Benifallim

The road signs give up before you reach Benifallim. One moment you're winding through pine plantations on the CV-785, the next you're in a village so compact that the church bell tower doubles as the mobile-phone mast. At 734 metres, the air thins and the Mediterranean suddenly feels very far away. This is Alicante province's attic – a place where farmers still work terraces hacked from limestone during Moorish times, and where the loudest sound at noon is ice clinking in glasses at Bar Benifallim.

A village that refuses to hurry

Benifallim's population hovers around 111 souls, though on paper it claims 140. The difference is made up of weekenders from Alcoy who keep keys to shuttered stone houses. Permanent residents favour practicality over prettiness: firewood is stacked waist-high against whitewashed walls, and the single grocery shop doubles as the post office. There's no ATM; the nearest cash machine is 15 kilometres back down the mountain in Alcoy, so fill your wallet before you leave the coast.

The village layout follows the slope rather than any grand plan. Calle de la Iglesia climbs past the eighteenth-century San Miguel Arcángel church, its stone doorway weathered to the colour of burnt butter. Side alleys dead-end at threshing circles that now serve as lookout points. From the upper terrace you can trace the serpentine road you just drove up and, beyond it, the chocolate-brown folds of the Serra de Mariola. On clear winter days the view stretches as far as the bay of Alicante, 60 kilometres away.

Tracks, tyres and the smell of rosemary

Benifallim sits on the fringe of the Mariola Natural Park, a 17,000-hectare wedge of oak, pine and impenetrable rosemary scrub. Walking starts literally at the last house. The marked Ruta dels Molins follows old mule paths to three ruined watermills, the round-trip taking a leisurely two hours. Mountain bikers use the same web of farm tracks to link with neighbouring Penàguila or Alcolecha; gradients average eight per cent but spike to fourteen on the exit from every ravine. Download an offline map – phone signal vanishes the moment you drop off the ridge.

Spring brings the best conditions. Temperatures sit in the high teens, wild rosemary flowers purple and the almond blossom drifts across the lanes like confetti. Autumn is equally reliable: the oppressive summer heat has gone, mushrooms appear under the holm oaks, and the village's single guest cottage is still open. Summer itself is surprisingly tolerable; nights cool to 18 °C even when Benidorm is sweltering at 30 °C. Winter can be sharp – frost whitens the fields and the sun sets early behind the sierra – but daytime walking is glorious under cobalt skies. If it rains, the clay tracks turn to axle-deep glue; come prepared with boots or stay on the tarmac loop to Alcoy.

One bar, one menu, no fuss

Food is served at Bar Benifallim, the only public eating place. Inside feels like someone's front room because, essentially, it is. Grandmother rules the kitchen, son pulls the beers. The menu rarely exceeds six dishes: lamb cutlets grilled over vine cuttings, a clay-baked rice with beans and morcilla, and an almond tart that Brits recognise as a superior Bakewell. Prices are mountain-modest – three courses with house wine seldom tops €18. Lunch finishes at 4.30 pm sharp; if you arrive at five you'll be offered crisps and a sympathetic shrug.

Self-caterers should stock up in Alcoy before the climb. The village shop carries tinned tuna, UHT milk and local oranges, but little else. Olive oil is the exception: farmers sell five-litre containers from their garages for €12, pressed from groves you drove through lower down.

When Benifallim parties – quietly

Fiestas here aren't designed for tourists; they're family reunions with permission to make noise. The main event honours San Miguel at the end of September. A brass band marches the single street, someone wheels out a paella pan the diameter of a satellite dish, and teenagers run a bar in the church square until the wine runs out. Numbers swell to perhaps 300 – overwhelming for a place with one public loo.

The August summer fiesta is even smaller: one evening of open-air dancing, a foam machine for the kids, and fireworks that bounce off the surrounding cliffs like artillery practice. Semana Santa is the opposite – solemn, almost private. Eight men carry a wheeled statue of the Virgin past houses where curtains twitch and grandmothers murmur the responses. Visitors are welcome as long as they don't treat it as a photo opportunity.

Getting there – and knowing when to turn back

Alicante airport is 75 minutes away by hire car, assuming you resist the temptation to stop at the Mercadona in Alcoy for supplies. Take the A-7 motorway inland, pick up the N-340 towards Alcoy, then follow the CV-785 signposted to Benifallim. The final 15 kilometres climb 500 metres through switchbacks where campervans meet oncoming tractors and nobody reverses. Sat-nav routinely underestimates travel time; budget 25 minutes from Alcoy, longer if you're behind a timber lorry.

Public transport stops at Alcoy. A taxi from the rank outside the train station costs €35–40 and the driver will phone ahead to warn you're coming – useful if you need the grocery shop unlocked. Cycling the same route is feasible for fit riders; the ascent averages five per cent but kicks viciously at the village sign.

Accommodation is limited to Casa Rural l'Alcova, a three-bedroom cottage carved into the rock opposite the church. At €90 a night it books solid for April–May and mid-September; reserve weeks ahead. The alternative is Hotel CIutat d'Alcoi twenty kilometres away, a modern four-star with underground parking and a lift to your room – comforting after a day on limestone scree.

The honest verdict

Benifallim won't change your life. It offers no souvenir shops, no sunset bars, no Instagram moments unless you count the elderly men who still thresh almonds in their garages. What it does provide is a corrective to the Costa Blanca's brashness: a place where the sierra dictates the rhythm, where lunch is the day's main event, and where the night sky remains unfiltered by neon. Come for 24 hours and you'll leave recharged; stay a week and you might find yourself stacking firewood, discussing rainfall with the mayor, and wondering why you ever needed a beach.