Yecla

The December sky above Yecla cracks like a battlefield. Clouds of blue-grey smoke drift past the 52-metre dome of the Basílica while rows of men in velvet tunics fire antique muskets into the air, the sound bouncing off the stone arcades of Plaza Mayor. It is the start of the Fiestas de la Virgen, the moment when this high-plateau town of 36,000 lets off steam after the grape harvest and reminds visitors that, at 602 m, it is closer in spirit to Castilla than to the Mediterranean beaches 80 km away.

Yecla sits on the Murcia-Albacete-Alicante triangle, a frontier position that has shaped both its character and its climate. Daytime winter temperatures can hover at a crisp 12 °C under bright sun, then plunge to zero at night; in July the same altitude grants relief while the coast swelters, but bring a jacket anyway once the sun drops. Frost is common enough for vines to be bush-pruned low to the ground, giving the surrounding vineyards the appearance of squat, woody cushions stretching to every horizon.

A town built on monastrell

Wine arrived with the Romans and never left. Today 8,500 ha of registered vineyards supply a Denominación de Origen that punches far above its price bracket: dense monastrell reds retail in British supermarkets for £8–£10, about half the cost of comparable Rioja. Bodegas Castaño, five minutes south of the centre, runs English-language tours at 11:30 a.m. if booked 24 hours ahead (£12 including four samples). Their experimental ‘Alma de Crianza’ shows what the grape can do when treated like cabernet: 12 months in French oak, blackberry and thyme on the nose, liquorice on the finish. Across the road, family-run Bodegas La Purísima will fill a five-litre plastic cubo straight from the tank for €9—perfect if you have a villa holiday and no pretensions.

The wine route is not a marketing afterthought; it is the local economy. Even the petrol station on the ring road sells 3-litre boxes labelled ‘D.O. Yecla’ next to the engine oil. Between vineyards the landscape is wheat-coloured steppe, sudden limestone outcrops and the occasional band of sheep supervised by a shepherd on a moped. Pull over and you can walk signed footpaths into the Sierra de Salinas, where rosemary and wild thyme scent the air and griffon vultures turn lazy circles overhead.

Stones older than Stonehenge

Ten kilometres north, Monte Arabí rises 1,066 m, a sandstone wave ridged with prehistoric art. The Abrigo de Cantos de la Visera shelters red-painted human figures 5,000 years old—older than Stonehenge’s sarsen stones. Access is by guided tour only (Saturday and Sunday, €5, reserve at the tourist office on Plaza Mayor). The track is a bone-shaker, but the reward is a quiet gallery where the only soundtrack is the wind hissing through juniper. Bring trainers; the final 200 m is a scramble over loose rock.

Back in town, layers of history sit cheek-by-jowl. The thirteenth-century Iglesia Vieja de la Asunción, all thick walls and pointed arch, now hosts a small Museum of Sacred Art (€3, closed Monday). Two streets away, the Palacio de los Ortega sprouts modernist iron balconies and floral tile-work—early-twentieth-century bourgeois confidence paid for by agricultural boom years. The basilica’s dome is climbed on the hour by a guide who will point out, far below, the original medieval street plan that fans out like a wine stain across the plateau.

What to eat between tastings

Lunch starts at 14:00 and finishes around 16:30; miss the window and you will be foraging. On Calle Pablo Picasso, family-run Tapería El Mosqui serves gazpacho yeclano—here a hearty game-and-noodle stew, not chilled tomato soup—at €9 for a portion that feeds two. Order gachasmigas on the side: fried dough crumbs with garlic and paprika that taste like a savoury cousin of mashed potato. Vegetarians are not forgotten: pisto yeclano (roasted aubergine and pepper) arrives topped with a quail egg for €6. If you need something sweet for the glovebox, the cloistered nuns at the Convento de las Bernardas sell libricos—honey wafers pressed into the shape of little books—through a wooden turntable so you never see a habit.

Evenings can be eerily quiet outside fiesta periods. Most locals retreat to domino clubs or front-room television once the cold creeps in. A couple of bars on Plaza Mayor stay open for brandy and conversation; try the locally infused rosemary variety, served in a shot glass rinsed with anise. Conversation may be limited—English is patchy—but patience runs deep and the barman will write down tomorrow’s bus times on a beer mat if asked.

Getting there, getting sorted

Fly to Alicante from Stansted, Gatwick, Manchester or Bristol (2 h 20 m). Pre-book a compact car: the drive up the A-31 is dual-carriageway almost to the exit, then 15 km of well-surfaced mountain road. Murcia-Corvera is nearer as the crow flies but the route is slower and serpentine. Petrol is cheaper at the supermarket pumps on the Yecla ring road than on the motorway. There is no train; the ALSA coach from Alicante (2 h 15 m, €8.50) works if you are happy to walk the final kilometres or pay €12 for a taxi from the bus station to your hotel.

Accommodation is limited and honest. The three-star Hotel La Vega sits on the main drag, rooms from €55 with underground parking—useful because street bays fill fast on market day (Wednesday). Casa Azahar, five minutes out among the vines, offers four rustic doubles and a pool; book ahead during harvest (late August–October). Sunday shuts everything except a couple of cafés: stock up on Saturday evening or you will be breakfasting on petrol-station tortilla.

Winter visitors should pack as for an English April: layers, a wind-proof, and shoes that laugh at cobbles. Summer nights still drop to 15 °C; leave the shorts at the hotel if you plan to sit outside after midnight. Finally, if you visit in early December, ear-plugs are not optional. The fusillades start at 07:00 and echo off the basilica until the small hours. It is loud, smoky, and utterly Yecla.