Puebla de San Miguel

At 1,100 m, the morning air hits like a fridge door opening. Stone cottages still have smoke curling from their chimneys in late May, and the only shop opens when the owner finishes feeding her chickens. Puebla de San Miguel is the sort of place where the barman remembers how you like your coffee on the second visit – and the second visit is probably tomorrow, because you’ll have walked every street in fifteen minutes.

The High, Quiet Corner

The village perches on the northern lip of the Rincón de Ademuz, a wedge of Valencian territory that pokes between Aragón and Castilla-La Mancha. Madrid is closer than Valencia here, both in kilometres and in mood. The drive up from the coast starts with olive groves and ends in black-pine forest; the temperature drops a degree every ten minutes until even August nights demand a jumper. Snow can block the CV-345 for an afternoon in January, and the council still keeps a stack of grit by the church door – the local version of health-and-gone-safety.

There is no sea view, no beach bars, no souvenir tat. What you get instead is altitude: lungs full of resin-scented air, ridge walks that start at your front door, and silence so complete you can hear a bicycle freewheeling on the next hill. The village sits just below the tree line; walk twenty minutes uphill and you’re among wild rosemary and red kites. Keep going and you’ll hit the 2,020 m summit of Cerro Calderón, the province’s roof, without seeing another footprint between October and Easter.

Stone, Slate and the Smell of Woodsmoke

Houses are mortared river stone, roofs are Arab tile weathered to lichen-grey. The church of Sant Miquel squats in the middle like a referee, its bell tolling the hour – and only the hour – because nobody here sees the point of seven-minute chimes. Narrow lanes zig-zag past cottages whose ground floors once sheltered goats; many are weekenders now, owned by Valencian architects who discovered the place during a mushroom foray and never quite left. They’ve kept the beams, installed Swedish wood-burners and painted shutters indigo, but they still dry washing on the communal terrace because tumble dryers feel like cheating.

Staying the night means self-catering. La Carrasca, the only holiday let with a website, sleeps six and has a wood basket the size of a Smart car. Bring slippers: stone floors are romantic until 03:00. Electricity comes from the village generator; if everyone runs the dishwasher after supper the lights flicker like a 1970s disco. Phone signal dies two kilometres out of town – download Google Maps before you leave the petrol station in Requena, the last one for 70 km.

Trails, Mushrooms and a Bar That Closes When the Last Customer Leaves

Morning starts with coffee so strong it could revive fence posts. The bar – nameless except for a hand-painted “Cerveza Fría” sign – opens at seven for the shepherd and stays open until the last gin-and-tonic, sometimes midnight, sometimes later. A blackboard lists three dishes: menestra (vegetable stew, fine for vegetarians), chuletón (a T-bone the size of a laptop) and caldo con pelotas, a broth with meatballs that tastes like someone’s grandmother is in the kitchen. Sunday lunch is a €12 three-course menú; arrive before 14:00 or they’ll have given your chair to Miguel’s cousin.

Every track out of the village is a hiking trail; waymarks are dots of yellow paint that fade faster than the council can repaint them. The easiest route follows the ridge south to Casa de la Viuda, an abandoned farmstead where swallows nest in the rafters. Allow two hours there and back, plus half an hour for the view: a saw-edge of sierras rolling away to Teruel’s high plain. Serious walkers can link up with the GR-10 long-distance footpath, a five-day traverse that ends in Sant Mateu, but day-trippers usually turn back when the path drops into the pine-dark valley that smells of damp bark and wild thyme.

October is mushroom season. Locals set alarms for 05:30, head-torches bobbing into the woods like fireflies. Rules are strict: two kilos per person, knife only, no rakes. The prized rovelló (a saffron-milk cap) appears after the first autumn rain; fry it with garlic and it tastes like woodland wrapped in butter. If you don’t know your cep from your death cap, hire José-María, the retired maths teacher who charges €30 for a three-hour tutorial and tells the best Franco-era ghost stories in the province.

When the Village Throws a Party

Fiestas happen twice a year and the whole comarca squeezes into sixty houses. The September romería honours the archangel with a procession that starts at the church, stops for brandy at the ermita three kilometres uphill, and returns in singing formation at dusk. Visitors are handed a slice of sponge cake and expected to join in; refusal is met with polite bewilderment. Spring brings the May cross, when women dress the plaza with rosemary branches and everyone dances a Valencian jota until the generator overheats. Both nights end with churros and chocolate so thick your spoon stands up. If you need nightlife after that, Teruel’s discos are an hour away – but you’ll be the only customer in eyeliner and walking boots.

Getting Here, Getting Fed, Getting Back

Fly London-Stansted to Valencia with Ryanair (2 h 10 min, £38 return if you book in January). Hire a small car: the last 30 km twist like a dropped rope, and a people-carrier will meet oncoming tractors with sweaty palms. Fill the tank in Requena; the village garage closed in 2008 and the nearest pump is 35 km west. Bring cash – the bar’s card machine dates from 1998 and has given up arguing with British chip-and-PIN.

Shop before you arrive. The local pantry stocks tinned tuna, UHT milk and not much else. On Thursday mornings a white van parks by the church selling frozen lamb chops and vacuum-packed morcilla; queue early or he’s sold out by ten. The Sunday market in Ademuz (25 min drive) has local honey, sheep’s cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, and a stall that will sell you a whole jamón for €90 if you promise to carry it.

Leave time for the drive out. The CV-485 crests a pass where Iberian wolves were sighted last winter; pull over, cut the engine, and listen. No traffic, no playlists, no ring tones – just wind through pines and, if you’re lucky, the clonk of a cowbell echoing across the gorge. It’s the sound of a Spain that hasn’t quite caught up with the twenty-first century, and for a long weekend that feels like a small miracle.