El Pinós

The thermometer drops four degrees between the Alicante coast and El Pinos. At 574 m the air thins just enough to sharpen the scent of almond blossom and diesel from the tractor idling outside the cooperative winery. This is not the Costa Blanca. The nearest beach is 55 km away, and the village faces inland, towards the plateau of La Mancha, with rows of bobbin-shaped vines marching up rust-coloured hills.

A Town That Works the Land

Most visitors barrel past on the CV-83, bound for the marble quarries of Novelda or the motorway to Madrid. Those who swing off find a grid of low houses and single-track streets that can be walked end-to-end in fifteen minutes. The parish tower of San Pedro Apóstol marks the centre; everything else – butchers, two small supermarkets, a handful of bars – radiates from the plaza like spokes on a slow-turning wheel.

Fridays feel busiest. That’s when the market spreads awnings over the concrete square: local almonds sold in brown paper cones, sausages flecked with pimentón, and grapes the size of squash balls that will become the DO Vinalopó wines the region is allowed, quietly, to boast about. Prices are lower than in coastal tourist traps: a kilo of table grapes sets you back €1.80, a vacuum-packed conejo al ajillo €6.

The economy still runs on agriculture, not on holiday lets. Cooperative trucks rattle out at dawn to collect the night’s harvest; by nine the chemist, the baker and the bank have opened their shutters, and by two the streets empty for lunch. If you want action, come early or wait for fiesta week.

What Passes for Sights

Guidebooks call El Pinos “undiscovered”, which really means there is no ticket office. The ruined Castillo del Río sits 3 km south-west, reachable on a stony farm track passable to hatchbacks driven slowly. A single information panel admits that the fortress “requires imagination”. What you do get is a 270-degree sweep over vineyards and the glinting slate roofs of hamlets whose populations never topped two hundred. Bring water; no café, no loo, no guard in a peaked cap.

Back in town, the Museo del Vino occupies two rooms of the Casa de la Cultura. Entry is free; labels are Spanish only, but staff will open a bottle of young macabeo if you ask the right questions. Old photographs show the same streets you just walked, except mules outnumber cars. Allow twenty minutes, thirty if you read every caption.

Architecture buffs may feel short-changed. The church façade is nineteenth-century rebuild, neat rather than spectacular. The interest lies in continuity: the building has served the same 5,000 souls since the 1700s, baptism records marching in looping copperplate across frayed ledgers. Ask the sacristan and he’ll lift the rope so you can step into the side chapel where the local Agricultural Guild once stored seed grain.

Walking the Dry Ridge

Altitude makes summer hiking feasible before eleven. A signed 7-km loop, the Ruta de los Molinos, threads past three wind-tower mills built to grind cereal when rain allowed a wheat crop. Stone blades are gone, but the towers stand, hollow against the sky like broken teeth. The path is easy; still, trainers suffice and the gradient never tops 200 m. Spring adds a carpet of purple rosemary flowers and the risk of meeting a boar; autumn smells of damp thyme and gunpowder – hunting season.

Serious walkers can stitch together farm tracks to create a 22-km circuit south to the Sierra de Salinas, the ridge that snows white with salt winds in January. Take the 1:40,000 Vall de Cati map; phone coverage drops in every valley. Winter days are crisp and bright, but night frost can glaze windscreens; if you’re renting, request a car with working heater.

Wine Without the Theatre

Enotourism here predates the word. Bodegas accept visitors, yet none employs a marketing manager. Call Bodegas Pinoso at least a day ahead; someone will shuffle down from the vineyard to pour monastrell that stains the glass violet. The €5 tasting fee is waived if you buy a bottle (around €7-9). Expect concrete tanks, not chrome, and dogs that bark once then flop back in the shade.

The cooperative, opposite the petrol station, runs more formal tours on Saturdays at 11:00, €8 including three wines and a splodge of sobresada on bread. Numbers are capped at fifteen; in harvest weeks (late August–September) the guide may cancel at short notice – everyone is in the fields.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

Fiestas peak at the end of June for San Pedro: processions, brass bands that rehearse until midnight, and a temporary bar in the sports pavilion selling a litre of beer for €2. If peaceful sleep matters, book outside the centre or bring ear-plugs. The August Vendimia is gentler: foot-trodden grapes, children’s grape-juice fights, and free bottles for anyone who helps load the trailer. Foreign visitors are welcomed like extra labour.

Easter is low-key but atmospheric; hooded cofradías move through incense-thick streets to the slow beat of a drum. There are no souvenir stalls, no €12 thrones made in China. What you will find is neighbours handing out plastic chairs so the elderly can watch the procession pass.

The Practical Bits

Getting here: No train line reaches the village. From Alicante airport hire a car, join the A-31, exit at kilometre 62, then follow the CV-833 for 19 km. The final climb is steep but dual-carriageway; allow 55 minutes total. Buses run twice daily from Alicante, arriving at 14:15 and 19:30; single fare €6.35.

Where to stay: Hotel Casa del Trigo occupies a nineteenth-century grain store near the plaza. Twelve rooms, €70–85 B&B, decent wifi, roof terrace that catches the evening sun. Budget option: Pensión San Pedro, above a bar, €35 for a double with shared bath. Both fill up during fiestas; reserve or expect to drive 20 km to Monóvar.

Eating: Lunch menus hover around €12–14. Try Casa Ramón for gazpacho manchego (not the cold soup; here it’s rabbit and flatbread stewed together). Evening tapas crawl is limited – two bars keep kitchens open past 22:00. Vegetarians face the usual interior-Spain lottery; roasted piquillo peppers and tortilla are the safest bets.

Weather: Summer highs 34 °C but nights drop to 18 °C; midday cycling is foolish. January can dip to –2 °C at dawn; almond blossom appears mid-February and is gone within three weeks. Rain is scarce, so when it does fall the smell of wet limestone lingers for hours.

Worth the Detour?

El Pinos will never compete with the Moorish white villages of Andalucía or the cathedral cities of the north. It offers instead a slice of inland life that has changed gear but not direction. Come if you want to walk between vines without sharing the path, taste wine where the winemaker still clocks in at seven, and eat food designed for people who prune all day. Expect quiet streets, honest prices, and a landscape that turns from khaki to emerald for one brief month. If that sounds like enough, set the sat-nav and climb.