Alcocer de Planes

The church bell strikes eleven and the only other sound is a tractor shifting down gears on the CV-700. In Alcocer de Planes, population 259, this counts as the morning rush. The village sits 350 m above the Costa Blanca, far enough inland that the Mediterranean is felt only as a pale glimmer on the horizon and the soundtrack of gulls is swapped for the clatter of almond husks hitting dry stone.

This is not the Spain of beach towels and happy-hour pint. The Comtat district folds around Alcocer like a broken-backed book: terraced olive groves on the south-facing slopes, sudden limestone scarps to the north, and everywhere the silver-green flicker of almond leaves. The roads that approach it—first the N-340 from Alicante, then the CV-700 towards Planes—climb through switchbacks tight enough to make caravan drivers sweat. Eighty kilometres from Alicante airport, the journey takes the best part of ninety minutes; add another fifteen if a lorry of oranges is crawling uphill in front of you.

Stone, tile and the scent of wet earth

Pass the last speed-limit sign and the village reveals itself in a single exhale. Houses of honey-coloured stone crowd a ridge no wider than a football pitch. Roofs wear the curved Arab tile still fired in nearby Muro de Alcoy; rain gutters are painted the same municipal green you see across Valencia province. Nothing is postcard-perfect—paint flakes, satellite dishes tilt at drunken angles—yet the overall effect is coherent, lived-in. The parish church of Sant Miquel Arcàngel squats at the top of the only paved incline, its bell-tower more functional than baroque. The door is usually unlocked; inside, the temperature drops ten degrees and the air smells of candle wax and the previous century.

Foot traffic moves slowly. Elderly residents time their errands to coincide with the bakery van (Tuesdays and Fridays, ten-thirty) or the arrival of the mobile library (Thursday lunch-time). Visitors stand out, but not unwelcomely; a nod and a “bon dia” will earn directions to the spring that feeds the communal washing trough, still trickling even after last summer’s drought.

Walking without the drama

Serious hikers sometimes sniff at the Comtat—too low, too tame—but that misses the point. Alcocer is a base for strolling, not summiting. A web of caminos vecinales radiates outwards, stone-lined and way-marked by local volunteers who repaint the blazes every February. Choose an hour-long loop eastwards and you’ll pass abandoned threshing circles now carpeted with wild fennel. Take the longer south-west track towards Benimarfull and the path corkscrews down through pine and carob until the air smells of resin and damp bark. Gradient is gentle, shade patchy; good boots are wise, but oxygen masks are definitely overkill.

Spring walking coincides with almond blossom, usually late February to mid-March depending on how many icy nights the valley gets. Photographers arrive with long lenses and thermos flasks, though numbers remain modest—coach companies can’t turn their vehicles around in the plaza. Autumn brings a shorter colour burst when the leaves of late figs turn butter yellow against black trunks. Mid-summer is tougher: thermometers touch 36 °C by noon and shade becomes currency. Start early, carry more water than you think necessary, and plan to be back before the church bell rings twelve.

A kitchen governed by the wood stove

There is no restaurant in Alcocer itself. Eating happens in houses whose front doors open straight onto kitchens, or at the weekend-only venta five kilometres down the road where the menu is chalked daily and runs out when the cauldron is empty. Expect gachamiga—flour, olive oil, garlic and water pounded together until it sets like savoury polenta—served with slices of cold ventresca tuna. Rice dishes arrive at table in the same metal pan they were baked in; the bottom layer, the socarrat, is fought over with the same patriotism Brits reserve for roast-potato skins.

If you are self-catering, the Thursday market in nearby Muro de Alcoy is worth the twenty-minute drive. Stallholders weigh out judías blancas by the scoop and will ask how many hours you intend to simmer them before advising on size. Local olive oil, pressed in Planes, sells for €7 a litre if you bring your own bottle; decant into last year’s San Miguel stubbie and the price drops to €6.

Where to lay your head

Accommodation within the village boundary amounts to two rural houses, both booked solid during blossom weekends. L’Almàssera Casa Rural occupies a former olive mill; beams still carry iron hooks from the horse-powered press. Four bedrooms, stone floors, wood-burner in the sitting room. Rates hover round £95 a night for the whole place, cheaper if you stay four nights mid-week. The only catch is the single bathroom—queue management becomes a bonding exercise.

Alternatives scatter within a fifteen-minute drive. Casa Rural Aire in Muro scores 9.4 on Booking, but you’ll need a car to reach the walking trails. Further afield, Finca La Mixtura near Ontinyent has a pool and a restaurant, Mélange, that swaps rabbit-and-snail paella for modern tasting menus. Prices rise accordingly: think £160 B&B for a double, dinner another £45 if you succumb to the wine pairings.

Fiestas and the volume knob

San Miguel, patron of both the village and anyone who’d rather not be surprised by lightning, is celebrated on the last weekend of September. The population triples. A sound system appears in the plaza, balanced on pallets and powered by a generator that competes with the bell-tower for decibels. Saturday night ends with a communal paella cooked over vine prunings; Sunday morning begins with a Mass sung by a choir imported from Cocentaina. Visitors are welcome to join the procession, but photography during the offertory is discouraged—wait until the statue exits the church and the brass band strikes up.

Come prepared: the only cash machine is in Planes, four kilometres away, and it runs dry by Saturday lunchtime. Earplugs are not excessive if your bedroom faces the plaza; festivities wind up around three, restart at seven with firecrackers, then conclude with a hangover of such communal solidarity that even the bakery van defers its Tuesday round.

The honest season

Alcocer de Planes will never tick the “must-see” box. It has no castle, no Michelin stars, no souvenir tat. What it offers instead is a tuning-fork hum of ordinary Spanish rural life, audible only if you slow to its cadence. Visit expecting adrenaline and you’ll leave within an hour. Arrive with a paperback, some decent walking shoes and a willingness to nod at strangers, and the village repays you with small, durable memories: the smell of wet earth after an October shower, the taste of just-pressed oil on toasted village bread, the sight of almond blossom drifting across a lane like late snow.

Turn up during blossom weekends or the September fiesta and you’ll share the experience—perhaps too fully. Come mid-week in November and you might have the stone benches, the trails and the bakery van to yourself. Either way, the church bell will still strike the hour, the tractor will still change down on the CV-700, and Alcocer will carry on being what it has always been: a place that measures time in harvests, not hashtags.