Mula

A Town That Keeps the Sun at Arm’s Length

At 313 metres above the coastal plain, Mula sits high enough for the air to lose its sticky edge. Even in July, when the beaches of the Mar Menor are a furnace, the village thermometre rarely claws past 34 °C, and the evening breeze carries the scent of pine from the Sierra Espuña twenty kilometres away. The first thing you notice is the hush: no lorries, no karaoke bars, just the click of dominoes in the plaza and, on Tuesdays, the faint thud of a drum rehearsal drifting up from the church of Santo Domingo.

British number plates appear here with increasing frequency, usually attached to campervans parked overnight by the polideportivo. The aire is free, the bakery 200 metres away opens at seven, and the coffee costs €1.20 – half the price of the Costa Blanca service stations most drivers have just fled. They stay one night, planning to “push on tomorrow”, and often stay three, lured by a menu del día that still includes wine and pudding for €12.

Layers of Stone and Noise

Mula’s skyline is a timeline you can photograph in a single sweep: Iberian wall foundations baked into the hillside, the square Arab tower of the Castillo de los Vélez rebuilt by the conquering Fajardo family in 1520, and the baroque swirl of the Monasterio de San Francisco now repurposed as the public library. The castle itself is closed to visitors – its stone shell houses the municipal archive – but the climb is worth it for the view north across the almond terraces that bloom pink in February and look like a Damien Hirst spot painting.

Inside the library cloister, the temperature drops five degrees. Look up: the wooden ceiling is stitched together with 16th-century beams still marked by carpenters’ Roman numerals. On the wall, a laminated A4 sheet explains (in English on request) that the building survived the 1812 earthquake that levelled much of Murcia city. The librarian, María, will point you towards the original kitchen where the Franciscans brewed a rosemary liqueur now sold in plain bottles for €8 at the Friday market. “One nip before bed,” she advises, “and you’ll sleep through the drums.”

When the Town Loses Its Marbles

Semana Santa in Mula is not a pageant; it is an acoustic assault. From 22:00 on the Tuesday of Holy Week, every able-bodied resident joins the Tamborada. Up to 15,000 drums pound through the streets for fourteen hours non-stop. The British couple who booked the cute room above the plaza discover, too late, why the hotel hands out foam ear-plugs at check-in. By midnight the cobbles vibrate; by 03:00 the air tastes of wood-powder and red wine. Ear defenders are useless – the bass travels through your feet. The trick, learnt from a Sheffield expat who has lived here twelve years, is to embrace it: wear black, carry a plastic cup of sweetened brandy, and retreat to the upper alleys where the sound ricochets off stone and becomes bearable. Hotel prices triple, but if you stay five kilometres out at the rural Casa Vicente you’ll hear only a distant thunder and still get a taxi home for €12.

Outside fiestas, nights are whisper-quiet. Bars close by 23:30; even the dogs seem to observe the curfew. The only after-hours option is the late terrace at Bar La Muralla, where the landlord keeps a single malt behind the gin for the odd Scottish walker, and the television plays muted BBC World if you ask nicely.

Walks, Pools and a Pork Pie in Disguise

Mula sits on the north-west fringe of the 19,000-hectare Sierra de Mula–Carrascoy natural corridor. Footpaths start at the cemetery gate on the south side of town; within fifteen minutes you are among Aleppo pines and the only sound is your boots on the marl. The signed Ruta de los Barrancos is a 9-kilometre loop that drops into two rocky gorges and returns via an abandoned lime kiln – allow three hours and carry more water than you think necessary; the dry air dehydrates faster than the thermometer suggests.

Closer, and better for families, is the walk to the Fuente Caputa pools. Follow the signposted riverbed south-east for twenty minutes to reach a string of natural tanks deep enough to swim. The stone is smooth but slippery – jelly shoes are ideal. In August the water temperature hovers around 23 °C, cool enough to counter the heat rash you probably picked up on the coast.

Back in town, refuel with a pastel de cierva, a dense game pie encased in hot-water pastry. It looks and slices like a British pork pie, but the filling is wild boar marinated in clove and anise. Order it at Restaurante Paco’s with a caña of local beer and you’ll pay €4.50 – roughly the cost of a single London tube stop.

How to Get There, and When to Turn Back

Alicante airport to Mula takes 55 minutes on the A-7 and RM-15 motorways; after the Lorca turn-off the road empties and the hills close in. Car hire is essential – public transport involves a train to Murcia, a suburban train to Alcantarilla, and a bus that arrives too late for lunch. In winter, the altitude can bring morning frost; the RM-15 is gritted, but the final two-kilometre climb into the old town becomes a glassy slide in January. If snow is forecast (once every three or four years) park at the lower public car park by the sports centre and walk up.

Spring and autumn are kindest. April delivers daytime 23 °C and almond blossom scent drifting through open windows. October sees the grape harvest; farmers sell 5-kilo crates of muscatel grapes for €3 outside the Thursday market, and the evening air smells like warm wine. August is for heat-seekers only; many shops shutter from 14:00 to 18:00, and the municipal pool charges a modest €2 for a day ticket that includes cold showers and a bar serving frozen lemonade.

What You Won’t Find, and Might Miss

There is no souvenir tat, no Irish bar, no boat trip, no flamenco tablaos. Wi-Fi is patchy in the upper lanes; WhatsAudio messages sometimes download only when you descend to the plaza. That is, depending on temperament, either deprivation or relief. What you do get is a town that still manufactures door hinges in a back-street forge, a bakery that will warm your croissant if you arrive before eight, and an Easter Tuesday when the entire population becomes percussion.

Leave before sunrise the next day and the drums echo behind you like distant artillery. By the time you reach the motorway the hills have closed their circle, and the coast – with its full English breakfasts and two-for-one happy hours – feels further away than a mere hour’s drive.