Chiva

The morning flight from Stansted touches down at Valencia at 10:25; by 11:30 you can be steering a hire car west on the A-3, leaving the rice paddies and outlet malls behind. Thirty minutes later the motorway buckles upwards, the radio crackles, and a sandstone ridge appears on the right. That is the first glimpse of Chiva, a town that measures its distance from the sea not in kilometres but in temperature drops. At 270 m above sea level the air is already a shade cooler; by early afternoon the difference can be six degrees, enough to make a British picnicker reach for a jumper.

A ridge that once frightened Romans

History here is mostly underfoot. The Iberians fortified the ridge, the Romans grumbled about the gradient, and the Moors built the castle whose outline still interrupts the skyline. Very little masonry survives—just a stump of curtain wall and a rebuilt watchtower—so the reward for the stiff ten-minute climb from Plaza Mayor is a lesson in geography rather than architecture. Olive groves roll north towards the Turia valley; to the south the land wrinkles into the Sierra de las Cabrillas. On haze-free days you can pick out the blue ribbon of the Mediterranean, 40 km away but feeling like another province altogether.

Back in the streets the gradient works in your favour. Narrow lanes tilt towards the central church, funneling walkers into a web of stone stairs and sudden plazas where washing flaps overhead and grandparents hold court on metal chairs. The façades are a palimpsest: ochre render from the 1890s, Modernista stucco curves from 1906, a 1970s balcony slapped on top. Chiva never had the money for a uniform makeover, and that mish-mash is more interesting than textbook restoration.

Vines, olives and the smell of diesel in August

Walk ten minutes in any direction and asphalt gives way to agricultural tracks. The surrounding dry-farm landscape is a patchwork of almond, olive and bobal vine, the last responsible for sturdy reds that rarely make it outside Valencia province. A signed 6 km circuit, the Ruta de la Viña, leaves from the old railway station (trains stopped in 1994) and loops through two hamlets where the loudest noise is a dog disagreeing with a tractor. Mid-April brings blossom and green stems; mid-July everything turns parchment-yellow. Take water—shade is scarce and the only bar on the route opens when the owner feels like it.

Serious walkers can keep going south-east along the GR-10 long-distance footpath, gaining another 400 m of altitude before the trail drops into Buñol gorge. Summer hikers should start at dawn; the Castilian plateau knows how to bake. In winter the same ridges can be blasted by the cierzo, a cold north-westerly that makes an English February feel mild. Check the forecast before you set out—mud after rain is slippery clay, not forgiving Cotswold limestone.

Rice with rabbit, but the sea is missing

British visitors expecting a paella-by-the-beach scene often panic when the GPS shows 38 km to the nearest shore. Chiva’s cooking is inland-rustic: rabbit and bean stews, pork loin baked with morcilla, and arroz al horno baked in earthenware dishes until the base crisps. The weekly menu at Bar la Plaza (€12 for three courses, wine included) changes with the agricultural calendar—broad beans in April, game in October, lentils most Fridays. Vegetarians survive on espencat (roasted aubergine and pepper salad) and the kindness of waiters who will happily swap meat for mushrooms if asked before 14:30, when the kitchen closes for siesta.

For self-caterers the Saturday produce market fits on one pavement: two greengrocers, a van selling jamón, and an organic stall from a cooperative in Cheste. Supermarkets hide on the ring-road; locals still buy bread twice daily from the horno opposite the town hall where a baguette costs 65 cents and gossip is free.

Fiestas that begin with gunpowder and end at dawn

Third weekend of March: Las Fallas. Chiva’s version is pocket-sized—six comisiones, not six hundred—but the mascletà (daytime gunpowder concert) at 14:00 can loosen dental fillings just as effectively as the city centre show. Paper effigies burn on the Sunday night; if you want sleep, book a room on the northern edge of town.

August is dominated by the Fiestas Patronales in honour of the Virgin of the Angels. What starts with a solemn procession ends with open-air discos that finish at 07:00, precisely when the church bell calls the faithful to mass. Double-glazed windows are rare in old houses; foam earplugs travel well.

Semana Santa (Easter) is quieter and arguably the best time for cultural tourism. Four brotherhoods carry baroque statues through lamp-lit alleys; the scent of beeswax and orange-blossom outweighs diesel for once. Bars stay open until the last nazareno hangs up his robe, but accommodation prices don’t spike—there are still only a handful of rental flats and one three-star hostal.

Getting stuck is easier than getting here

There is no railway, and the MetroValencia network stops 15 km short at Bétera. A twice-daily bus links Chiva with Valencia’s Estación de Autobuses, but the 17:30 return service is fond of leaving early if the driver thinks no one is waiting. Car hire is therefore almost compulsory, and satellite navigation occasionally sends motorists down the old CV-425 pass—fine in a Fiat 500, terrifying in a nine-seat family Transit. Park on Avenida de la Constitución; the old centre’s lanes were designed when a donkey was the widest vehicle on the road.

Accommodation is limited to four guest houses and a dozen rural cottages scattered among the vines. Expect €65–€90 for a double room with breakfast, less out of season. Party-size villas sleep eight and come with pools, but beware absentee owners who list properties online yet forget to mention the neighbour’s barking dogs. Book directly by phone if possible—Spanish spoken, patience required.

When to come, when to stay away

April and late-September hit the sweet spot: 22 °C at midday, cool nights, vines either in bud or just turning copper. August afternoons regularly top 38 °C; sightseeing becomes a forced march from one scrap of shade to the next. January can be T-shirt weather at noon or 4 °C and sleeting—pack layers and a waterproof, especially if you intend to walk.

Rain, when it arrives, is often a gota fría cloudburst: inches in an hour, streets turned to rivers, castle path lethal. A morning’s downpour can wipe out country tracks for days; have a Plan B that involves indoor attractions—Valencia’s museums are 35 minutes away by car.

The bottom line

Chiva will not hand you Instagram perfection. It offers instead a working template of how inland Valencia lives when tour buses are elsewhere: agricultural timetables, family-run bars, fiestas measured in decibels and decades. If you need the sea, stay on the coast; if you want a village that functions for locals first and visitors second, set the SatNav to exit 346 and climb.