plus a loaf and you've got lunch sorted for under a fiver.

Most bars serve menú del día for €12-14, three courses including wine. Expect grilled pork with chips, followed by crema catalana. Café-bar Victoria does excellent tostadas—thick bread rubbed with tomato and olive oil—for breakfast, served by a woman who's been there thirty years and remembers how British visitors like their coffee weak.

The Practical Truth

You need a car. The nearest train station sits 25 kilometres away in Segorbe, served by a bus that runs twice daily when it remembers. Parking on Calle Mayor is free and unlimited; ignore the narrow side streets designed for donkeys, not Renault Capturs. Bring cash—the ATM situation isn't improving, and most bars operate on a "cash only" basis even when their signs promise otherwise.

Accommodation means either the Hostal Palancia on the main road or rural casas scattered through the old quarter. Book directly—online agencies add 20% commission for doing nothing. August fiestas transform the village into a three-day party featuring processions, fireworks and brass bands that practice at 3am. Wonderful if you enjoy sleep deprivation; book elsewhere if you don't.

Monday visits disappoint. Both bakeries shut, the museum stays locked, and even the bars reduce hours. Tuesday to Friday delivers the real village—schoolchildren shouting in the plaza, old men playing dominoes under the plane trees, women beating rugs from balconies. This is Altura at its most authentic: not a destination, but a place that happens to welcome visitors who arrive with realistic expectations and leave with car boots full of local honey.

The road back down twists through the same olive groves, past the same stone terraces. Below, the coastal resorts sparkle with swimming pools and beach bars. Above, Altura recedes into mountain haze, already forgetting your visit. Which is exactly how it should be.