Castellnovo

The almond trees are the first thing you notice. Not the stone houses huddled around the church tower, nor the 15th-century chapel perched higher up, but the almonds. In February they explode into white-pink blossom so suddenly that overnight the hills look like someone's spilled icing sugar across 347 metres of limestone. By October the same branches hang heavy with green husks, and locals spend their Saturdays knocking them onto tarpaulins spread between the trunks. It's agriculture as spectator sport – there's no entrance fee, just walk up any track and watch.

Castellnovo sits where the Calderona range begins to remember it's supposed to be mountains. Thirty-five minutes west of Sagunto's coast, the road starts climbing through terraced olives and abandoned masías until the sea disappears entirely. What replaces it is silence. Not the curated quiet of a wellness retreat, but the genuine article: no traffic hum, no café terraces, just the wind moving through pine needles and the occasional goat bell echoing across the valley.

The village itself requires no map. You could navigate it blindfolded by following the gradient – everything slopes towards the small square where the church of La Asunción keeps watch. The building won't make guidebook covers: rough-hewn stone, a tower that's been repaired more times than original, wooden doors that close with the satisfying thud of something built to last centuries. Inside, the air smells of wax and winter fires. Light filters through plain glass onto pews worn smooth by nine hundred years of backsides. It's functional beauty, the sort that British churches lost sometime around the Reformation.

Outside, the streets narrow to shoulder-width passages where morning sun never reaches. House walls rise straight from bedrock, their limestone the colour of weak tea, softened by lichen that flourishes in the 800-metre altitude. Windows are small and sensible – this is a place that learnt to keep heat in long before double-glazing arrived. Here and there someone has painted their shutters Mediterranean blue, an affectation that looks vaguely embarrassed against the stone.

The castle everyone's heard about isn't actually here. Castellnovo means "new castle" but the fortress that gave the village its name stands privately owned three kilometres away, visible only as a silhouette against the skyline. Locals will point you towards the Ermita de San Cristóbal instead, a twenty-minute walk up a track that starts behind the cemetery. The chapel's nothing special – single nave, tile roof, door usually locked – but the view compensates. On clear days you can trace the Palancia river's route to the coast, watch clouds forming over the Mediterranean they'll never quite reach. Bring a jumper even in July; altitude makes its own weather rules.

Walking tracks radiate from the village like spokes, following ancient paths between terraces. The GR-36 long-distance route passes through, marked by red and white stripes that lead towards Espadán Natural Park. It's walking for people who prefer their countryside empty – three hours might pass before you meet another soul. Spring brings wild asparagus sprouting beside the paths; locals carry plastic bags specifically for foraging. Autumn smells of rosemary and damp earth, the air sharp enough to make British lungs remember what oxygen actually tastes like.

Food here follows the calendar. Winter means olla de col, a cabbage and pork stew that arrives in bowls big enough to bathe a small child. Summer brings tomatoes that taste like tomatoes should, drizzled with local olive oil pressed from trees older than the United Kingdom. Masía Durba, the village's only proper restaurant, opens when it feels like it – ring ahead, especially Monday to Wednesday when the owner's likely to be harvesting something. They'll do half portions if asked, useful when faced with portions designed for people who've spent the morning hauling almonds. The local embutidos are milder than their Iberian cousins; try the longaniza de Segorbe sliced thin with goat cheese that tastes faintly of the wild herbs the animals graze on.

August transforms everything. The fiestas honouring La Asunción bring temporary bars strung with coloured lights, processions where the Virgin gets carried through streets too narrow for the turn, and yes, bulls running through the old cistern at the village bottom. Accommodation books up months ahead; alternatively, avoid entirely if your idea of holiday doesn't include firecrackers at 3am. January's San Antonio celebrations are more manageable – huge bonfires in the square, neighbours bringing chairs from home, that particular Spanish ability to turn standing around a fire into a social event.

Getting here requires commitment. Valencia airport sits ninety minutes away via the AP-7, last stretch on CV-205 where the road narrows and starts switchbacking. Public transport exists in theory – there's a bus from Sagunto that runs twice on weekdays if the driver's not sick – but reality demands a hire car. Fill the tank at the coast; petrol stations become theoretical once you leave the motorway. The nearest cash machine is in Sot de Ferrer, seven kilometres back towards civilisation. Most places close Sunday afternoon and all day Monday; plan accordingly or learn to love tinned sardines.

Accommodation options fit on one hand. Casa El Portal rents three rooms above the old village gate – thick walls mean even August nights require blankets. Alternatively, several farmhouses offer self-catering; they're working farms, so expect roosters and the occasional tractor at dawn. What you won't find is hotels, pools, or anyone asking whether you'd like your pillow turned down. This is a place that ended up on tourist maps by accident rather than design.

The village's real achievement lies in what it hasn't become. Five kilometres south, Segorbe markets itself with medieval walls and a cathedral you can pay to climb. Twenty kilometres east, Sagunto's castle hosts sound-and-light shows in four languages. Castellnovo offers none of this – just a village continuing its thousand-year conversation with the mountains, happy enough if visitors want to listen but perfectly capable of carrying on regardless. Bring walking boots and expectations calibrated to smallness. Leave the phrasebook at home – here, communication happens through gestures and the shared understanding that some places are better left unimproved.