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about Forcall
Monumental town at the confluence of three rivers; noted for its arcaded main square and its highly valuable Renaissance palaces.
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The bread emerges at eleven o'clock sharp. Not from some artisanal bakery in Shoreditch, but from a thirteenth-century stone oven that's been firing daily since the Black Death. Forn de la Vila's wooden peel slides out loaves with crusts so dark they look burnt, until you break one open and the smell—proper wheat, mountain water, nothing else—hits you. This is Forcall's morning alarm call, and it sums the place up: older than seems reasonable, still working, determinedly unflashy.
Perched at 699 metres in the folds of Els Ports, Forcall spreads across a saddle where the Iberian System meets the Maestrat plateau. Five hundred souls live here, give or take the handful who drive south each day to teach in Morella. Stone houses the colour of weathered sheep’s wool line lanes barely wider than a Fiesta, their balconies forged in the local ironworks that once made nails for half of Spain. Beyond the last roof, the land drops into pine and holm-oak; griffon vultures ride the thermals while wild boar root among fallen acorns. It feels less like a village, more like a small fort that forgot to surrender.
A Plaza That Punches Above Its Weight
Every Spanish hill-town has a main square, yet visitors still stop dead when they emerge into Forcall’s. The proportions are perfect: arcaded on three sides, open to the mountains on the fourth, stone warm as toast even in January shade. The town hall wears a balcony big enough for a royal wave, though the last monarch to pass through was Philip IV in 1644. Thursday is market day—six stalls, two selling socks, one specialising in chinchilla rabbit harnesses. Order a coffee at Bar Central and you’ll get change from a euro; the waiter will remember how you like it if you stay longer than three days.
Behind the square, the parish church of La Asunción squats like a bulldog. Part-Gothic, part-Renaissance, it was finished only after the 1646 plague wiped out a third of the masons; you can still spot the change in stone colour halfway up the tower. Inside, a sixteenth-century Flemish triptych shows what happens to merchants who short-change widows—think medieval graphic novel, blood included. Climb the tower on the first Sunday of the month (voluntary donation, mind the bats) and the view stretches clear to the Mediterranean on a crisp day, 55 kilometres as the vulture flies.
Tracks, Trails and the Smell of Rosemary
Forcall doesn’t do gentle rambles. Within ten minutes of the last house you’re on proper mountain paths where the stones have been tilted by earthquakes and the waymarks are splashes of red paint older than the A-roads back home. The signed Ruta de les Moles loops 12 kilometres through abandoned charcoal platforms and past an ice-house carved into the rock; in May the air is thick with rosemary and the threat of wild thyme. Booted-up Germans appear in spring, stride purposefully upwards, and are never seen again—probably still arguing over map coordinates near Mas de les Tosques.
Mountain-bikers use the web of forestry tracks that fan out towards Port de Querol. Expect 500-metre climbs followed by gravel descents steep enough to test your brake pads; bring spares because the nearest shop is back in town and it shuts for siesta. Rock-climbers head for the limestone fins at Barranc de la Tenalla, 3 kilometres south: thirty sport routes, grades five to sevenb, bolts placed by local shepherds who regard a 30-metre run-out as perfectly reasonable.
Winter changes the rules. Snow arrives unpredictably—some years none, others drifts two metres deep that cut the village off for a week. The road from Morella is first to close; the chemist doubles as the snow-report hotline. If you’re renting one of the converted barns on the outskirts, stock up on firewood and wine. The compensation is silence so complete you can hear the church bell fibres creak in the tower.
What Lands on the Plate
Game is never “seasonal” here; it’s whatever the neighbour shot and couldn’t fit in his freezer. Expect conejo con boletus—rabbit stewed with porcini—at every fiesta, rich enough to coat your ribs for a day’s walking. The local olive oil, pressed in Morella, is peppery enough to make you cough; buy it in half-litre bottles that slip neatly into hand luggage, though you’ll need to wrap them in socks after security confiscated the bubble-wrap. Flaons, sweet pasties filled with fresh cheese and a hint of mint, appear on Saturday mornings; they travel badly, so eat three with coffee while the filling is still warm.
Vegetarians survive on tortilla and whatever the gardener brings to the bar door. Vegans should self-cater—the supermarket is the size of a London newsagent and thinks tofu is a typo. Sunday lunch is sacred: try the communal paella cooked in the square during August fiestas, but arrive early; when the pan is empty, that’s it.
Getting There, Getting Cash, Getting Stuck
No railway line has ever reached this high. Fly to Valencia, hire a car, and allow two hours up the CV-15 through orange groves that shrink to almond terraces the further inland you go. Public transport exists—a school bus that moonlights as the Tuesday market service—but timetables are written in pencil and depend on whether Concha the driver’s sciatica is playing up. Park on the ring road; the old quarter’s lanes were designed for mules and will remove your door mirrors without apology.
The only ATM lurks inside the pharmacy; it coughs up €50 notes then sulks for the weekend. Bars and the bakery take cards, but the lady selling honey from her garage does not. English is thin on the ground—learn the Spanish for “I’m allergic to nuts” or risk a long afternoon in the medical centre where staff speak rapid Valencian and keep a plaster saint on the reception desk.
Come in late April for the almond blossom, or mid-September when the temperature drops to walking weather and the village smells of new wine and wood smoke. August is fiesta time: brass bands at 3 a.m., fireworks that echo like gunshots, and every cousin who ever left returns with babies and opinions. Accommodation fills up; book the Saturday night or you’ll be sleeping in the car.
Leave the drone at home. Fly it here and the mayor—who learnt English watching Dad’s Army reruns—will appear within minutes to explain, politely but firmly, that this is a no-fly zone because the birds were here first. Respect that, and Forcall will greet you the same way it greets the bread: crusty outside, warm within, and entirely genuine.
