Quatretondeta

The village appears suddenly after the last hair-pin of the CV-720: a knot of stone roofs balanced on a ridge at 630 m, almond terraces dropping away on three sides and the limestone fangs of the Serrella ridge punching skywards behind. One moment you are in coastal olive groves, the next the temperature drops three degrees and the only sound is a goat bell echoing across the barranco. That instant change of gear is Quatretondeta’s calling card.

A grid you can learn in five minutes

Inside the single-lane ring road the layout is medieval-simple: three short alleys meet at the church of Sant Joan Baptista, a sturdy 16th-century rebuild softened by a blue-tiled dome and a bell that still marks the hours. Houses are mortared river-stone, whitewash where the sun hits, raw stone on the north walls; wooden doors the colour of weathered whisky barrels. There is no plaza mayor, just a tapering strip of concrete with a stone bench, a drinking fountain and a noticeboard listing Saturday’s almond-pruning course. Park by the waste bins at the entrance – the lanes are barely shoulder-wide and the locals already dodge enough wandering hikers.

You can walk every street in twenty minutes, yet the place rewards the slow glance. Look up and you’ll see nesting storks on the ridge-end pinnacles called Els Frares – “the monks” – that UK climbers compare to a Dolomite skyline scaled down and sun-lit. Look down and the terraces are dry-stone jigsaws held together without mortar, built by workers who earned two pesetas a day and unlimited almonds. Those terraces still produce; in late February the blossom drifts across the lanes like wind-blown confetti and the air smells faintly of honey.

Trails that start at your door-step

Serious walking needs no transfer taxi here. Marked footpaths leave from the fountain, ascending through rosemary scrub to the Serrella crest (three hours return, 550 m climb). The ridge delivers a frontier feeling: Valencia’s coastal plain spreads westwards while behind you the mountains roll uninterrupted to Teruel. Griffon vultures tilt overhead, and on weekdays you share the skyline only with the occasional Spanish trail runner from Alcoy testing his lungs.

If that sounds excessive, the Pla de la Casa loop (6 km, 200 m ascent) follows an old mule track to an abandoned snow-well, then contours back through pine and carrasco oak. It is shady, takes two leisurely hours and ends at the village bar just when the coffee craving hits. Summer walkers should be on the path by 08:00; even at this height July temperatures touch 34 °C and there is no tree cover on the upper ridge.

Mountain-bikers use the same web of tracks. The gravel service road that drops to Benasau and Tollos offers 12 km of gentle downhill with only one nasty pinch-climb in the middle – perfect for families who don’t fancy an ambulance ride.

One bar, honest food, no souvenir tea-towels

Hospitality is concentrated in Casa Cañares, the brown-fronted bar opposite the bench. Opening hours are pragmatic: 08:00–16:00 daily, dinner on request or Friday/Saturday if the cook fancies it. WhatsApp ahead (+34 6XX XXX XXX) and she’ll dish out conejo al ajo cabañil – rabbit simmered in bay, garlic and mountain wine – or a vegetarian pisto that tastes of garden tomatoes rather than catering packs. Pudding is almost always almond cake, crumbly and faintly citrus, made with nuts from the terrace you admired on the way in. A mountain breakfast (tostada, squashed tomato, local oil, refillable coffee) costs €3.50 and feels like theft.

Bring cash: the nearest ATM is 15 minutes down the mountain in Benasau, and card machines die when the wind blows the wrong way. Stock up on groceries in Alcoy before you climb – the village has no shop, and the mobile bread van that toots through on Tuesday and Friday mornings is not to be relied upon after a wet night.

When to come, when to think twice

April is the photographers’ month: blossom, green wheat and snow still whitening the distant Aitana range. Temperatures sit in the high teens, ideal for walking without the sweat factor. Late October brings fungus hunters; the pine slopes yield saffron milk-caps and rovellons, but only locals know which side of the ridge the boletes pop up after an easterly storm – tag along at your own risk.

August fiestas sound tempting – music spilling from Casa Cañares, villagers roasting sausages over a firepit in the lane – yet daytime heat can top 38 °C and the single guest-house room has no air-conditioning. Winter is crisp, often cobalt-sky beautiful, but the CV-720 sometimes ices over; carry chains even if the hire company swears they are “not needed this far south”.

The honest verdict

Quatretondeta is not a destination for tick-box sight-seers. You will not emerge with selfies beside a Moorish castle or anecdotes about flamenco dancers. What you get is silence broken only by goat bells, trails that start outside your door and a bar where the owner remembers how you like your coffee on the second morning. Stay one night and you might wonder what all the fuss is about; stay three and you start measuring your own town’s decibel levels when you get home. If that sounds like your sort of retreat, pack walking boots and a paperback – the monks on the ridge will be waiting.