La Mata de Morella

The church bell strikes noon, and the only other sound is a tractor grinding its way up the switchback road 826 metres below. From La Mata de Morella's single main street, the view drops away to almond terraces and, somewhere far beneath, the CV-14 that links this Valencian mountain outpost to the regional capital two hours west. At this altitude, even spring mornings carry a bite; locals keep their jackets on until the sun clears the ridge.

This is not one of those whitewashed hill towns that spill onto postcards. The houses here are squared-off, built from the same grey limestone they sit on, roofs weighted with half-round Arab tiles against the winter tramuntana. A population of 179 souls—more than double if you count the weekend houses—means the village fills up slowly: first the bakery opens (bread €1.20, cash only), then the bar, then the handful of pensioners who colonise the bench outside the ayuntamiento. By 11 o'clock the place feels busy; by siesta time it empties again.

Stone, Snow and Silence

Winter arrives early. The first snow usually dusts the upper plots in December and can cut road access for a day or two, though the gritters from Morella—14 km of hairpins away—normally get through by midday. Summer, by contrast, is a different country: thermometers hit 30 °C by eleven, cicadas drown out the church bell, and the stone walls radiate heat long after dusk. British walkers used to the Lake District should recalibrate: a "short" 6 km loop to the abandoned masía of Mas de Barral involves 350 m of climb on loose maquis, and the shade is wherever a pine happens to grow.

The terraces tell the story more honestly than any guidebook. Dry-stone walls, some two centuries old, step down every gradient steeper than a staircase. A few still hold wheat or almonds; most are reverting to broom and rosemary. Wild boar root around the margins at night, turning up fist-sized stones that villagers collect next morning and sling back into place, an endless maintenance contract with the hillside.

What Passes for Entertainment

There is no ticket office, no audio guide, no gift shop. The Gothic-baroque church is open when the sacristan feels like it—usually an hour before Mass on Saturday evening. Inside, the single nave smells of candle wax and damp stone; the retablo glints with bargain gold leaf that the local workshop applied in 1783. Walk the one paved lane to the upper fountain and you will pass six doorways worth photographing: hand-forged iron hinges, limestone arches, the date 1847 chiselled above one lintel like a quiet boast.

Serious walking starts where the tarmac ends. The PR-CV 147 way-mark trail climbs north-east through carrasco pines to the 1,210 m col of El Port de Tòfol; allow three hours up, two down, and carry more water than you think—springs marked on old maps are often dry by June. A gentler option follows the farm track south to Mas de Cebrian, where the owner still distils his own rosemary liqueur and will sell you a half-litre for €8 if you ask in Spanish.

Birders do better than botanists: short-toed eagles ride the thermals most afternoons, and hearing a nightjar after dark is almost guaranteed. Pack a light jumper even in July; mountain dusk falls fast, and the wind swings round to the north-west as soon as the sun dips.

Eating, Sleeping and Other Practicalities

The only public loo is in the tiny sports centre behind the church; opening hours follow those of the part-time caretaker. Mobile coverage is patchy—Vodafone works on the upper square, EE gives up entirely. There is no cash machine; the nearest is in Morella, so fill your pocket before you leave the coast.

Accommodation means three village houses converted into rural lets (two-bed cottage from €70 mid-week, €95 at weekends). They book up for Easter and the July fiestas months ahead; outside those periods you can usually arrange something with 48 hours' notice by ringing the number taped inside the bakery window. The bakery itself does excellent empanadillas filled with wild mushroom in season; get there before 10 a.m. or they are gone.

Meals are taken in the single bar-restaurant opposite the fountain. Expect ceramic bowls of gachas—cornmeal porridge sharpened with rabbit and rosemary—followed by trout from the nearby Bergantes river if the delivery van made it up the pass. A three-course menú del día with wine runs €14; they will not offer a vegetarian version, though the owner’s wife can rustle up scrambled eggs with cardoons if you smile nicely. Closing day is Tuesday, randomly changed to Wednesday in winter when supplies run low.

When the Village Remembers Itself

Festivity is short and intense. The main fiestas honour the Virgen de Agosto around 15 August: a dawn rocket, Mass with brass band, paella for 200 in the schoolyard, and teenage cousins returning from Valencia who have not seen each other since Christmas. Visitors are welcome but not fussed over; pull up a plastic chair and someone will pass you a paper plate. Semana Santa is quieter—thirty people following a shoulder-borne Christ through lanes barely three metres wide, the only music a single drum echoing off stone.

Autumn brings the matanza weekend, technically a demonstration of traditional pig slaughter but really an excuse to salt hams in the morning and drink aguardiente in the afternoon. The council posts dates in September; if the idea of watching sausages being stuffed is not appealing, pick another weekend.

Worth the Detour?

That depends on your definition of worth. La Mata de Morella will not change your life, but it might recalibrate your sense of scale. An hour’s stroll covers the inhabited bit; a day’s walking opens onto 50 km of empty ridge without a tea shop in sight. Bring boots, a phrase book and a tolerance for silence. Leave before nightfall if the sky is stacking up purple-black from the Pyrenees—snow or heavy rain can turn the descent to Morella into a crawl behind the gritting lorry. Otherwise, stay for the night, let the church bell mark the quarters, and wake to the smell of woodsmoke drifting uphill through the pines.