Ayora

Ayora’s evening bell tolls at ten past eight, not eight. By then the limestone glow on Pico Caroche has already faded from amber to violet, and the castle walls above the town look like someone cut them from cardboard and propped them against the sky. Down in the narrow lanes, pensioners drag plastic chairs onto the cobbles to watch the last swifts tear through the thermals. No-one offers a menu in English, no-one asks for a tip, and the only traffic is a quad bike hauling feed sacks to a backyard stable. This is the moment most visitors realise they have left the coastal Valencia of package brochures somewhere on the A-3 motorway.

The village sits 552 metres above sea level on the western lip of the Cofrentes Valley, close enough to the provincial frontier that the wind carries both Valencian and Manchegan accents. Olive and almond terraces press against the houses; beyond them the Sierra de Ayora rises in sun-bleached waves of pine and holm oak. It feels older, drier, slower than the coast—more Albacete than Alboraya—and that is precisely why people make the 90-minute detour from Valencia or the two-hour haul from Alicante.

Castle, Church and the Problem of Closed Doors

The Castillo de Ayora began life as an Almohad lookout, swapped hands during the Reconquista and later served as a stone quarry for the town below. What remains is a breached triangle of curtain wall and a single tower you can climb—if the caretaker turns up. Opening hours are announced on a sheet of paper taped inside the tourist office door each morning; ignore them at your peril because there is no website, QR code or switchboard. British walkers who arrive expecting English signage or a tea kiosk usually leave empty-handed, but the view costs nothing and needs no translation. From the battlements the valley unrolls like a relief map: the Zújar River glinting north-east, irrigation circles glowing emerald against ochre, and the faint blue seam of the Gulf of Valencia on the horizon when the tramontana clears the dust.

Back in the streets, the late-Gothic Iglesia de la Asunción squats on the foundations of the former mosque. Its portico is pure sixteenth-century Renaissance, added by craftsmen who had seen Florence but still had to work with the stone at hand. Inside, the Baroque organ case is missing most of its gilding and the side chapels smell of wax and mouse traps; the effect is shabby rather than sublime, but that honesty appeals after too many over-restored costal temples. Doors open for Mass at 19:30 on weekdays; at other times ring the sacristan’s bell and wait—he lives three doors down and takes his time.

Food that Speaks Castilian, Not Catalan

Ayora’s kitchens look inland. Order cordero a la pastora and you get a clay dish of lamb shoulder slow-cooked with garlic, bay and a trace of smoky pimentón—comfort food for anyone raised on Lancashire hotpot. Migas—fried breadcrumbs showered with grapes and scraps of bacon—arrive in portions large enough to floor a shepherd. The set lunch at Casa Félix on Plaza Mayor runs to three courses, bread and a jug of Utiel-Requena rosado for €14; they only take cash and the waiter will not explain what “gazpacho manchego” is because he assumes you already know. (It is a game stew thickened with flatbread, not the chilled tomato soup served in Andalucía.)

Vegetarians struggle. The fallback is a potato and egg tortilla the size of a wagon wheel, served lukewarm. Puddings are better: try the tarta de miel, a dense almond and honey tart that pairs well with the local anise liqueur if you can handle the 40-degree proof.

Walking Tracks, Goat Tracks and the Art of Not Getting Lost

The sierra behind the town is criss-crossed by drove roads older than any map. The Ruta del Agua follows stone irrigation channels to four springs; allow two hours and carry more water than you think you need even in April. The Sendero de los Molinos drops into a side valley where ruined watermills still hold fragments of grindstone—photogenic, but watch for loose footing and the occasional feral dog protecting somebody’s goat herd. Serious hikers aim for Pico Caroche, the 1,126-metre roof of Valencia province. The standard route starts 6 km north at the Fuente de la Reina picnic site; the climb is 400 m of calf-burning scree, but the summit logbook records a steady trickle of Brits who rate the 360-degree view above anything on the crowded Bernia ridge nearer Benidorm.

Spring brings wild thyme and the clatter of migrant storks; autumn brings edible mushrooms and the chance of bumping into locals carrying wicker baskets and folding knives. Both seasons share calm, 22-degree days and clear, star-loaded nights. Summer is hotter and louder: Ayora’s fiestas in mid-August feature brass bands that march until 04:00, followed by rockets that ricochet between the houses like gunfire. Light sleepers should book on the outskirts or come in September when the smaller Virgen de los Remedios romería fills the lanes with petals instead of fireworks.

Getting Here, Staying Here, Paying for It

Public transport is patchy. There is no railway station: the closest is 40 km away at Requena-Utiel on the Valencia–Madrid slow line. From there a Monday-to-Friday bus reaches Ayora at 14:15; miss it and a taxi costs €70. Hiring a car at Valencia or Alicante airport is simpler and opens up the valley’s scattering of hot-spring villages. The roads are quiet but sinuous—expect 90 minutes of second-gear curves after you leave the motorway at Requena.

Accommodation is limited to half a dozen small guesthouses. The pick is Casa Segorbe, a converted seventeenth-century grain store on Calle Nueva with beamed ceilings and a roof terrace that faces the castle. Double rooms start at €65 including breakfast (strong coffee, thick toast, home-made quince jam). Cheaper hostals charge €35 but may shut for the entire month of December when proprietors visit grandchildren in Madrid.

Cash remains king. The sole ATM stands beside the modern town hall on Avenida de la Constitución; the old quarter bars do not accept cards and will not break a fifty-euro note for two coffees. Mobile coverage fades on the upper lanes and vanishes entirely inside the castle—download offline maps before you set out.

Departure Note

Ayora gives you what you bring: hikers find trails, birdwatchers find booted eagles, historians find layers of stone. What you will not find is a souvenir fridge-magnet empire, a bilingual guided tour or a sea view. Some visitors call the place “unfinished” and drive on after one night; others stay for three, rise with the church bell and discover that Spain still makes places that exist for themselves, not for the tourist ledger. If that sounds like a risk worth taking, fill the tank, pocket some twenties and point the sat-nav inland.