Chulilla

The castle appears first. Not on a hill—but in one, grafted into a limestone fin that juts over a horseshoe bend of the River Turia. From the approach road, the keep looks like a stone afterthought, as if the cliff grew battlements to see what was happening below. That first glimpse explains why British climbers have started printing T-shirts that read: "Chulilla—more routes than residents."

At 400 m above sea-level, the village sits high enough to escape the Valencian coast's humidity yet low enough to avoid Sierra de Utiel's winter snow. The result is a climate of two halves: mornings sharp enough for a fleece, afternoons that send you hunting for shade and a cold lager. Spring and autumn are the sweet spots; July and August turn the gorge into a natural pizza oven.

A White Maze Above the Void

Park on the western edge—spaces fill by 11 a.m. at weekends—and walk uphill. What looks like a five-minute stroll becomes fifteen once the cobbles start. Alleyways taper until neighbours can shake hands across them. Laundry lines zig-zag overhead; someone has slung a rope between balconies to air a wetsuit. The houses are not pretty in the postcard sense—paint flakes, satellite dishes bloom like mushrooms—but they are alive. An old woman sweeps dust into the street; a teenager coasts past on a mountain bike, helmet still tagged with a rental-shop sticker from Benidorm.

The castle path splits left for the ruins or right for the mirador. Both deliver the same payoff: a 150-metre drop straight into the gorge. Swifts wheel at eye level; below, the Turia is a green ribbon only a few metres wide but 60 m down. The bridge—really a chain of boardwalks and wire cages—threads the opposite wall like a child's doodle. On busy days you will queue to step onto it; the €1 entrance is collected from an honesty box nailed to a pine post, coins only, no Apple Pay in the wilderness.

Inside the castle, interpretation panels have sun-bleached into hieroglyphics. It hardly matters. The tower still stands, but the real walls are the cliff itself. Look south and you can trace the old Moorish water channel that once fed the settlement—today it doubles as the Ruta de los Pantanets, a shady hike to natural plunge pools. Bring sandals; limestone is slippery when wet.

Rivers, Reservoirs and 600 Bolted Routes

Climbers arrive with 60 m ropes and forearms like baguettes. The gorge offers everything from 4+ slabs for beginners to 8c+ overhangs that end under a roof shaped like a ship's prow. Classic sectors—Peña Roc Chica, El Balcon—sit five minutes from the upper car park. Routes are well bolted, though polish glints on the favourites; try "Lobster" (6a+) early before the queue forms. The only guidebook is a slim volume sold at the kiosk by the church; when stocks run out, locals photocopy pages and sell them for €2 a pop.

Non-climbers can still get the gorge fix. The Sendero de las Hoces follows the river for 6 km, ducking through hand-cut tunnels and across steel bridges that clank like cowbells. Mid-summer starts should be before 8.30 a.m.; by noon the thermometer kisses 36 °C and the Guardia Civil have begun charging people for "negligent hiking" when they need rescuing. Even in October the water is warm enough for a dip—just pick one of the pozas downstream from the hydro intake where the current slackens.

If that sounds energetic, hire a kayak on the nearby Benageber reservoir. The water is flat, the banks empty, and the only sound is the occasional bleat from goats negotiating a near-vertical terrace. Fishing permits are sold online; print them, because the warden has no signal to check phones.

Food that Forgives a Day on the Rock

Village gastronomy is built around whatever keeps you upright on a slope: beans, game, bread fried into migas. Hostal El Pozo serves olla churra, a mountain stew of pork belly, chickpeas and morcilla that tastes like a Spanish take on Lancashire hot-pot. One portion feeds two after a morning on the crag. La Baranda, the smarter guest-house on the plaza, does a breakfast tray that includes toast, butter in foil packets and coffee that actually tastes of beans—rarer than it sounds in rural Spain.

Between meals, supplies are limited. The village supermarket stocks UHT milk, tinned mussels and little else; prices would make a London corner shop blush. Stock up in Lliria on the drive up, or resign yourself to beer and almonds—the latter sold in unlabelled jars at the castle-square bar for €4. They make ideal edible souvenirs until customs confiscates the honey at Birmingham.

When the Village Swells

August fiestas turn 650 residents into several thousand. The plaza becomes an open-air kitchen: paellas the diameter of satellite dishes, barrels of sangria guarded by grandmothers wielding soup ladles like weapons. Fireworks start at midnight and continue, inexplicably, at 7 a.m. Book accommodation early; every spare room is let, and balconies overlooking the church are rented by the hour for photo ops.

Easter is quieter but no less intense. Processions squeeze through lanes barely two metres wide; incense hangs in the gorge like low cloud. If you want the village to yourself, come in January for the romería of San Antonio. Blessing of the animals involves dogs, donkeys and one perplexed alpaca; afterwards, locals drink anise liqueur around bonfires of grape cuttings. Nights drop to 3 °C—pack a down jacket.

Getting Here, Getting Out

There is no daily bus. Transvia GO will fetch you from Valencia, but only if you book before 6 p.m. the previous working day; miss the cut-off and you are stranded. Car hire from the airport takes 50 minutes via the A-3 and CV-35. The final 10 km wriggle through pine and rosemary-scented scrub; guardrails are optional, and goats have right of way.

Mobile coverage dies the moment you drop into the gorge. Download offline maps—Wikiloc works—before leaving the village. A sprained ankle on the riverbank can mean a two-hour wait while someone hikes back for signal.

Leave time for the drive out. Pull over at the bend just past La Ermita; the view back shows Chulilla clinging to its rock like a white crust on the rim of a giant bowl. From that distance you can see why the Moors built here, why climbers keep coming, and why, despite the queues and the coin-only turnstiles, the village refuses to be just another dot on the Spanish interior map. It is not hidden, nor undiscovered; it is simply wedged into a canyon deep enough to make you look up—and think twice—before you step forward.