Agres

The first thing that hits you is the scent. Not the sea salt Brits expect from a Valencian postcode, but warm rosemary drifting off the slopes of the Serra de Mariola. Agres sits at 722 m, high enough that the air feels thinner and the stone houses seem to grip the hillside rather than rest on it. Drive the CV-800 from Alcoy and every bend lifts you further from the Costa Blanca's apartment blocks; by the time the church tower appears, the Mediterranean might as well be in another country.

Stone, Slope and Silence

Agres has 590 registered inhabitants, though you'd be hard-pressed to spot them all at once. Streets are staircases rather than pavements; the old centre bans traffic altogether, so you park on the rim and walk. Cobbles are smooth and lethal after rain—pack grippy soles, not flip-flops. Houses are built from the mountain itself: limestone walls two feet thick, timber balconies painted the colour of oxidised copper. Shutters stay closed against midday heat even in April; knock if you need directions, because Google Maps regularly sends walkers up a goat track that ends in a garden wall.

The parish church of the Transfiguration squats at the top of the climb. Its 18th-century tower doubles as the village timepiece—bells ring every quarter-hour from 07:00 to 22:00, so light sleepers should choose rooms on the western side. Inside, the baroque altarpiece glitters with gilt that survived both civil war looters and 1950s whitewash. Entry is free; the door is only locked during siesta (14:00–16:30). Drop a euro in the box anyway—roof leaks are an annual event when autumn storms arrive.

Water, Honey and What Passes for Nightlife

Agres has no petrol station, cash machine or supermarket chain. What it does have is water. The Font de la Vila, an 18th-century fountain under a stone arch, still feeds a constant 14 °C stream. Locals fill 5-litre jugs for the week; visitors use it to rinse dust off boots. Follow the stone channel uphill and you reach the public washing slabs—women scrubbed sheets here until the 1970s and the stone is grooved from centuries of scrubbing.

Buy rosemary honey straight from the kitchen door at Ca la Mª (calle Barranquets 8; 200 g jar €4). The bees work the slopes you just walked; the flavour is gentle, nothing like the supermarket version laced with oil of rosemary. Pair it with almond cake from Bar Mariola's tiny counter—dense, not over-sweet, and sturdy enough to survive in a rucksack for two days.

Evenings are quiet. One bar stays open past 21:00 in summer; the others roll down shutters once the day's bread is sold. British walkers used to pub crawls should reset expectations: night-life is a bottle of turrón beer brewed in Alcoy and conversation with the retired teacher who runs the village museum. He'll lend you a key to the sanctuary track if you ask politely.

Tracks, Hooves and the Occasional Boar

The Serra de Mariola Natural Park begins where the last street ends. Trails are way-marked but not dumbed-down: expect 300 m climbs on loose limestone. The classic 8-km "Ruta de las Fuentes" loops through holm-oak and abandoned almond terraces, passing four springs where you can refill bottles. Allow three hours if you're fit, four if you stop to photograph orchids in April. Short on time? The 40-minute mirador path gives aerial views over the Vinalopó valley and, on clear days, the gleam of Alicante's container port 55 km away.

Wild boar own the dusk. You probably won't see them, but you'll hear rustling in the kermes oak and notice hoof prints the size of a child's hand. Keep dogs close—local farmers still shoot strays worrying sheep. Eagles circle most afternoons; binoculars are worth the extra weight.

Winter walkers should note that snow isn't theoretical here. January 2021 brought 20 cm, cutting the village off for 36 hours. If the Serra forecast drops below 4 °C, carry traction cleats and a thermos. Summer is kinder than the coast—temperatures peak at 32 °C not 38 °C—but start early; shade is scarce after 11:00.

Fiestas, Fireworks and Why September Matters

Agres wakes up on 15 September when the Virgen de Agres is carried down from her hillside sanctuary. For three days the population triples; neighbours who emigrated to Alcoy or Valencia return, set up paella pans in the square and argue over whose great-grandmother started the tradition. Expect processions at 07:00, brass bands at midday, and fireworks that echo off the cliff like artillery. Accommodation within the village sells out a year ahead; stay in Bocairent 18 km away and drive up for the day.

August holds a lower-key summer fiesta—one evening of folk dancing, one foam party for teenagers, one communal barbecue charging €8 for sausage, bread and a plastic cup of wine. British families are welcomed, though you may be the only foreigners. Bring small notes; the ticket desk doesn't take cards and the nearest ATM is still 8 km down the mountain.

Getting There, Getting Out

Alicante airport to Agres takes 55 minutes by car if you ignore the sat-nav's shortcut through a dry riverbed. Hire a small car: the final 4 km of CV-800 narrows to single track with stone walls on both sides; wing-mirror scrapes are part of the local rite of passage. There is no public transport the whole way. A pre-booked taxi from Alcoy costs €70 each way—worth sharing with fellow rail arrivals on the Valencia–Alcoy line.

Leave time for the Thursday morning market in Alcoy on the drive back. Stalls spill over the 1920s viaduct selling mountainside mushrooms, saffron at half UK price, and the only decent flat white for 40 km. After three days of mountain silence, the buzz feels almost foreign—proof that Agres isn't just high in altitude, but somewhere slightly apart from modern Spain altogether.