Cabanes

The 14th-century Portal de València is only three metres wide, yet it still funnels the morning tramuntana wind straight into the Plaza Major. Stand beside the stone arch at eight o'clock and you'll smell bread from the bakery on Calle Major, diesel from the delivery van rattling past, and a faint whiff of orange blossom drifting up from the groves that begin at the last street lamp. Cabanes doesn't do postcard perfection; it does everyday Spain at 290 m above sea level, and it does it without a souvenir shop in sight.

A Town That Measures Time in Shadows

Cabanes spreads across a low ridge 26 km north of Castellón. The old core fits inside ten minutes of lazy walking: stone houses the colour of burnt cream, timber doors painted the same municipal green they've used since Franco died, and the Gothic-leaning church of the Asunción whose bell tolls the quarters whether anyone is listening or not. Inside the church the air is cool enough to make you regret the T-shirt. Look up and you'll see a 16th-century timber roof held together by beams as thick as a farmer's waist; look left and there's a side chapel dedicated to the Virgen de los Dolores done out in bruise-purple velvet. No entry fee, no rope barrier, just a handwritten note asking visitors not to use flash.

Outside, the shadows move faster than the traffic. By eleven the north side of Calle de la Cruz is in full shade and the bar on the corner fills with men drinking small glasses of sweet muscatel topped with fizzy water. They speak Valencian at machine-gun speed; order in Spanish and the barman will switch to slow, careful Castilian and throw in a free tapa of olives stuffed with anchovy. A caña still costs €1.20, partly because the nearest tourist office is twenty minutes away and partly because the council keeps the rent low for family businesses.

The Sea That Isn't There (Until You Drive)

The municipal boundary reaches the Mediterranean, but the village itself never sees it. To get to the coast you drop down the CV-148 for 11 km of switchbacks through almond terraces and pine plantations. At the bottom lies Torre de la Sal, a scatter of villas and a single beach bar whose menu is written in chalk and wiped clean every Friday. The sand is coarse and blonde, peppered with shingle that warms the soles of your feet even in April. On weekdays in May you can walk half an hour and share the shoreline only with a retired couple from Zaragoza and the odd kite-surfer tacking back and forth. Bring shoes if you plan to swim; the seabed shelves quickly and the stones don't forgive soft British feet.

The bar opens at noon for coffee, switches to beer at one, and starts grilling sardines whenever the owner thinks the coals are ready. A plate of five, head on and dusted with rock salt, costs €6. They arrive at the table still spitting oil, accompanied by a wedge of lemon and half a loaf of bread that tastes of wood smoke. The wine list is red or white; both come chilled and in a shared jug. Cards are accepted, but the machine is kept in a drawer and needs two attempts every time.

Walking the Desert That Isn't a Desert

Back inland, the road climbs into the Desert de les Palmes natural park – a misleading name, because the landscape is mostly pine and rosemary-scented scrub. The park headquarters is an old monastery turned information centre where a ranger will lend you a laminated map and warn that mobile signal vanishes after the first ridge. The classic loop, PR-CV 147, starts 4 km above the village at the Ermita de la Magdalena and follows a corkscrew track to the ridge at Bartolo (729 m). From here you can see the orange grid of Castellón airport, the steel glare of the power station at Almassora, and on very clear days the faint blue wall of the Balearics. The descent is knee-jarring and shadeless; start early or finish late and carry more water than you think sensible – the only fountain on the route was capped in 2019 after a drought.

Winter changes the rules. When the tramuntana really blows, the park road closes to high-sided vehicles and the village smells of wood smoke and wet earth. Temperatures can dip to 3 °C at night, but the days are often bright enough to eat lunch outside, provided you keep your coat on. Hotel rates drop by a third and bars break out the caldo con pelotas, a peppery broth thick with pork-and-almond meatballs that tastes like something your Yorkshire gran might have made if she'd had access to Spanish paprika.

Eating Between Two Provinces

Cabanes sits on the hinge between mountain and coast, and the cooking borrows from both. Mid-week set lunch – menú del día – runs to three courses, bread, and a drink for €14. Start with figatells, small pork-and-liver meatballs wrapped in caul fat and simmered in tomato. They look like British faggots, taste faintly of juniper, and arrive so hot you burn your tongue. Second course is usually arroz a banda, rice cooked in fish stock and served with alioli strong enough to keep vampires at bay. Pudding choices are sponge or sponge; the sponge is soaked in sweetened milk and tastes better than it sounds. Vegetarians get an omelette, but nobody pretends this is a culinary highlight.

Evening eating starts late. Kitchens fire up around 20:30 and tables empty again after midnight. If you can't face dinner at Spanish hours, order a plato combinado at the bar: half a roast chicken, chips, fried egg and a lettuce leaf, all for €9. Wash it down with a pint of Estrella poured from a tap that has probably never seen a cleaning tablet; somehow it still tastes crisp.

Getting Here, Getting Out

The village has no railway. ALSA runs one bus a day from Castellón, timed for pensioners rather than travellers, so car hire is the realistic option. A small Fiat from Castellón airport costs about €35 a day in shoulder season; the desk closes at 22:00 sharp, so don't book the last flight from Stansted unless you fancy a €90 taxi. Once you're installed, everything is walkable except the beach and the mountain trailheads – and even those are only ten minutes away by tarmac so narrow you'll be reversing into a citrus grove when the oncoming tractor appears.

Leave on a Saturday morning and you can combine the weekly market with breakfast. One street, twenty stalls, and a soundtrack of Valencian gossip. Buy a kilo of oranges for €1.50, then drive north on the N-340. Five minutes out of town the road straightens, the sea glints on your left, and the only traffic is a lorry loaded with artichokes heading for the MercaMadrid night shift. Cabanes shrinks in the mirror, bell tower first, then just the ridge and the pines. It doesn't wave goodbye; it simply gets on with the next batch of bread, the next round of wine, and the slow business of being ordinary.