Ulea

The morning bus from Murcia drops you on the RM-533 with nothing but citrus perfume and the sound of water. Below lies Ulea, split clean in two: the old village scrabbling up a sun-baked ridge, the newer houses sprawled across the fertile vega. At barely 126 m above sea-level it is hardly the roof of Spain, yet the valley walls rise so sharply that the place feels altitude-pinned between limestone and river mud. In July that means 35 °C at midday; in January you’ll want a fleece by 4 p.m. when the sun slips behind the same cliffs that once gave Moorish farmers shade and defence.

Two Villages for the Price of One

Start in the lower barrio, where the Segura glides past vegetable plots and the irrigation gates still open on Thursdays. The streets here are wide enough for a tractor and a chat; bougainvillea flops over garden walls, and every second gate reveals a honesty table piled with 1 € bags of lemons whose scent drifts uphill like an invitation. Park sensibly—spaces fit a Fiesta, not a Discovery—and follow the signed footbridge that ducks under the motorway. Fifteen minutes later the medieval quarter begins: cobbles slick with moss, gradients that calf muscles remember, and sudden glimpses of the river turned into a thin silver ribbon far below.

Half-way up, the church of San Bartolomé squats on what was once a mosque’s footprint. The bell-tower is shorter than the minaret would have been, but the blocked horseshoe arch in the north wall gives the game away. Step inside for a moment of cool darkness; the retablo is 18th-century provincial Baroque, gilded enough to remind you Murcia was once gold-rich new world territory. From the tiny plaza outside, a stone stair climbs to the Mirador del Corazón de Jesús. The climb takes five minutes on loose gravel—trainers advised—and delivers a full-length postcard of the Ricote valley: rows of naranjos laid out like green corduroy, the motorway a faint hum on the opposite bank, and the saw-toothed ridge that keeps the whole stage set in shadow until well after dawn.

Water, Paper, Stone

Ulea’s real monument isn’t a building; it’s the acequia network that still carries melt-water from the mountains to every terrace. Follow the signed route south-west out of the village and you reach the Paraje de la Umbría, where two stone norias lie toppled but intact. Their wooden paddles rotted away decades ago, yet the channels they once served run full, the flow regulated by sluice stones so old the Moorish numerals are visible if you brush away the moss. Farmers here call the system “paper and stone”: paper is the annual agreement of who gets water when; stone is what makes it happen. Ask politely and someone will show you the 14th-century weir, still diverting half the river each March without a drop of cement.

Walking, or Just Sitting

The Ricote valley footpath is a 12-kilometre green thread that stitches Ulea to its neighbours Villanueva and Ojós. The surface is compacted earth, flat enough for hybrids and pushchairs, and every kilometre a stone bench faces the water so you can pretend you’re stopping for the view rather than your lungs. Allow two hours each way if you’re determined to reach Ojós for the Drunken Cake that the local bakery sells by the slab—rum-soaked, fruit-studded, closer to a tipsy Dundee than anything Spanish. Alternatively, walk twenty minutes upstream to the abandoned hydro station; kingfishers use the broken windows as dive platforms and the concrete roof makes a decent picnic spot out of the wind.

Serious walkers can link up the PR-MU 13 which climbs 600 m to the ridge road between Campos del Río and Cieza. The path is way-marked but narrow, and summer sun reflects off the limestone like a grill. Set off at dawn, carry two litres of water, and you’ll be back in the village square before the bar opens at eleven. Winter is simpler: the same trail can be muddy after rain, but temperatures hover round 15 °C and the valley smells of wild fennel instead of dust.

What You’ll Eat and Where

Ulea itself has one permanent bar, the Reina Mora, open Tuesday to Sunday and closed for random saints’ days. Expect a handwritten menu: grilled pork, river fish if someone caught any, chips that arrive unsalted so you can adjust to British taste. A three-course lunch with wine costs about €12; they prefer cash but will roll their eyes and fetch the card machine if you’re stuck. Across the road, the panadería sells filled baguettes from 7 a.m.—the tuna-and-egg bocadillo is surprisingly respectable—and in spring you can buy azahar honey scraped straight from the comb.

If you need choice, drive ten minutes to Archena where riverside restaurants serve levante rice with rabbit and snails. Vegetarians survive on pisto murciano (a smoky ratatouille topped with egg) and the local artichokes, fried crisp like crisps and served with lemon wedges. Everything is cheaper than on the coast; main courses rarely breach €14 even in the smarter places.

When to Go, How to Get There

Spring is the obvious answer: the orange blossom peaks during the last fortnight of April and the valley smells like a florist’s fridge. Early autumn runs a close second—warm days, cool nights, and the harvest means honesty tables groan under pomegranates the size of cricket balls. Mid-summer is doable if you adopt Spanish time: walk at sunrise, siesta through the furnace hours, re-emerge after six when cliffs throw long shadows and the river steams like a kettle. Winter is quiet; some cafés close, but the light is soft and you’ll have the acequia paths to yourself.

Alicante airport to Ulea takes just over an hour on the AP-7 and RM-533; petrol stations are scarce beyond Alcantarilla so fill up. There is no railway—ignore the outdated guidebooks that mention a “planned” stop in Villanueva—and buses from Murcia run twice daily, timed for pensioners rather than day-trippers. Hire cars are cheap in winter (€18 a day for a Fiat 500) but triple at Easter; book early or base yourself in Archena where accommodation runs €65 a night instead of Ulea’s solitary rental house.

The Catch

Ulea is not pretty in the postcard sense. Paint peels, dogs bark, and the river can smell of fertiliser after heavy rain. Saturday afternoons echo to motocross bikes on the opposite bank, and August brings families from Cieza whose music tastes lean toward reggaeton at fridge-humming volume. If you need artisan ice-cream shops or bilingual menus, stick to the coast. What the village offers instead is continuity: the same families have worked these terraces for eight centuries, and the only thing approaching a traffic jam is when Señora López stops her Seat Toledo to gossip with the bread-van driver. Bring patience, a phrasebook, and a willingness to accept the place on its own terms; the valley will repay you with shade, citrus, and the small revelation that Spain still has corners where tourism is a visitor, not an industry.