Losa del Obispo

The church bell strikes noon and the only other sound is a tractor changing gear somewhere below the houses. From the small mirador outside Bar Triangular you look south-west across a wrinkled landscape of almond terraces and, on a clear day, make out the distant shimmer of the Mediterranean fifty kilometres away. No one on the Costa Blanca package circuit realises this view exists.

Losa del Obispo sits at 480 metres on the last ripple of the Serranos uplands, a pocket of scarcely five hundred souls reached by a single winding road from the CV-35. The settlement is older than Valencia's cathedral: the bishop of the city owned the land in the 13th century and the prefix "Losa" refers to the flat limestone slabs that peasants prised from the ground to build walls and roofs. What you see today is still that labour made visible – rough-stone houses the colour of burnt cream, Arabic tiles mellowed to rust, doorways just wide enough for a mule.

A village measured in footsteps

The urban plan is gloriously simple. You park where the tarmac narrows, walk past the 16th-century stone cross that once marked the settlement's edge, and within three minutes you are in Plaza de la Iglesia. The parish church of San Bartolomé, rebuilt after the 1836 earthquake, has the blunt tower and small rose window that recur across the Valencian interior; its interior smells of candle wax and the previous Sunday's lilies. From the church door every street is downhill, which means whichever route you choose eventually loops back to the centre. There is no possibility of getting lost, only of walking slowly enough to notice details: a 1907 ceramic plaque indicating the old threshing floor, a forge window still displaying horseshoes, the faint smell of woodsmoke escaping a chimney at midday.

Because the village can be crossed in quarter of an hour, visitors fall into a relaxed rhythm. Morning coffee at Bar Triangular turns into a second cortado when the owner explains, in a mixture of Valencian and careful Spanish, that the petrol station is 12 km away and yes, the cash machine charges two euros. By the time you leave, someone has offered directions to the Fuente de la Canaleta picnic site, warning that the clay path becomes slick after rain and proper soles are advisable.

Tracks, terraces and the sound of no cars

The surrounding campo is threaded with agricultural lanes that double as walking routes. The signed Sendero de la Cruz is a two-hour circuit that climbs gently through almond and olive terraces to a small iron cross erected in 1951. From the ridge you can pick out neighbouring villages – Chulilla with its honey-coloured cliff, Villar del Arzobispo with the blue tin roof of the cooperative warehouse – and understand how medieval muleteers navigated by landmark rather than road. On weekdays you meet more hunters in hi-vis than hikers; Saturdays bring families carrying plastic bags for rosemary and wild asparagus. The going is moderate, but carry water because the only fountain is back in the village square.

Cyclists use the same web of tracks. A quiet 30 km loop south through Losa, Pedralba and Chulilla gives 450 metres of ascent, vineyards instead of traffic, and a stone bridge built by the Romans that still carries farm trailers. Road bikes work, but gravel tyres are happier when the surface turns to chunky caliche.

What turns up on the table

Food here is dictated by the agricultural calendar rather than tourism. Almonds, olives and saffron provide the cash; pigs and chickens provide the Saturday stew. In Bar Triangular the hand-written menu changes according to what appears at the back door. Arroz al horno – a clay-pot bake of pork rib, chickpeas, tomato and morcilla – is milder than coastal paella and arrives sizzling, the rice bottom caramelised into the prized socarrat. If that feels too hearty, the thin coca flatbread topped with roasted aubergine and red pepper tastes like pizza that has forgotten the cheese and is all the better for it. British school parties apparently survive on toasted jamón-y-queso sandwiches when the daily menú del día is "too fishy"; the owner keeps a stash of ketchup behind the coffee machine for precisely that diplomatic crisis.

Weekend lunch starts at 14:30; arrive earlier and you will be offered a drink while the family finishes the card game. A three-course comida with wine and coffee costs €14–€16, but quantities are calibrated for workers who have been in the fields since dawn. Pace yourself; the homemade custard flan is worth the extra belt notch.

When the village decides to party

Fiestas here are neighbourhood affairs amplified, not invented, for visitors. The main celebration honouring Saint Bartholomew falls on the last weekend of August. Streets are draped with bunting printed in 1980s typefaces, a rock-covers trio plays from a flat-bed lorry, and elderly women hand out paper cones of roasted almonds to anyone under fifteen. At midnight on the Saturday a modest castillo of fireworks crackles above the church roof; the echoes bounce around the narrow streets so effectively that British exchange teachers routinely report it as "better than the town displays back home". The bars stay open as long as someone is buying, but the volume is civilised; parents push buggies home at 01:00 without anyone thinking it odd.

A smaller, school-organised "falla" takes place in mid-May rather than March. Pupils build a ninot the height of a labrador, stuff it with newspaper, and burn it on the football pitch while drinking thick hot chocolate instead of beer. The ritual satisfies Ofsted risk assessments and gives the village children a taste of Valencian pyromania without the city crowds.

Getting there, staying sensible

Public transport is patchy. The Llarga-Chelva bus leaves Valencia's Estación de Autobuses twice daily; ask the driver for the Losa del Obispo lay-by on the CV-35 and prepare for a 15-minute uphill stroll. Car hire is easier: take the A-3 towards Madrid, exit at Utiel, follow the CV-35 through cherry orchards and you are in the village before the CD player finishes Abbey Road. Petrol up at the airport – the nearest garage is at Villar del Arzobispo, twelve kilometres back down the road.

Accommodation is limited to three self-catering casas rurales, all converted village houses with wood-burning stoves and patchy Wi-Fi. Expect to pay €70–€90 per night for a two-bedroom place that sleeps four. Book at least a fortnight ahead for Easter and the August fiesta; outside those windows you can usually negotiate a discount for three nights or more.

Weather follows altitude. Spring brings sharp mornings and 22 °C afternoons perfect for walking; summer tops 35 °C but the air is dry and nights drop to 18 °C, so you sleep with the windows open and wake to swallows. Autumn smells of crushed grapes and offers the year's clearest views; winter can touch freezing and the occasional Tramontana wind whistles through the alleyways – pack layers and a decent jacket rather than hoping the village shop will oblige.

The bottom line

Losa del Obispo will never appear on a "Top Ten" list and the locals would like to keep it that way. What it offers instead is a functioning agricultural community happy to sell you coffee, point you up a track, and let you watch the day unfold at its own pace. Bring Spanish phrases, walking shoes and a tolerance for church bells; leave the tick-list mentality in Valencia. If that sounds like too little, choose the coast. If it sounds like just enough, head inland and arrive before the bell strikes one.