Moratalla

The castle bell strikes two, shutters clatter open and the only sound on Calle Nueva is a fork hitting china. In Moratalla, lunch is taken seriously. At 681 m above sea level, halfway between Murcia city and the Castilian plateau, the town’s clock runs to mountain time: long mid-day breaks, evenings that stretch until the thermals finally drop, and a tourist office that shuts without apology if the assistant’s cousin is getting married.

A White Labyrinth Above the Clouds

Approach from the south-west on the RM-415 and the town appears suddenly: a wedge of white houses clamped to a sandstone ridge, the fifteenth-century keep poking through early-morning cloud that fills the valley like milk in a bowl. The road corkscrews up, enters the medieval gate, then relinquishes you onto streets barely wider than a donkey. Park where locals do—on the sloping Plaza de la Constitución—then walk; the gradients quickly sort the calf muscles from the car-bound.

The Islamic street plan survives intact. One moment you’re squeezing past a shrine dripping with carnations, the next the alley spits you onto a balconied mirador looking south across 60 km of empty sierra. Detours are worthwhile: the Renaissance tower of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción rises only a metre lower than the castle itself, a Renaissance boast that still dominates the skyline, while the tiny Ermita de Santa Ana hides a Mudejar ceiling worth the climb even if the door is locked.

Entry to the castle is free; the only price is a five-minute scramble up the original ramp worn smooth by Moorish patrols. From the battlements you can trace the town’s water system—stone channels that carry snowmelt from the Sierra de Moratalla, feeding public fountains installed before Granada fell. The channels still work; listen after dark and you’ll hear water gurgling beneath grates, the original plumbing soundtrack.

Tracks, Rock Art and River Gorges

Moratalla’s municipality covers 954 km², larger than the entire city of Manchester. Within it sit two protected areas: the Sierra de Moratalla Regional Park and, just over the boundary, Sierra Espuña. Way-marked paths fan out from the upper suburbs; the shortest, the 4 km Ruta del Agua, loops through irrigation ditches and natural springs and can be walked in trainers before breakfast. Serious walkers head north-east to the Cañón del Alhárabe, a limestone gorge where griffon vultures ride thermals and emerald pools appear after rain. The PR-15 long-distance path continues all the way to the 2,015 m summit of Revolcadores, the highest peak in Murcia, though you’ll need a car shuttle or a very early start.

Neolithic artists liked the neighbourhood too. Two rock shelters—Fuente del Sabuco and Andragulla—hold Unesco-listed paintings of archers and goats. You can’t wander in alone; visits run from the tourist office (€5, English-speaking guide if you book a day ahead) and involve a 20-minute drive on a dirt track, followed by a torch-lit scramble. The reward is 7,000-year-old pigment that still looks wet.

Mountain bikers use the same web of forest tracks, but the town’s newest obsession is canyoning. Local outfit Sierra Aventura supplies wetsuits and abseiling gear for the wet gorge of Taibilla, a half-day descent that finishes with coffee and brandy at an abandoned water mill. Temperatures in the gorge rarely top 18 °C even in August—welcome relief when the town above is nudging 35 °C.

Steep Streets, Cool Nights and Proper Portions

British visitors arriving from the Mar Menor are often surprised by the chill. At 11 p.m. in mid-July the thermometer can read 15 °C; bring a fleece whatever the coast is doing. The altitude also keeps humidity low, so you can walk at midday without the sticky discomfort of the seaside strip—just remember those cobbles are not flip-flop territory.

Food is mountain fare: robust, meat-heavy and designed for people who’ve spent the morning chasing goats. Lunch menus del día hover around €12 and usually start with migas—fried breadcrumbs scattered with chorizo and grapes—followed by cordero al ajo cabañil, lamb simmered in vinegar, garlic and bay. Vegetarians survive on zarangollo (scrambled courgette and onion) and the local soft cheese, cuajada, drizzled with honey from apiaries in the pine forest. The only souvenir edible worth suitcase space is morcilla de Moratalla, a blood sausage studded with pine-nuts; even sworn black-pudding sceptics admit it tastes more nutty than irony.

For a blow-out dinner, El Olivar on Calle Donantes de Sangre grills a chuletón (T-bone for two) over holm-oak embers. Brits accustomed to Spanish beef being overcooked are relieved to see rosé centres arrive without argument. Order chips and you’ll regret it—the default accompaniment is a whole green pepper blistered on the grill, perfect for mopping meat juices. If you’d rather graze, Bar Al-Kazar on the main square does a tostada with local honey and fresh orange juice for €2.50; service starts at 07:30, ideal before an early hike.

Drums, Bonfires and a Monday Morning That Never Comes

Moratalla’s calendar is noisy. Easter’s Tamborada sees 2,000 residents in purple robes beating 14-inch snare drums in perfect unison; the sound ricochets off stone and can be felt in the ribcage. Locals hand out ear-plugs, but light sleepers should still avoid accommodation facing the church. June brings Hogueras de San Juan: teenagers drag sofas into the street, build bonfires from old wardrobes and set them alight at midnight while the town band plays Queen covers. Fireworks start at dawn and continue, intermittently, until October’s patronal fair.

That September fiesta is the moment Moratalla reluctantly admits outsiders. Fairground rides occupy the football pitch, brass bands march through streets carpeted with rosemary sprigs and every bar counter groans under trays of paparajotes—lemon leaves dipped in batter, fried and dusted with sugar. Accommodation doubles in price and the town’s solitary cash machine (Cajamar, Plaza del Ayuntamiento) runs dry by Friday; bring euros before you arrive.

Getting There, Leaving Again

The drive from Alicante airport takes two hours on the A-30 toll road; from Murcia-San Javier it’s 75 minutes. Public transport is patchy: one Alsa coach a day leaves Murcia bus station at 14:15, returning at 06:45 next morning—fine for a long weekend, useless for a day trip. The last 25 km from the motorway are mountain switchbacks; if you hate heights, let someone else drive and concentrate on the ibex silhouetted on the cliff tops.

Stay in the centre if you want atmosphere; Casa de los Pasos is a converted seventeenth-century house with beamed rooms from €55. Motorhomers prefer the free aire by the polideportivo—flat bays, potable water and a five-minute walk to bakeries that open at 06:00. Either way, check out early. The town wakes with the light, and by 08:00 the bakery’s almond pasties are already cooling. Grab one, climb the castle ramp and watch the cloud sea dissolve to reveal a horizon of empty sierra stretching all the way to Granada province. Then head downhill before the lunch shutters close again.