A ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor

It was a curious delight to discover that Jumilla (well, actually they said Yecla but that turned out to be wrong) — so near to Culebrón, scarcely forty kilometres away — was once a haunt of daring highwaymen. Perched where the old kingdoms of Valencia, Murcia, and Castile once met, the town’s rugged hills and twisting roads made it a natural stage for adventure and intrigue. In centuries past, Jumilla played host first to the ruthless marauders of the 17th century, and later to the gallant caballeros of legend — Spain’s own Dick Turpins, whose charm could steal a heart as deftly as a purse.

By the 17th century, Spain had sunk to her knees, hollowed by famine, plague, and unending war. Across the sun‑scorched fields of Valencia and Murcia, farms lay abandoned and soldiers, weary of empty promises, melted away into the hills. Desperation deepened when, in 1609, King Philip III turned against the Moriscos — Christian converts from Islam whom suspicion still branded as “secret Muslims”. Beneath that pious pretext lay greed: their lands and possessions were seized, and their families expelled from the soil they had tended for generations. Three hundred thousand people — from a nation of barely eight and a half million — were forced to leave Spain, mostly for North Africa, leaving the countryside stripped not only of labour, but of hope itself.

In response to this “royal banditry”, many turned to social banditry. There was no glamour in this; it was a matter of pure survival. Jumilla’s position, at the crossroads of three jurisdictions, meant a gang could raid a merchant caravan in Murcia, then flee a few kilometres across the invisible border into Valencia or Castile. Magistrates were powerless to pursue without navigating a maze of tortuous warrants and diplomacy — a bureaucratic gift to the bandoleros.

The Sierra de la Pila, stretching south‑west towards Jumilla and Fortuna, with its uplands riddled with caves, springs, and scrub, provided a top-notch hideout. The range, which sprawls across several municipalities including Jumilla itself, remains one of Murcia’s more rugged and sparsely populated sierras. Gangs like those led by Escámez or the Hermanos Mojicas graduated from roadside hold‑ups to ransom kidnappings, terrorising merchants and clergy from mountain lairs. Landowners built garitas — defensive watchtower houses — as the only answer to the constant threat.

Centuries on, as raw desperation eased, the style shifted to romantic individualism. Enter Jaime Alfonso — Jaime el Barbudo — Murcia’s most legendary bandolero. Fleeing to the Sierra de la Pila after a brawl, he turned outlawry into art: reportedly robbing the rich and sparing the poor. Imagine him tipping his hat to ladies as his men emptied their escorts’ pockets. During the 1808–1814 Peninsular War, he fought Napoleon’s invasion, earning a royal pardon and folk‑hero status. Betrayed and hanged in 1824 — his head caged on public display — he went out as dramatically as he’d lived.

Today, the name of Jumilla may conjure the scent of fermenting must from its wineries and the deep ruby glow of its Monastrell grapes, standard‑bearers of one of Spain’s most successful Mediterranean red wine regions. Yet beneath such homely comforts lies a story stitched with danger and desire. The Sierra’s trails, once alive with hooves and gunfire, now lie quiet under sun and thyme. It’s tempting — inevitable, perhaps — to dress it all in a touch of Mills & Boon: dashing caballeros, moonlit duels, hearts stolen as swiftly as purses — all very much like the video for Fleetwood Mac's “Everywhere”. But romance, however rose‑tinted, has its truths. Does anything of that wild heart endure here — in the whisper of the wind through the pines, in the stubborn tilt of the land itself?

Of course it doesn’t. Jumilla is nice enough, but it’s about as romantic as getting in the groceries from Mercadona on a wet Tuesday afternoon. And as for the devil‑may‑care highwaymen of yesteryear, who may or may not have existed, the nearest you’re likely to get to them is a bunch of old British bikers on their Honda Gold Wings and Harley Street Glides, keeping a weather eye out for the Guardia.