Higueruelas

The church bell in Higueruelas strikes seven and the sound rolls down the valley like loose stones. At 700 m the air is already thinning, and the pine resin sharp enough to catch in the throat. Five hundred people live here, scattered across four short streets that end abruptly in ploughed terraces and, beyond them, the Carrasco pines that smell of lemon peel when the sun heats their bark. No souvenir stalls, no guided walks, no coach park—just a village that never bothered to rehearse a welcome.

Stone, Tile and Silence

Houses are low, two-storey affairs built from the same honey-coloured rubble as the hills. Iron balconies sag under geraniums; Arab tiles have shifted over decades so the roofline ripples like water. Look closely and you’ll spot lintels carved 200 years ago—initials, dates, the odd star-and-crescent left by Moorish quarrymen—yet the door beneath may open onto a 1990s kitchen extension. The mix is accidental, honest; nobody planned a heritage quarter.

The parish church squats in the geometric centre, its tower the only thing visible from the forest tracks above. Inside, the walls carry a faint salt tidemark: villagers used to heap grain against them during drought years and the stone wicks the memory still. Sunday mass is at eleven, amplified by a single speaker that crackles like dry kindling. Even if the liturgy escapes you, the cool darkness offers respite after the climb from the car park—an uneven patch of gravel that doubles as the village square when fiestas arrive.

Walking Without Waymarks

Officially there are three signed footpaths; in practice the paint fades faster than the council replaces it. Better to buy a 1:50,000 map in Llíria before you leave the coast, or simply ask the man refilling the water fountain on Calle San Roque. He’ll point to a ridge and say, “Follow the stone wall until the pines thin, then bear left where the lightning split the oak.” Twenty minutes later the village shrinks to a smear of terracotta and the only sound is your boots scuffing calcite.

The reward is a limestone lip that drops 400 m into the Serranos basin. On haze-free days the Mediterranean glints like polished foil, 60 km away yet close enough to remind you why these mountains stay empty: most visitors head straight for the beach. Griffon vultures wheel overhead, unbothered by humans; their wingspan matches the width of most Higueruelas streets. Take a packed lunch—there are no cafés on the ridge and the descent is steeper than it looks.

Mountain-bikers use the same web of farm tracks, though tyre prints outnumber boot prints two-to-one. After rain the clay grips like wet porcelain; in August the dust rises in ochre clouds that coat chainrings and lungs alike. A loop north through El Pinete and back via the fire-road takes three hours, gains 550 m of ascent and passes one functioning fountain. Carry two litres; the advertised spring at kilometre 12 has been dry since 2019.

What Arrives on the Back of a Pick-up

Higueruelas eats what the lorries bring up from the coast and what the hunters bring down from the hills. Wild-boar stew appears on Thursdays at Restaurante Ca Vicentica, a converted front room with four tables and a television no one switches off. The meat is dark, almost blackberry in colour, simmered with bay and a splash of rough red. A plate costs €12; bread and a glass of wine are included, whether you ask or not.

Spring brings wild asparagus, thin as headphone cables, scrambled with egg and served on dented tin plates. Autumn means mushrooms—mainly níscalos—though the locals guard patch locations like bank PINs. If the season fails, the menu reverts to pork loin, chips and the local embutido: sobrasada so soft it can be spread with a playing card. Pudding is usually flan, turned out of a plastic mould that leaves concentric ridges like tree rings.

There is no shop, only a freezer in the bar stocked with ice cream and frozen squid rings. Bread arrives at ten each morning in a white van; if you miss the horn you’ll be eating yesterday’s loaf. Vegetarians should plan ahead—the nearest supermarket is 18 km away in Casinos, and it closes for siesta.

When the Village Decides to Wake Up

For forty weekends a year Higueruelas dozes, but the August fiestas yank it into colour. Brass bands march at two in the morning, fireworks ricochet between the stone walls, and teenagers ride tractors trailing hay-bale floats. The population swells to 1,500 as emigrants return from Valencia and Barcelona; cousins sleep on sofas and the fountain runs red with sangria for one sanctioned hour.

Less advertised is the January blessing of animals. Owners lead dogs, donkeys and the occasional cage of canaries to the church porch where the priest sprinkles holy water from a plastic colander. The animals shake themselves, the crowd applauds, and everyone retreats inside for coffee laced with aguardiente. It lasts twenty minutes, costs nothing, and tells you more about the place than any interpretive panel.

Getting There, Staying Warm

From Valencia’s Torres de Serrano take the A-23 towards Zaragoza, exit at Llíria, then follow the CV-35 through chestnut woods. The final 12 km twist like a discarded rope; meet a lorry on a bend and one of you must reverse 200 m. Petrol stations are scarce—fill up in Llíria. In winter the pass can ice over; snow chains appear in boots shops from October onwards. If the weather closes in, the road is gritted but not until after sunrise.

Accommodation is limited to four casas rurales, none with more than six rooms. Expect stone floors, wood-burning stoves and hot-water tanks the size of a rucksack. Weekends book solid during mushroom season; mid-week in February you’ll have the village to yourself. Bring slippers—owners charge €20 if you scuff the antique pine boards with hiking boots.

Night temperatures drop 12 °C below the coast even in May. Daytime highs feel sharper because the air is thin; sunburn arrives faster and dehydration sneaks up. A fleece in the rucksack is sensible even when Valencia’s beach crowds are melting into towels.

Leave before dusk and the sierra folds back into itself, the village bell fading until only the pines remember you were there. Higueruelas doesn’t mind visitors, but it refuses to choreograph them. Turn up, walk, eat what’s cooking, sleep where there’s a bed. The mountains will still be keeping time long after the coach parties have turned back towards the sea.