Calera y Chozas

The 07:43 from Talavera de la Reina is only two carriages long, but it still brakes at Calera y Chozas. That’s the first surprise. Most villages of this size in Castilla-La Mancha lost their service decades ago; here the platform is freshly painted and the station clock keeps perfect time. Step off and the air feels thinner, cleaner—392 m above sea level, high enough for the Tagus plain to flatten into a silver sheet behind you, yet low enough for the Sierra de Gredos to float like a paper cut-out on the horizon.

A Town That Turned Towards Water

Until the 1960s the place lived with its back to the river. Farmers worked the calcareous soil, lime kilns sent up white plumes, and the railway was built to carry grain, not weekenders. Then the Azután reservoir swallowed 1,700 ha of farmland and everything pivoted. Orchards became coves, shepherd tracks turned into causeways, and the council added a sailing slip where tractors once turned. Even the name makes sense only when you see the two halves: Calera (the lime quarries) above the ridge, Chozas (the old sheep huts) tucked beside the water.

The merged town still looks outwardly grey—stone houses the colour of railway ballast, roofs of weathered slate—but the embalse flashes turquoise all afternoon, so the streets feel brighter than they ought to. Walk five minutes from the station and you’re on a causeway where cormorants dry their wings on half-submerged fence posts. In October the water shrinks, revealing a bathtub ring of pale earth; by March it laps at the picnic tables. Locals insist the climate is milder than in Oropesa 20 km away: winter nights rarely drop below 3 °C, summer afternoons top 36 °C but the breeze off the water slices the heat in half. British visitors tend to arrive expecting furnace conditions; bring a fleece for sunset and you’ll be grateful.

Pedalling the Ghost Railway

Behind the station the Vía Verde de la Jara begins. It’s a 50-km cycle path laid on the old coal line that once fed the kilns—dead flat, no traffic, and almost no shade. Hire bikes in Talavera (Hotel Emperador will store luggage for €5) and you can be back in Calera for late lunch. The surface is fine gravel, manageable on a hybrid; road bikes hate it. Within 4 km the Salto del Moro viaduct leaps across the Tagus gorge, eleven stone arches high enough to make your stomach lurch if you peer over the parapet. Mobile signal dies immediately afterwards, so download the GPS track before leaving town.

Turn round at the Puerto de San Vicente tunnel (km 18) for a civilised 36 km round trip, or push on to Los Navalmorales where Bar La Parada does toasted sandwiches and cold Cruzcampo. Either way, carry two litres of water per person between May and September—there are no fountains, and the only shade is an occasional poplar plantation that smells of warm resin and sheep.

Birds, Boats and Bureaucracy

The reservoir is designated for fishing, not swimming, though the council ropes off a small playa in July and August. Black-bass and carp attract serious anglers who park white vans along the verge at dawn; they pay €18 for a day licence from the tobacconist in town (closed 14:00–17:00, cash only). For everyone else it’s a question of sitting quietly. On a still April morning you can tick off little grebe, marsh harrier, the occasional osprey. Bring binoculars but leave the telescope—walkers attract curiosity and someone will inevitably ask “¿Ve algo interesante?” in the friendliest possible way.

Small sailing boats are allowed, yet there is no rental outlet. The yacht club, a low concrete hut beside the slipway, keeps a few lasers for members and isn’t geared to drop-ins. If you arrive with an inflatable kayak strapped to a backpack they’ll wave you through, but petrol engines are banned outright; the water supply for Toledo lies downstream and the authorities are fussy.

Eating (and Not Eating) Locally

Spanish villages this size normally shut down on Mondays; Calera y Chozas prefers to shut on Tuesdays. Cafetería Amal opens at 07:00 for workers—café con leche comes in a glass too hot to hold, tortilla is served in door-stop wedges for €2.50. By 11:00 the place is empty and the owner is mopping round your feet. Lunch choices narrow to Bar Tu y Yo on the main street or nothing. Their solomillo ibérico (€12) arrives sizzling on a terracotta tile, tasting somewhere between pork and sirloin, accompanied by chips that have known the inside of a proper fryer. House red from Montes de Toledo is light, almost Beaujolais-like; ask for “un tinto joven” and they’ll bring a chilled bottle without raising an eyebrow.

Vegetarians can have the migas—fried breadcrumbs with grapes and scrambled egg—though it defeats most attempts at health. Pudding is out of the question; the only heladería closed during the last recession and never reopened. Bring a box of figs from the Thursday market in Talavera and you’ll eat better than anyone else.

When the Fiesta Drums Start

The Assumption fair lands on 15 August and doubles the population. Locals who left for Madrid or Barcelona return with toddlers and mortgages, the plaza fills with foam machines, and someone invariably sets up a bar in a garage. Visitors are welcome but beds vanish: the nearest hotel with availability is 18 km away in Oropesa, charging €90 for a room that faces the A-5. A smarter plan is to come for the September romería instead. The parade starts at the church, descends to the reservoir, and ends with a barbecue so large the smoke drifts across the water like fog. There are no tickets; you simply queue for lamb chops and pay €3 per ration to a man with an apron and an unfeasible amount of salt.

Getting Out Alive

Two trains a day leave Calera y Chozas for Madrid, at 06:54 and 18:10. Miss the evening service and a taxi to Talavera costs €30—if you can persuade the driver to answer the phone. Car hire is possible, but the nearest desk is at Talavera station and closes at 14:00 on Saturdays with no Sunday pick-up. In short, this is not a place for tight flight connections. Stay the night, wake to the sound of jackdaws on the church roof, and catch the early train with everyone else heading to the capital for work. You’ll share a carriage with teachers, nurses, and the girl who runs the bakery counter, all of them scrolling phones while the reservoir shrinks behind the window. By the time the train reaches Madrid the water is a memory and the landscape has turned back into plain, ordinary Spain—until you return, on another two-carriage train that still bothers to stop.