Sant Mateu

Stone That Still Earns Its Keep

The Gothic bell-tower of Sant Mateu appears long before you reach the town itself, rising 325 metres above sea-level like a medieval lighthouse over almond terraces. This isn't accidental showmanship; the fourteenth-century church-fortress served as both watchtower and refuge when Sant Mateu governed the entire Maestrat region. The building still works for a living—its doors open for morning mass at eight, close at ten, then reopen for tourists only if the key-holder isn't busy with parish accounts. Check the handwritten sheet taped to the portal: photography is free, but the €2 donation box funds roof slates that storm winds keep ripping away.

Inside, the air smells of candle wax and damp stone rather than museum polish. Retablos painted with cochineal reds that outraged Victorian travellers still glow in the apse, while a side chapel holds the Borrull family tombs—merchants whose wool money built half the old quarter. The crypt steps are worn smooth by centuries of clergy; rubber soles are advised.

A Town That Forgot to Become a Theme Park

Most visitors arrive expecting an "undiscovered gem" and leave surprised that Sant Mateu refuses to act like one. Yes, there are palaces—Palau del Mestre with its diamond-cut masonry, Casa Consistorial's Renaissance balcony—but they sit beside bakeries, mobile-phone shops and a veterinary clinic that still smells faintly of disinfectant at 9 a.m. Restoration grants arrive piecemeal; one façade may gleam while its neighbour sheds render like sun-burnt skin. The effect is honest rather than picturesque, and photographers who stage every shot soon attract curious grandmothers asking why anyone wants ten pictures of a washing-line.

Wednesday market spreads across the Plaça Major from 08:30 till 13:00. Stallholders shout prices in Valencian, but will slow to deliberate Castilian for anyone attempting Spanish with a British accent. Stock up here if you're planning the walk to Ermita de la Mare de Déu dels Àngels—supermarkets obey the siesta lockdown at 14:00 sharp and the nearest corner shop won't reopen until 17:30. A crusty loaf, local goats' cheese and a tetra-brick of wine cost under €8 and weigh less than the guidebook you probably won't open again.

Wine, Oil and the Taste of Inland Castellón

Forget coastal paella stereotypes. Sant Mateu's cooking answers to cold winters and long hikes. Olleta de capellá, a lamb-and-bean stew thickened with rice, arrives in bowls that could double as plant pots; ask "sin morcilla, por favor" if black pudding triggers childhood food trauma. Rabbit braised with rosemary and Alt Maestrat red tastes like a polite cousin of coq-au-vin—proof that French influence travelled south long before British holidaymakers did.

The Maestrat wine route starts five minutes outside town at Bodega Besalduch, where fourth-generation vintners pour free tastings in a barn that still holds the family's 1920s concrete tanks. Their Bellmunt neighbour opens Saturday mornings only; ring the bell and someone will emerge wiping oil from tractor parts. British wine bloggers call the region "undiscovered Rioja territory"; prices hover around €6 a bottle, and there are no coach parks, no gift shops, no piped flamenco.

Olive oil is taken even more seriously. The Cooperativa del Baix Maestrat presses Arbequina and Morrut olives between November and January; visitors are welcome if production is underway. The tasting room provides tiny plastic cups—swirl, sip, cough slightly, nod appreciatively. Buy a five-litre tin for €28; it weighs exactly 4.9 kg and will force you to repack suitcases at Valencia airport.

Walking the Dry Mediterranean

Sant Mateu sits on the southern lip of the Maestrat plateau; every path eventually tips into almond terraces that glow white in February and rust-red in October. The tourist office hands out photocopied leaflets showing three circular walks (4 km, 8 km, 13 km) but the tracks themselves are signed only at junctions, and even those markers fade after winter storms. Download the GPX files while you still have 4G—coverage vanishes in barrancs where boot prints replace asphalt.

The classic outing climbs 2.5 km to Ermita de la Mare de Déu dels Àngels, a sixteenth-century chapel planted on the skyline like a punctuation mark. The gradient reaches 14% on crumbling concrete; trainers are mandatory, flip-flops suicidal. Take a litre of water per person—there is no kiosk, no spring, only shade offered by the chapel's stone bench. From the portico you can trace the old town walls, follow the road snaking towards Morella 35 km away, and understand why medieval watchmen lit beacon fires here.

Longer routes link abandoned farmhouses (masías) whose roofs collapsed when younger generations moved to Castellón city. Some still contain iron bed-frames and calendars stopped at 1978; treat them as open-air museums and leave the artefacts where they lie. Wild boar diggings appear overnight along the path edges—impressive rather than dangerous unless you walk at dusk with a spaniel that enjoys a chase.

When to Go, When to Stay Away

Spring arrives late at 325 m; almond blossom peaks mid-March, followed by a brief, furious burst of wild orchids. Temperatures hover around 18 °C—perfect hiking weather—but pack a fleece for nights that still dip below 10 °C. Autumn repeats the trick in reverse: October days are golden, evenings smell of wood-smoke and new olive oil, and the Cultural Week in late August has finally stopped hogging every hotel bed.

August itself is more divisive. Stone walls absorb heat all afternoon then radiate it back until midnight; only Bar Central and Ka Nostra have interior air-conditioning, and both fill with locals who refuse to cook while thermometers read 36 °C. If you insist on midsummer, budget for evening tapas crawls that finish after 01:00—Spanish timekeeping that defeats even insomniac Britons.

Winter is quiet, sometimes too quiet. Cafés reduce hours, one of the two cash machines runs out of €20 notes on Friday evenings, and the Sunday bus to Vinaròs doesn't run at all. Still, crisp light makes photography forgiving, and hotel rates drop below €50 including breakfast. Bring a jacket; altitude turns coastal breezes into knife-edged winds that justify the hearty local stews.

The Useful Nitty-Gritty

Getting there: No train reaches Sant Mateu. From Valencia, take the hourly Autos Mediterráneo coach to Vinaròs (2 h 15 min), then line 14 to Sant Mateu (35 min). Total fare €19.60 each way. Driving is faster—AP-7 to Benicarló, then CV-128 inland for 28 km—but park on the signed ring-road; the old quarter is a one-way lattice and traffic wardens ticket with medieval enthusiasm.

Sleeping: Hotel-Restaurant La Pintora (doubles €65, breakfast €7) occupies a restored dye-works; rooms face an interior patio so traffic noise stays outside. Hostal el Arco offers simpler rooms above a bar for €35—earplugs recommended when Saturday karaoke strikes midnight.

Language: English is rarely spoken outside the tourist office. Staff there switch effortlessly, but bar owners will answer "¿Qué va a tomar?" with patient smiles while you fumble verb tables. Download an offline Spanish dictionary; 4G is patchy in the historic core.

Money: Two ATMs exist; both empty on summer weekends. Cards are refused for purchases under €10 in half the cafés. Carry cash or plan midday menus carefully.

Sant Mateu will never tick every "pretty village" box. It lacks a beach, a selfie-ready colourful alley, and waiters who greet you in BBC English. What it offers instead is continuity: bread baked at 5 a.m., palaces that still house council departments, and stone corridors echoing with schoolchildren rather than audio guides. Turn up with sturdy shoes, phrase-book Spanish and an appetite for lamb, and the town will treat you as a guest rather than a revenue stream.