Eslida

The church bell tolls twice and a farmer appears from nowhere, filling plastic jerry-cans at the Fuente del Berro while his van idles. It's 8:07 a.m. in Eslida, 381 metres above the coastal plain, and the day has already started without the internet knowing about it. There is no Wi-Fi at the spring, no interpretive panel, and—crucially—no signal if you haven't downloaded an offline map.

Eslida sits in a fold of the Sierra de Espadán like an afterthought. Twenty minutes earlier, coming up the CV-10 from Castellón, the road corkscrews through orange terraces that smell of blossom in April and dust in August. Then the tarmac narrows, the temperature drops three degrees, and the village appears: stone houses the colour of almond skin, roofs of curved Arab tile, and a main street just wide enough for a tractor to scrape both wing mirrors.

A village that still belongs to its residents

With 758 permanent inhabitants, Eslida is small enough that the baker recognises the scent of your diesel. The medieval grid survives intact: alleys barely shoulder-wide, sudden staircases, and a plaza where elderly men occupy the same bench their grandfathers used. The 18th-century church of San Miguel Arcángel anchors the high point; its baroque altar glints with gilt when the doors open for Saturday evening Mass, otherwise you peer through wrought-iron grilles and guess at the saints inside.

There is no souvenir shop. What passes for commerce is Bar Paquita (coffee, lottery tickets, gossip) and a tiny grocer that stocks UHT milk and tinned squid. The nearest cash machine is eight kilometres away in Artana—fill your wallet before the ascent or you'll be washing dishes. Monday is perilous: two of the three restaurants close, and the third serves only if the cook's sister can babysit.

Walking into cork-oak shade

The real map begins where the asphalt ends. From the last streetlamp, a cobbled lane becomes the Sendero de los Naranjos, a circular track that peels through irrigation ditches and into forest in twenty minutes flat. Spring brings the smell of wet earth and the sound of water everywhere—Eslida's springs keep the air cooler than the coast, so April walkers need a jumper while sunbathers on Playa de Benicàssim are already peeling.

Cork oaks replace citrus as the path climbs. Their trunks bear the date of the last harvest—white numbers against rusty bark—and wild boar rootlings pattern the verge. The trail tops out at a limestone bluff where Griffon vultures circle at eye level; from here you can trace the valley geometry: orange rectangles below, green maquis above, and the Mediterranean a silver blade on the horizon thirty kilometres away. The circuit takes ninety minutes, trainers suffice, and nobody charges admission.

Longer routes fork deeper into the natural park. A five-hour traverse links Eslida with neighbouring Chóvar, but signposting is sporadic—download the Wikiloc file or risk meeting a dead end at a shepherd's corral. Summer stamping grounds include the Cueva del Turche, a waterfall-cave that draws local teenagers to leap into deep pools; arrive early before the Instagram crowd busses in from Valencia.

Food that tastes of altitude

Altitude sharpens hunger, and village cooking is built for it. Lunch is the €12 menú del día at Restaurante Sierra Espadán: lentil stew thick enough to stand a spoon, rabbit braised with bay, and oranges that arrive sliced on a plate, their sweetness intensified by mountain chill. Vegetarians get grilled asparagus or aubergine baked with goat's cheese—request them when you book or the chef won't bother.

Evening eating is trickier. Kitchens close at 22:00 sharp; arrive at 21:55 and you'll be served, but don't expect smiles. The local olla de col is a gentle chicken-and-rice potage that suits British palates more than coastal seafood paellas. Wine comes from Castellón cooperatives and tastes better when you remember the price includes tax and tip.

Festivals where strangers are noticed

San Miguel in late September fills the streets with processions and brass bands that rehearse for weeks. Brits are welcome but conspicuous—one visitor from Kent reported being hugged by the mayor and invited to carry a banner because "you're the tallest and we need balance." January brings San Antonio bonfires: locals barbecue sardines in the plaza and bless pets on the church steps. Spring food weekends showcase marmalades and citrus liqueurs; you can leave with a jar of bitter-orange jam if you remember to carry cash.

Getting there—and away again

Valencia airport is 55 minutes by hire car: take the A-7 north, peel off at CV-10, then follow signs for Artana-Eslida. Castellón's smaller airport trims ten minutes and usually has shorter queues. Public transport exists Monday-Friday only: ALSA coach to Artana, then pre-book Radio-Taxi (+34 964 509 090) for the final climb. Saturday arrivals must rent wheels or negotiate with the lone taxi driver who may be taking his mother-in-law to bingo.

Parking is free and plentiful at the polideportivo on the eastern edge—flat, shaded by pines, and ignored by the coach parties who haven't discovered the place yet. Accommodation is limited to three casas rurales; book early at weekends when Valencian cyclists reserve rooms for the 74-kilometre Espadán loop that starts and finishes here. They come for the quiet roads, the cork-oak shade, and two climbs brutal enough to justify the €12 lunch.

The honest verdict

Eslida doesn't do dramatic. There is no castle keep to storm, no beach bar to Instagram, no white-washed alley that glows at golden hour. What it offers is continuity: a place where the mountain still dictates the timetable, where oranges taste of the soil they grow in, and where the loudest noise at night is the church clock counting the hours. Bring sturdy shoes, a phrasebook, and enough euros for the weekend. Arrive expecting nothing more than a village behaving like a village, and you'll leave wondering why the coast ever seemed attractive.