Sempere

The WhatsApp message pings at 7 am: "We're here, but this isn't Valencia." It's the third time this month the village's only fluent English speaker has fielded the same confusion. British visitors clutching city-break suitcases stand blinking in almond-scented silence, 80 kilometres from the tapas bars they expected. They've booked 'Sempere'—a scattering of stone houses with 30 permanent residents—instead of the slick Valencia apartment block that shares its name.

At 140 metres above sea level, Sempere isn't dramatically high, yet it feels loftier. The air carries a dryness that makes London skin tighten; the evening breeze drops five degrees faster than on the coast. Come December, morning frost glazes the terracotta roof tiles and the single-track road from Requena turns treacherous. Summer flips the dial the other way: by 11 am the shade has shrunk to the width of a doorway, and the only cool spot is inside the stone parish church whose bell still marks the hours with uneven clangs.

A Map, a Full Tank and Low Expectations

There is no bus, no train, no Uber. From Valencia airport you point the hire-car west on the A-3, exit at 269, then snake along the CV-425 past vineyards of bobal grapes. The final ten minutes shrink to a lane barely wider than a Tesco delivery van; pull-ins are shallow and the stone walls don't forgive wing mirrors. Phone signal dribbles to one bar, so download offline maps before you leave the motorway. The first sight of the village is a hand-painted sign reading "Sempere – 30 hab." Someone has updated the population in black marker more than once.

Park where the tarmac ends; everything beyond is agricultural track. There are no ticket machines, no time limits, and almost certainly no other cars. Walk the length of the village in eight minutes: past the church, past three occupied houses, past five that look derelict but whose chimneys puff woodsmoke in winter. The only commerce is a vending machine inside a wrought-iron cage selling tinned sardines, lighter fluid and batteries. It takes €1 coins and 20-cent pieces; bring both because the nearest cashpoint is 25 minutes away in Requena.

What You Actually Do Here

You walk. A lattice of farm tracks fans out towards almond and olive groves, flat enough for trainers yet quiet enough to hear your own footfall. Within thirty minutes you can reach the ridge above the village; the reward is a 180-degree sweep of Vall d'Albaida, its patchwork of dry crops shifting from sage-green in April to bleached straw by late June. Take water: there are no fountains and the single bar closed in 2008.

Serious hikers link these paths to the GR-236 long-distance trail, but day-trippers usually choose the 5-kilometre loop signed simply "Circuit de Sempere". The way-marking is discreet—a daub of yellow paint on a fence post—so keep your eyes up. Mid-March coincides with almond blossom; photographers arrive at dawn, plant tripods in the frosted grass and leave before the sun burns off the mist. October delivers the opposite light: low, honeyed, and kind to stone. Either season delivers temperatures British knees approve of: 14-22 °C, dry air, little wind.

Bring binoculars, not for wildlife—rabbits and the occasional booted eagle—but for surveying the human geography. Across the valley you can pick out equally tiny pueblos: Dos Aguas, barely larger; Castielfabib, its castle a chipped tooth on the skyline. They look close enough to walk to, and they are, provided you have a map and don't mind hitching back if legs give out.

Where to Eat (Spoiler: Not Here)

Sempere has no shop, no bakery, no café, no restaurant. Self-catering is obligatory. Stock up in Requena before you arrive: the Consum supermarket on Avenida Arrabal sells crusty barra bread, manchego at half UK price, and mild morcilla that converts even black-pudding sceptics. If you arrive empty-handed, Utiel's Saturday market offers overripe tomatoes, locally milled olive oil and jars of honey labelled only in Valencian.

Lunch options in neighbouring towns suit British timetables. In Requena's old quarter, Taberna El Provencio opens at 13:30 sharp and will grill mushrooms with garlic while you wait, no siesta until 16:00. A three-course menú del día costs €14 and includes a half-bottle of bobal, a lighter red than Rioja and more gluggable at midday. Sunday lunch is trickier: most kitchens close by 17:00, so plan an early feed or face crisps for supper.

Festivals Without the Fiesta Fatigue

August turns the village briefly sociable. The fiesta honouring the Assumption hauls in emigrants who left for Valencia factories decades ago; numbers swell to maybe 120. A sound system appears on a trailer, belting out pasodobles until the Guardia Civil remind organisers of the 02:00 curfew. Visitors are welcomed but not catered for—bring your own chair, your own beer, and expect to be quizzed about Brexit in slow, polite English.

Easter is quieter. A single procession leaves the church at dusk, fifteen people carrying a modest Virgin under a canopy of white linen. No brass bands, no incense, just the shuffle of feet on cobbles and the church bell half-muffled. If you stumble upon it, hang back: participants outnumber spectators and an outsider with a camera can feel intrusive.

The Honest Seasonal Audit

Spring delivers the kindest introduction: green almonds, daytime warmth, cool nights. April can see the odd shower, so pack a light waterproof. May is practically perfect—wild marjoram scents the lanes and daylight lasts until 21:00.

Summer is brutal. Daytime highs flirt with 38 °C; shade is rationed. The village empties further as locals decamp to coastal family flats. Unless you're committed to dawn hiking, skip July and August.

Autumn repays the effort. Harvest tractors kick up dust that hangs like ground fog, but temperatures drop to the mid-twenties and the bobal vines turn claret-red. Photographers call it the "second spring"—fewer visitors, softer light.

Winter is sharp. Blue skies belie a wind that whistles across the plateau; nights regularly dip to zero. The stone houses, built before insulation, leak heat. Rental cottages advertise wood-burners; bring slippers because floors are tiled and frigid. Snow is rare, yet the access road ices over; carry chains if forecasters mention "heladas". On the plus side, you'll have the village, the paths and the silence entirely to yourself.

Leaving Without the Souvenir Regret

There is no gift shop. The closest thing to a memento is the vending machine's tin of sardines, now dented in your rucksack. Better souvenirs are less tangible: the echo-free moment when the church bell stops; the smell of hot almonds drifting from a distant roaster; the realisation that, for one night, your phone registered zero notifications.

Drive back to the motorway slowly. Within fifteen minutes phone signal returns, WhatsApp pings resume, and the coast's high-rise outline reappears on the horizon. Sempere slips behind the ridge, population still hovering around thirty, waiting for the next traveller who meant to book a city break and got the village instead.