Vallada

The church bell strikes seven and the sound carries across tiled roofs, past the bakery where tomorrow's coca is already rising, over the edge of the limestone escarpment and down into the dark valleys below. From Vallada's highest lane you can watch the last sun catch the coastal plain thirty kilometres away, a thin silver line that might—on the clearest spring evening—be the Mediterranean itself.

This is no chocolate-box mountaintop fantasy. Vallada works for its living. At 290 metres above sea level the village sits squarely in the transitional zone between Valencia's irrigated lowlands and the bone-dry interior. Almond terraces cling to the slopes; olive groves older than any living resident occupy whatever flat ground remains. The houses are a mix of ochre stone and later concrete additions, their balconies displaying Sunday laundry rather than geraniums. It feels honest—neither polished for visitors nor ashamed of itself.

Stone, Slope and Sky

Orientation is simple: everything tilts. The medieval core grew along the ridge, so every street either climbs or falls. Park on the southern approach road (there's space beside the football pitch) and walk uphill past the 1950s civic centre. Within five minutes the pavement narrows, the gradients sharpen, and you're in the older town where doorways sit a full metre below street level, legacy of centuries of resurfacing.

The Iglesia de la Asunción appears suddenly at the crest, its bulky tower disproportionate to the modest plaza it commands. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; the interior is a palimpsest of styles—Gothic bones, Baroque dressing, nineteenth-century patches after the roof fell in twice. Locals treat it as their extended sitting room: old men shuffle in at dusk to argue about tomato prices while the sacristan pretends not to listen.

Walk the perimeter walls at sunset and the real geography reveals itself. North-east lies the Albaida valley, a wrinkle of dark green pines and pale almond blossom depending on season. South-west the ground drops sharply into the rocky chaos known locally as Tierra de Nadie—climbers' slang for a maze of vertical limestone that has started appearing in British guidebooks. On weekends you may spot battered Vauxhall Astras tucked into lay-bys, their occupants somewhere on the cliffs with ropes and chalk bags.

What Grows Between the Rocks

Spring arrives earlier than you'd expect at this altitude. By late February almond trees explode into white petals, turning entire hillsides into something almost bridal. The scent drifts into the village bars where farmers discuss water quotas over café amb llet. Come back in October and the same men are weighing grapes on ancient brass scales, debating whether this year's bobal harvest merits the extra two cents per kilo.

The local economy rests on three legs: olives, almonds and the increasingly respectable D.O. Valencia wine that flows from cooperatives in neighbouring towns. There is no boutique vineyard trail—just functional buildings where you can refill plastic bottles with young red for €1.80 a litre. The bakery opposite the church sells coca de Vallada, a thin, crackling flatbread topped with tomatoes and garlic that tastes better than any focaccia on the Costas and costs €2 a slab.

For a proper meal you have exactly five choices. Casa Ripo, halfway down Calle Mayor, offers the safest bet: three courses, wine and coffee for €12. Expect grilled pork, chips and a lettuce salad that hasn't discovered dressing. Vegetarians get omelette. Gastronomes will not faint with delight, but neither will their credit cards.

Leg-Work and Limestone

Vallada's best asset is its footpath network. The PR-CV 147 starts 200 metres below the church and zig-zags into the Serra de la Costera through abandoned terraces where stone walls are slowly surrendering to ivy. Within forty minutes you're among Aleppo pines, the village reduced to a terracotta smudge on the ridge behind. Carry on and you reach the Cueva del Parpalló, a Palaeolithic site whose charcoal bison once impressed visiting archaeologists from Cambridge.

Serious walkers can link up with the long-distance GR-7, but check conditions first. Summer heat can top 38 °C by eleven in the morning; winter mists drift in from the plateau and reduce visibility to twenty metres. The tourist office—one room beside the pharmacy—opens Tuesday and Thursday only, so download tracks beforehand.

Climbers arrive with more precise objectives. The Vallada sector offers thirty routes from 4 to 7b+, all within a ten-minute approach from the road. Rock is rough, bolts are new, and you're unlikely to queue except at the three-star 5c groove everyone wants for the photo. Bring a 60-metre rope and enough quickdraws; the nearest shop selling gear is in Valencia, an hour away.

When the Village Comes Home

August changes everything. The population triples as former residents return for the Fiestas de la Virgen. Suddenly every balcony sprouts bunting, the plaza hosts nightly concerts loud enough to rattle windows in Ontinyent, and finding a parking space requires saintly patience. The programme mixes sacred processions with foam parties—Spain in microcosm—and the bakery runs out of coca by ten each morning. It's fun if you like crowds, pointless if you came for silence.

September gentles the pace. Grape trucks rumble through at dawn; the air smells of fermentation. A small fiesta de la vendimia offers grape-stomping for children and free wine for parents, all over by lunchtime. October brings mushroom hunters prowling the pine slopes; November sees the first wood smoke curling from chimneys as temperatures dip below 10 °C at night. Winter itself is brief but sharp—frost whitens the fields, and the surrounding peaks occasionally wear a dusting of snow that melts before you can photograph it properly.

Getting Here, Staying Sane

Vallada rewards drivers and punishes everyone else. Fly into Valencia, collect a hire car, and take the A-7 west towards Alicante. Exit at Almussafes, follow the CV-40 through torrential citrus groves, then climb the CV-660 for the final 12 kilometres of switchbacks. Total journey time from Stansted touchdown to village square: under three hours if the M25 behaves.

Public transport exists in theory—a morning bus from Valencia via Xàtiva that arrives at two in the afternoon, returns at six, and doesn't run Sundays. Taxis from Xàtiva station cost €40 and must be booked in advance. Without wheels you're trapped.

Accommodation is limited to a handful of village houses rented by the week through Spanish agencies, plus the four-room Casa Ripo. Expect clean tiles, thin pillows and Wi-Fi that forgets it exists after midnight. Prices hover around €55 a night, breakfast included if you ask nicely. There is no pool, no spa, no yoga terrace—just silence and a rooftop where you can watch constellations unmolested by light pollution.

Bring cash. The only ATM belongs to Caja Rural and occasionally declines foreign cards for sport. Restaurants close by ten; the single supermarket shuts between two and five. If you need nightlife, Alicante is 90 minutes away—stay there instead.

Vallada doesn't sell itself because it doesn't need to. It offers instead a calibrated honesty: real work, real food, real hills you can walk without meeting another English speaker for days. Some visitors find that refreshing; others call it boring after forty-eight hours. The village remains indifferent to either verdict, which may be its greatest charm.