Jalance

The road climbs steadily from the A-3, leaving behind the citrus groves of the coastal plain. At 453 metres above sea level, Jalance appears suddenly—a cluster of limestone houses clinging to a ridge, their terracotta roofs catching the morning light. Below, the Júcar river has carved a gorge so dramatic that British hikers have nicknamed it 'the mini Grand Canyon'. It's a comparison that would make locals laugh, but standing at the Mirador de la Hoz, watching golden eagles ride thermals above 200-metre cliffs, you can see their point.

This isn't the Valencia of package holidays. The village's 800-odd inhabitants live according to agricultural rhythms that haven't changed much since the Moors terraced these slopes. Almond and olive groves stitch patterns across the hillsides, while the older farmers still harvest by hand, their canvas bags slung across shoulders like medieval satchels. The pace is deliberate. Rush a coffee in Bar Central and María will remind you that proper café con leche takes time—usually accompanied by her homemade mantecados that crumble like shortbread.

The Old Town's Steep Surprises

Entering through the 16th-century archway on Calle San Miguel feels like stepping into a different altitude altogether. The cobbled lanes rise at angles that would shame San Francisco, narrowing to shoulder-width passages where washing lines create canopies of sheets and work shirts. These aren't picturesque props for tourists—they're Tuesday's laundry, drying in the mountain breeze that keeps the village three degrees cooler than Valencia city year-round.

The Iglesia Parroquial de San Miguel Arcángel squats at the summit, its squat bell tower more fortress than religious beacon. Inside, the air carries centuries of incense and candle wax. The 18th-century retablo gleams with gold leaf that survived the Civil War thanks to quick-thinking villagers who painted it black overnight. Their descendants still polish it annually, using techniques passed down like family recipes.

Those recipes matter here. In Casa Roque, the village's only restaurant open year-round, Conchi serves gazpacho manchego that bears no relation to its chilled Andalusian cousin. This is hunter's food—rabbit and flatbread stewed with wild thyme gathered from the surrounding pinares. The mojete de bacalao arrives cold, tomatoes and cod dressed simply with local olive oil pressed from trees that predate the telephone. It's honest cooking that costs €12 for three courses, wine included. The wine list extends to red, white, or the local Moscatel that tastes like liquid apricots.

Walking the Almond Line

February transforms the surrounding hills into a Japanese watercolour. The Sendero de los Almendros, marked by faded yellow paint on dry stone walls, meanders through 5 kilometres of almond orchards. When the trees bloom, it's blinding—millions of white petals against red earth, the scent carrying faint almond bitterness. The track starts behind the cemetery, where British walkers should note the Spanish tradition of bringing flowers. Empty-handed curiosity is fine; photographing mourners is not.

The serious walking begins at the Cañones del Júcar. Drive 3 kilometres north on the CV-565 (single-track, potholed, officially 3-tonne limit but locals cheerfully ignore this) to where the road dead-ends at a makeshift car park. By 11 a.m. on Sundays, it's full—Valencian families unloading paella pans for riverside picnics. Start early and you'll share the 9-kilometre loop only with griffon vultures.

The first section follows the gorge rim, flat and straightforward. Photographs here deceive—the river appears reachable, a silver thread 150 metres below. The descent proper begins after the abandoned charcoal burner's hut, where the path drops through holm oak and rosemary scrub. Good boots aren't negotiable; the limestone rubble shifts like ball bearings. By the river, the temperature rises noticeably—this is proper microclimate territory. Swimming is technically forbidden but universally ignored in August, when the water hits 24°C and Spanish teenagers create rock-pool beaches.

The return climb tests calf muscles and resolve. Locals claim it takes 45 minutes; allow double that unless you're mountain-goat fit. The reward comes at the top: views stretching 30 kilometres to the sierras of Cuenca, the village appearing toy-like on its ridge.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

December's Fiesta de los Locos makes Benidorm's fancy dress seem tame. For one Saturday, half the village dresses as the other half—priests become flamenco dancers, grandmothers sport fake moustaches and builder's bums. The parade starts at midday, fuelled by mistela (muscatel must fortified with aguardiente) that tastes innocent but removes inhibitions faster than sangria. British visitors are welcome but fair game—last year's newcomer found himself crowned 'Reina de la Fiesta' wearing a dress made from supermarket carrier bags.

January's San Antón is gentler. The priest blesses animals outside the church—everything from pedigree dogs to chickens in cardboard boxes. The pan bendito (blessed bread) tastes like slightly sweet focaccia; accepting it commits you to at least attempting the local dialect. 'Moltes gràcies' works, though Valenciano here is laced with Spanish consonants that would horrify coastal purists.

The Practical Bits Nobody Mentions

Getting here requires planning. Valencia's Estación de Autobuses runs one service daily—departing 2 p.m., returning 6 a.m. next day. That's it. No Sunday service, no exceptions. Car hire from Valencia Airport takes 75 minutes via the A-3, but fill up at the Repsol before the Requena exit. Jalance's single petrol station closes at 8 p.m. and doesn't reopen Sundays.

Accommodation is limited. The Hotel Jalance Experience occupies a converted 19th-century manor, its rooms mixing exposed beams with Wi-Fi that works sporadically. Half-board seems sensible until you realise dinner starts at 10 p.m.—fine for Spaniards, challenging for British stomachs accustomed to 7 p.m. pub grub. Better to book room-only and explore Conchi's €12 menu, or self-cater from the Supermercado Ángel. Their jamón aisle alone justifies the trip.

Cash remains king. The Santander ATM by the town hall works roughly 60% of the time—when it doesn't, the nearest alternative is 20 kilometres away in Ayora. Phone signal dies completely in the gorge; download Google Maps offline before leaving the village. Emergency Spanish helps: '¿Hay señal aquí?' ('Is there signal here?') usually produces helpful pointing toward the nearest hotspot—typically the church square.

Winter visits bring their own rewards. January daytime temperatures hover around 12°C—perfect walking weather—but nights drop to freezing. The village's altitude means occasional snow, transforming the landscape into something approaching the Pyrenees. Summer reverses the equation: 35°C days that send sensible residents into siesta hibernation, followed by warm evenings where the square fills with card games and gossip until midnight.

Jalance doesn't do grand gestures. Its pleasures accumulate slowly: the way morning light hits limestone walls, the sudden realisation that you've walked three hours without seeing another foreigner, the satisfaction of ordering coffee in Spanish and receiving exactly what you intended. It's a village that rewards those who abandon the checklist mentality and surrender to Spanish time—where lunch happens when you're hungry, not when your schedule demands.

Come for the canyon views, stay for the conversations with farmers who remember when these hills echoed with gunfire during the Civil War. They'll tell you over coffee that nothing much changes here, and that's precisely the point. In an region increasingly defined by tourism, Jalance remains stubbornly itself—a mountain village where the almonds still bloom on schedule, the church bell still marks the hours, and strangers are welcomed with the curiosity reserved for those brave enough to climb the hill.