Penàguila

The first thing you notice is the quiet. Not the muffled hush of a library, but a clean, high-altitude silence broken only by the clang of the church bell every half-hour and the rasp of swallows overhead. Penàguila sits 685 m above the Costa Blanca, yet the Mediterranean feels a world away. Drive the last 15 km from Cocentaina and the sea disappears behind folds of pine and almond terraces; mobile signal wavers, the temperature drops five degrees, and you realise why the Moors chose these heights for their watchtowers.

Stone, slope and sudden horizons

No-one arrives here by accident. The CV-785 wriggles upward through lemon groves, then corkscrews into holm-oak scrub before spitting you out on the village’s single paved street. Park where the tarmac ends; everything beyond is foot-only. Houses are mortared with the same limestone they stand on, roofs pitched steep against winter storms that can sweep in from the Maigmó massif. Look up and you’ll see television aerials bolted to medieval walls—an honesty rarely allowed in the Costas’ glossy brochures.

A five-minute wander brings you to the plaza in front of the parish church of Sant Miquel. The building is nothing grand: a 1500s tower retro-fitted with Baroque curves, heavy wooden doors that squeal on iron hinges. Step inside and the temperature plummets again; stone flags drink the heat. The altarpiece is gilded, but the paint is flaking—no funds for restoration, no coach parties to demand it. That’s the pattern here: history without the heritage industry.

Continue uphill past houses whose ground floors were once stables; many still have feeding troughs built into the walls. At the final bend the track fizzles out into a footpath. A hand-painted sign reads “Castell – 10 min”. The fortress that controlled the Alcoy-Alicante corridor is now a scatter of base stones and one intact cistern, yet the vantage repays the scramble. On clear winter mornings you can pick out the Serrella’s saw-tooth ridge 20 km west; in April the valley below is a patchwork of wheat green and almond blossom, the Mediterranean a thin silver strip on the horizon.

Walking without way-markers (mostly)

Penàguila’s real attraction is what starts where the asphalt stops. Three footpaths—officially PR-CV-80, 81 and 82—loop into the Mariola range, though only the first is sign-posted well enough to trust. The circular route to Font de Mariola (5 km, 90 min) follows an old mule track beneath Aleppo pines, past stone terraces long abandoned to rosemary and white-thorn. The spring itself is a stone basin shaded by reeds; locals swear the water is the best in the comarca. Fill your bottle, but check upstream for sheep—grazing flocks are common and they aren’t particular about bathroom etiquette.

If you prefer distance to drama, take the ridge path south toward Benilloba. The trail climbs gently for 7 km along a knife-edge crest; you’ll meet perhaps two dog-walkers and a farmer on a quad bike. Carry a light jacket even in May—wind at 900 m can be sharp—and download an offline map the night before. Orange paint flashes appear sporadically, then vanish just when a junction offers three equally plausible directions.

Summer walkers should start early. By 11 a.m. the sun ricochets off the limestone and shade is sporadic. Temperatures top out around 32 °C, ten degrees cooler than Alicante’s beaches, but dehydration arrives faster at altitude. Conversely, January afternoons can be 8 °C and misty; if snow falls, the Guardia Civil sometimes close the access road for hours. Check the town Facebook page before you set off—updates are posted in Valencian, but “tancat per neu” is easy enough to translate.

What you’ll eat (and when you’ll eat it)

There are three bars and one bakery; that’s it. Bar Central opens at 7 a.m. for farm workers, serves coffee in glasses thick enough to survive a drop-kick, and closes by 10 p.m. sharp. Try the coca de mollitas—an inch-thick dough topped with slow-fried breadcrumbs, red pepper and a single anchovy. It looks like student cooking, tastes like Mediterranean comfort. On Sundays the same family fires up a churro rig; arrive before 11 or the queue stretches out the door and the oil is switched off.

Pericana, the local cod-and-pepper spread, is available everywhere but heat levels vary. Ask for “suau” if you’re spice-averse; even then, keep the house red handy—Bocairent cooperativo, £1.80 a glass, mellow and plum-fruited. Vegetarians should note that “ensalada” often comes topped with tuna; specify “sense peix” and prepare for puzzled looks. There is no menu del día in winter; the kitchen knocks up what it has. Accept the surprise.

The bakery, three doors down, sells almonds roasted with local rosemary and honey in unmarked paper cones. They’re gone by Thursday most weeks; the owner simply shrugs when they sell out—no reorder, no apology. Cash only. The village ATM beside the town hall works roughly every other day; if it flashes “sin efectivo”, the nearest alternative is 20 km back down the mountain in Alcoy.

Practicalities that catch people out

Public transport does not reach the village. The last bus turned around in 1992. Hire a car at Alicante airport, fill the tank, and keep it filled—after 6 p.m. the nearest petrol station is closed and the mountain road is unlit. Sat-nav likes to send drivers up an old forestry track from Tibi; ignore it and stay on the CV-785 however circuitous it feels.

Accommodation is limited. There are four legal casas rurales, none with more than six rooms. Expect stone walls, wood-burning stoves, and Wi-Fi that falters whenever the wind shifts. Prices hover around £70 a night for two, breakfast included (coffee, toast, and home-made membrane-thin quince jam). Book at least a fortnight ahead for Easter weekend; Spanish families descend for the romería and every bed within 30 km disappears.

Shops observe the inland siesta without apology: 14:00-17:00, doors locked, metal shutters down. Plan a late lunch or a walk during the gap. Evenings start late—restaurants fire up kitchens at 20:30—yet everything finishes early. By midnight the streets are empty; by 1 a.m. the only sound is the occasional guard dog and the clink of temperature-sensitive roof tiles contracting.

The honest verdict

Penàguila will not change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no artisan gin distilleries, no flamenco nights. What it does offer is a rare intactness: a Spanish mountain village that still functions for its own inhabitants first and for visitors second. Come for the high-country air, the almond-scented walks, the pleasure of ordering coffee in a bar where no-one switches to English. Stay a day, perhaps two, then move on—perhaps to Bocairent’s cave houses or Alcoy’s Modernista façades. Leave before the limited menu becomes tedious, but after you’ve learned the rhythm of the bells.