Almudaina

The bells strike noon, and for a moment the only sound across Almudaina's single lane is a dog yawning on a doorstep. At 586 metres, the village sits high enough for the Mediterranean to feel like a rumour rather than a reality. Alicante's coast is 45 minutes away by car, but up here the air carries pine resin, not salt. One hundred and thirteen people call this wedge of El Comtat home, and the census feels generous when the almond trees are bare.

Stone walls shoulder the narrow road in, each slab fitted without mortar yet still standing after centuries of mountain weather. The builders worked to a simple rule: if a mule can pass, so can a neighbour. That economy of space means drivers fold their mirrors to squeeze past the church corner, and delivery vans time their runs for the lull after the school gate closes—though the gate belongs to a village twenty minutes down the valley, because Almudaina's last pupils left years ago.

A parish that still keeps the hours

San Juan Bautista squats at the top of the gradient, its bell-tower tiled in moss-green ceramic that flares ochre when the sun drops behind the Serra de Serrella. The nave is plain, whitewashed annually before the June fiestas, and the priest drives in from Cocentaina when the calendar demands. Step inside on a weekday and the temperature falls ten degrees; the stone floor is worn into shallow bowls where generations knelt for communion. No guidebook stand, no gift shop—just a printed sheet taped to the font listing the week's intentions. Drop a euro in the box and the echo tells you exactly how empty the building is.

Outside, the church square doubles as the village car park, market stall and gossip shop. The benches face south for good reason: January mornings hover just above freezing, but by eleven the sun is warm enough for cardigans to come off and opinions to be aired. If you want to know which olive press still accepts small batches, or whose almonds will be ready first, sit here for ten minutes. Spanish is spoken, yet Valencian is the default; a polite "bon dia" earns quicker answers than "buenos días".

Almond snow and the smell of green olives

February transforms the surrounding terraces into a pale-pink blizzard. The almond blossom lasts barely three weeks, and weekends bring a trickle of photographers who stand on trailer tailboards to gain height. By April the petals have blown into the dry stone gutters, forming a fragile confetti that cracks underfoot. Throughout summer the nuts swell, and in early September the village wakes to the mechanical thud of flexi-poles beating branches. Most harvest is sold to the cooperative in Muro de Alcoy for a price fixed by weight; a few locals still hand-crack enough for their own turrón at Christmas.

Below the houses, abandoned terraces are being reclaimed by rosemary and thyme. The scent rises after rain, sharp enough to smell from the road. Ancient irrigation channels—narrow, stone-lined, gravity-fed—run across the slopes; some still carry snow-melt to small plots of olives and grapes. The water belongs to a centuries-old rotation schedule, policed more strictly than any traffic law. Miss your night-time slot and the neighbour won't knock; he'll simply open the sluice next in line.

Paths that remember mules

Three way-marked trails start from the tarmac edge. The shortest loops south for 3.5 km through pine and evergreen oak, gaining just enough height to give a line of sight to the coast on very clear days. Stone cairns keep the route across bare limestone; trainers suffice, though the descent scree will fill your socks. Carry more water than you think necessary—fountain number two has been dry since the 2019 drought.

A longer option follows the old mule track towards Benifallim, dropping into a ravine where maidenhair fern grows from dripping overhangs. The path is cobbled for long stretches, the stones polished smooth by decades of hoof traffic. Midway stands a lime-kiln the size of a garden shed, its interior blackened and still smelling faintly of burnt stone. Return via the ridge for a total of 10 km and 400 m cumulative climb; allow four hours including the inevitable photo stops when the blossom is out.

Night walking is gaining followers thanks to the village's negligible light pollution. August sky-watching sessions start at 22:00 from the old threshing floor above the last houses. Bring a jacket—the thermometer can plummet ten degrees within an hour once the sun disappears behind Serrella. Amateur astronomers from Alcoy often set up telescopes and are happy to share; Saturn's rings come as a surprise when you've spent the day surrounded only by almond leaves.

What arrives in a van and leaves in a jar

There is no restaurant in Almudaina. The nearest proper meal is either back down the CV-700 to Muro, or twelve twisting kilometres to Benilloba where Bar Paco grills rabbit with rosemary and charges €12 for three courses including wine. Instead, supplies arrive in the mobile shop that beeps its horn every Tuesday and Friday at 10:30. Bread, tinned tuna, yoghurt, courgettes—stock rotates according to what sells before the van reaches the next village. Locals treat the visit like a social event; tourists sometimes block the aisle trying to photograph the spectacle.

If you self-cater, buy almonds from the house opposite the church when the green gate is open. A one-kilo bag costs €6, roughly half the supermarket price down on the coast. The woman who sells them keeps scales on a folding table in the entrance hall and prefers exact change. Her English runs to "thank you", but pointing works fine. For fresh oil, drive five kilometres to the cooperative press in l'Alqueria d'Asnar; they bottle on the spot and will refill your own container for a few cents less.

When to come, and when to stay away

March blossom weekends draw the only reliable crowds of the year—perhaps fifty day-trippers spread across a Saturday. Parking becomes musical chairs, but by 17:00 even the photographers have left. Easter can be tricky; processions in surrounding villages close mountain roads without warning, and accommodation within 25 km books up months ahead. Mid-summer brings 35 °C heat by 14:00; the village empties after lunch as residents retreat behind thick stone walls. Only mad dogs and English hikers brave the trails until after six.

January and July present opposite problems. Winter nights regularly dip below zero; pipes freeze, and the single hostal shuts for maintenance. July coincides with the fiesta of San Juan, when fireworks echo off the limestone until 03:00. If you crave silence, choose late April, mid-May or mid-October. Temperatures sit in the low twenties, blossom or harvest colour the fields, and you can still find a room within half an hour's drive for under €70.

The village offers no petrol, no cash machine, no pharmacy. The nearest hospital is 25 minutes away in Alcoy, and the mountain road is periodically closed by rockfall after heavy rain. Mobile reception is patchy—Vodafone manages one bar on the church steps, others give up entirely. None of this counts as hardship if you arrive prepared, yet each limitation filters the visitor list to those who genuinely want what Almudaina gives: a place where the loudest noise at midday is a dog turning over in the shade, and where the calendar is still written in blossom, olives and bell-ringing rather than opening hours.