Bullas

The morning bus from Murcia city wheezes its way up 650 metres of altitude, leaving behind the coastal heat and the package-tour coastline. Forty-five minutes later, Bullas appears—not with a dramatic reveal, but with the quiet confidence of a place that knows exactly what it is. The thermometer drops eight degrees. Vineyards replace beach umbrellas. And suddenly, that £7 glass of rosé you drank on the seafront last night is being poured from a barrel for €1.50 at the bodega door.

A Town That Grew on Grapes

Bullas doesn't whisper its wine heritage—it shouts it from every stone wall and cellar door. Over 12,000 residents live among 3,000 hectares of monastrell vines, the thick-skinned red grape that gives the local Denominación de Origen its backbone. The old town's streets were laid out for carts laden with harvest crates, not tourist coaches, which explains why you'll rarely hear English spoken in the bars around Plaza Vieja.

The Museo del Vino occupies a 19th-century winery on Calle de la Cruz. Inside, the smell of oak and fermentation still lingers in walls that once held 90,000 litres. Guides demonstrate how grapes were trodden by foot until the 1960s, and why the town's altitude—cool nights, hot days—creates the intensity that wine writers compare to Châteauneuf-du-Pape at half the price. Entry costs €4 and includes a tasting poured from clay cántaros, the same vessels Romans used here 2,000 years ago.

Stone, Caves and a Waterfall You Can Swim Under

Beyond the vineyards, Bullas sits on limestone that has been carved into habitations for centuries. The Barrio de Los Meleros contains thirty-odd cave houses, their chimneys poking from rock faces like periscopes. One belongs to 82-year-old Pepe Melero, whose grandfather dug the three-room dwelling in 1910. Pepe keeps the door open most mornings, happy to show visitors the constant 18 °C interior that negates any need for heating or air-conditioning.

Three kilometres north of town, the Rambla de los Mulos narrows into a gorge where the River Mula has cut a natural arch known as Salto del Usero. British hikers on TripAdvisor call it "a mini Algar Falls without the twenty-quid entry fee." They're half right: the water is just as turquoise, but here you share the pool with shepherds and weekend families from Caravaca rather than coach parties from Benidorm. The path from the car park takes twenty minutes; bring footwear you don't mind soaking—the only way to see the waterfall properly is to wade through the pool it drops into.

Saturday Morning: When the Cellars Open Their Doors

Winery visits aren't a souvenir-selling exercise in Bullas; they're social events. Turn up at Bodega Monastrell on Calle del Castillo at 11 a.m. and you'll likely find the owner's mother frying torrijas in the courtyard while her daughter explains why monastrell rosé ferments at 14 °C rather than the usual 18. Tastings cost €5–€8 and typically include four wines plus a plate of local goat's cheese that's been soaked in red wine until it turns purple. The cheese tastes of berries and barnyards in equal measure—surprisingly moreish.

Booking matters. Many bodegas need a minimum of four people and 24 hours' notice; Monday is dead everywhere, and Sunday afternoons are siesta-locked until April. The tourist office on Plaza Vieja prints a free wine-route map in English, but mobile signal in the old quarter is patchy—pick up the paper version before you start wandering.

Food That Understands Mountain Hunger

Bullas cooking doesn't bother with foam or fusion. Portions are built for people who've spent the morning tying vines or hiking the 12-kilometre Molinos trail. At Mesón Doña Pakyta, migas arrives as a mountain of fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, bacon and grapes—think savoury granola meets Christmas pudding. A plate feeds two comfortably and costs €7.50. The same restaurant serves gachasmigas, a thicker cousin of polenta topped with rabbit and snails. If that sounds too medieval, the torrijas (cold bread pudding soaked in honey and cinnamon) offers a sweet, familiar escape.

Local menus change with the altitude. Spring brings wild asparagus scrambled with eggs; autumn means game stews heavy with monastrell. Wine costs less than bottled water—order a litre jarra for €3 and nobody judges. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and salads; vegans should ask for alcachofas a la plancha (grilled artichokes) and expect sympathetic shrugs.

When to Arrive, and When to Stay Away

April and May stitch wildflowers through the almond terraces; temperatures hover around 22 °C and the Romería de San Isidro turns the countryside into one long picnic. September harvest brings the Fiesta de la Vendimia: barefoot grape-treading in Plaza Vieja, free tastings until the barrels empty, and night-time concerts where even the mayor ends up dancing. These weekends fill the 30-room Hotel Casa de los Pérez—book early or base yourself in Caravaca de la Cruz twenty minutes away.

Avoid August if you dislike heat. The thermometer can still hit 36 °C at midday, and the town's 650 metres don't offer coastal breezes. Winter is crisp but alive; Sunday lunchtime bars fill with families around wood-burners, and the surrounding sierras sparkle with frost. Snow is rare, yet the mountain road from the A-30 can ice over—carry chains if you're driving a hire car in January.

Getting There, Getting Cash, Getting Home

Murcia's Estación de Autobuses runs service L-15 at 09:15, returning 17:45—perfect day-trip timing, though you'll miss evening wine bars that only wake up after 9 p.m. Drivers take the A-30 towards Madrid, exit at Alguazas, then follow the RM-15 for 28 kilometres of almond groves and sudden ravines. Petrol stations are scarce beyond Cehegín—fill up early.

Bring euros. The only ATM stands on Plaza Vieja and empties at weekends; most bodegas still operate cash-only ledgers. Cards work in restaurants, but the machine inevitably breaks just as you ask for the bill. Parking outside the old quarter is free and plentiful—follow signs to the Polideportivo and walk five minutes uphill.

Bullas won't change your life. It has no Michelin stars, no beach clubs, no souvenir stalls flamenco-ing for tips. What it offers is the Spain that guidebooks insist disappeared decades ago: a town where wine is cheaper than water, where grandfathers still sweep cave-doorsteps at dawn, and where the mountains meet the monastrell with a frankness that feels increasingly rare. Turn up on a Saturday, order a jarra, and you'll understand why the British wine tourists who find it tend to come back—quietly, repeatedly, and without telling too many friends.