Bolulla

The church bell strikes noon, yet only a handful of swallows disturb the hush that blankets Bolulla's single main street. At 214 metres above the Mediterranean, this stone-built hamlet feels centuries removed from Benidorm's tower blocks shimmering 25 kilometres away on the horizon. Here, elderly men still gather outside Bar l’Era to debate tomato prices while their wives swap almond-harvest gossip across wrought-iron balconies. Nothing happens quickly – and that, for many British visitors, is precisely the point.

A Village that Refuses to Hurry

Bolulla sits on the last folds of the Serra de Bèrnia, where terraced almond and olive groves cling to limestone scarps like geological barnacles. Drive in along the CV-715 from Callosa d'en Sarrià and the road narrows so abruptly that wing-mirrors almost brush the dry-stone walls. Parking is wherever you can squeeze a Fiesta: the tiny plaça by the Ayuntamiento, a sandy pull-off beside the ravine, or simply a wider stretch of camino if the single listed car park is full.

What you won't find: souvenir tat, cocktail bars, or anyone thrusting multilingual menus in your face. The village shop doubles as the post office and closes for siesta. The nearest cash machine is back down the hill in Callosa. Come unprepared and you'll discover the true meaning of "self-catering" – yet most repeat visitors (and there are many; British number plates outnumber Spanish ones some weekends) wouldn't change a tile.

Architecture is modest but honest. The eighteenth-century church of Sant Joan Baptista squats at the top of a brief flight of worn steps, its rough-plastered tower more farmer's barn than baroque extravaganza. Inside, gold-leaf retablos gleam dimly beneath low arches; light a €1 candle if you wish, or simply sit until the caretaker clears his throat at closing time. Behind the altar a tiny museum displays agricultural tools whose names most locals can't translate: trillo, azadón, horca – artefacts from an era when everything moved at hoof-pace.

Water, Rock and the Ghosts of Mills

Leave the houses behind and landscape quickly takes over. A five-minute stroll down Carrer de la Font brings you to the signed start of the Ruta del Agua, an undemanding 3-kilometre loop that follows the Bolulla riverbed between cane-fringed pools. Mid-summer the water is "take-your-breath-away cold", according to a Cheshire couple who've rented the same cottage every July since 2009. They pack swim-shorts and a picnic, claiming the main pool beneath Fonts del Xorros is "better than any hotel spa" – though you'll share it with dragonflies and the occasional mountain goat rather than waiters bearing towels.

Further along, the path passes the roofless shell of Molí de la Reixa, a sixteenth-century flour mill whose millstones lie cracked among wild fennel. Interpretation boards explain Moorish irrigation channels still visible in the rock; English text is brief but adequate. The circuit takes ninety minutes if you dawdle, longer if you stop to photograph the limestone cliffs honeycombed with swallow nests. Trainers suffice; flip-flops do not.

Keen hikers can keep going eastwards onto the PR-CV 50, a serpentine track that climbs 600 metres to the Fort de Bèrnia, a star-shaped Spanish royal fortress abandoned in 1630. The round trip from village to summit and back is 12 kilometres; allow five hours and carry more water than you think necessary. Views from the ramparts stretch from Alicante's skyscraper profile to the hazy Penyal d'Ifac at Calpe, proof that civilisation hasn't entirely vanished – it just feels that way.

What You'll Eat – and When You'll Eat It

Bolulla's gastronomy mirrors its geography: hearty, seasonal, unpretentious. Bar l’Era opens at seven for coffee and tostadas slathered with local honey; by 11am farmers drift in for a canya of beer and a game of dominoes. Their homemade custard cake has achieved minor cult status among British residents who insist it tastes "like school dinners, but in the best possible way". A portion costs €3.50; they occasionally run out by teatime, so don't dither.

For something spicier, the curiously named Indian Elephant Restaurant occupies a converted townhouse on Carró de Dalt. Chef Raj, originally from Birmingham, caters to homesick expats with proper onion bhajis and a vindaloo that will clear mountain sinuses. Mains hover around €12; bring your own wine (there's no licence).

Those self-catering should stock up in Callosa before ascending: the village mini-market stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and not much else. Wednesday is market day in nearby Orxeta, ten minutes by car, where crates of just-picked peppers, aubergines and clementinos cost pennies compared with Waitrose prices. Try the mistela stall too – a syrupy Moscatel liqueur sold in recycled plastic water bottles; perfect for late-night star-gazing on the terrace.

Fiestas, Fires and Foraging

Visit in late June and you'll collide with the Fiestas Patronales honouring St John the Baptist. The programme mixes solemnity with pyromania: daytime processions weave through streets strewn with aromatic rosemary, then at midnight papier-mâché toros loaded with fireworks career after daredevil runners. British second-home owners are politely invited to join in, though health-and-safety instincts may quiver. Earplugs advised; pacemaker essential.

August brings the Festa de la Divina Aurora, a smaller affair centred on outdoor paella consumed at long wooden tables in the plaça. Locals donate rabbits, snails and garden vegetables; visitors contribute €5 for a plate and unlimited wine. Conversation ricochets between Valencian and estuary English; nobody minds which you attempt.

Autumn transforms the pine-clad ridges into a forager's playground. Rovellóns (saffron milk-caps) fetch €20 a kilo at Alicante markets, so you'll spot villagers scouring the leaf-litter at dawn. Tag along only if you know your níscalo from your deadly aminita; otherwise content yourself with the scent of wet earth and wood smoke drifting from cottage chimneys.

Getting There, Staying Sane

Alicante airport lies 65 kilometres south; allow 55 minutes by hire car (A-7/AP-7 to junction 65, then N-340 and CV-715). Valencia is farther but the drive prettier, skirting orange groves beneath the sierra. Public transport involves an ALSA coach to Callosa d'en Sarrià and a €25 taxi up the hill; buses back stop at 19:00, so linger too long and you're paying for another cab.

Accommodation is thin on the ground. Half-a-dozen cottages advertise on Airbnb, prices €70–€120 per night for two bedrooms, usually with wood-burning stove and plunge pool. Book early for April–May and September–October when walking weather hovers around 22°C; July–August nudges 35°C and the village pool charges €2 for a cooling dip. Winter nights can dip to 3°C; some lanes ice over, making that hire-car indispensable.

Leave the Sat-Nav behind and Bolulla still won't disappoint, provided you arrive expecting nothing more than silence broken by goat bells, stone cottages that predate Shakespeare, and mountain air sharp enough to scrub city life from your lungs. Bring good shoes, a paper map and enough cash for custard cake. The village will handle the rest – slowly, effortlessly, and without fanfare.