Almagro

The first thing that strikes you is the colour: an un-Spanish green running the length of the arcades. Almagro’s Plaza Mayor wears a waistcoat of emerald glass, 85 stone columns holding up timber balconies that would look more at home in Antwerp than La Mancha. Blame the Fuggers, the German banking dynasty who financed the town’s 16th-century boom and left behind northern tastes and a square that still works—market on Wednesday, theatre in July, cafés every day.

At 646 metres above the plain, Almagro sits high enough to catch a breeze when the meseta turns furnace in August. The population (8,983 on the books, rather fewer in winter) keeps the place ticking: butchers open at eight, schoolchildren clatter across the cobbles at two, and by dusk the terraces fill with families rather than tour groups. Coach parties normally barrel south to Consuegra’s windmills; here you share the alleyways with delivery vans and the odd actor rehearsing lines outside the Corral de Comedias.

A stage that never closed

That theatre is the reason most outsiders make the 25-kilometre detour from the CM42 motorway. Documented in 1628, the Corral remains the only Golden-Age playhouse still performing in its original layout: a brick patio open to the sky, three tiers of wooden galleries, and a stage barely wider than a suburban sitting room. Performances rely on natural light and the goodwill of the weather; audiences wrap up even in July when night-time temperatures drop below 18°C. Guided visits (€7, hourly 10:00-13:00 & 16:30-18:30) sell out at weekends—reserve online or risk a long wait under the swallows.

If the caretaker has time he’ll show the muskets used as sound effects and the 17th-century rent book: nobles paid for the best galleries, the town’s widows for the second tier, and groundlings stood where rain now drips through. The acoustics are so sharp you can drop a coin on stage and hear it land from the rafters; actors love the intimacy, loathe the pigeons.

Streets that remember bankers and knights

Leave the plaza by Calle Gran Maestre and the stone gives way to ochre plaster and coats of arms carved above doorways. The Palacio de los Condes de Valdeparaíso (free entry, Tue-Sat 11:00-13:00) mixes a severe plateresque portal with a baroque balcony added to impress Philip II’s tax collectors. Inside, the courtyard is empty except for a 400-year-old fig tree whose roots have cracked the cistern; the caretaker will turn on the fountains if you ask nicely.

Five minutes further, the Convento de la Asunción now does double duty as Parador hotel and National Theatre Museum. Even if four-poster luxury isn’t on the itinerary, the museum (€4, closed Monday) justifies twenty minutes: Lope de Vega’s first edition manuscripts, costumes sketched by Picasso for a 1950s Madrid production, and a 3-D map plotting every open-air corral in Spain. The Renaissance cloister beyond the gift shop is usually deserted—bring a book and silence.

Round the corner, the Iglesia de San Agustín has been stripped of its saints and turned into an exhibition hall. Fragments of 16th-century fresco survive high on the nave walls; scaffolding prevents closer inspection but the colours—indigo, blood orange, gold leaf—hint at what the Counter-Reformation did to church décor before Napoleon’s cavalry stabled their horses inside.

What to eat when the play ends

Almagro’s signature bite is the berenjena, an aubergine the size of a ping-pong ball, pickled in cumin-scented vinegar. Locals pop them whole, stems and all; first-timers may prefer to peel the skin, less bitter than expected. Order a ración (€4-5) at Taberna El Pájaro, a wood-panelled bar unchanged since the 1920s, then follow with pisto manchego topped by a fried egg—comfort food for shepherds and actors alike.

Meat eaters should try tiznao, salt-cod flaked into potatoes, garlic and paprika; ask for “poco sal” if you’re watching sodium levels. The set lunch at Casa Chico (€14 Monday-Friday) finishes with cross-shaped pan de Almagro, a sweet bread invented so the Knights of Calatrava could pocket supper on campaign. Wine comes from Valdepeñas, 50 km south—order “cosechero” for something young and fruity, or splash out on a reserva if someone else is paying.

Beyond the walls: volcanoes and feathered visitors

When the afternoon heat builds, escape to the Campo de Calatrava. Ten kilometres north-west, the Laguna de Almedilla occupies a volcanic crater ringed by juniper and wild thyme. Water levels fluctuate with the rains; after wet winters the lake hosts avocets, black-winged stilts and the occasional glossy ibis. Bring binoculars and shade—there’s no café, just a stone hide and the wind. The track is passable in a normal car, but turn back if the surface turns to chalky ruts.

Closer to town, the GR-130 footpath circles Almagro in 9 km, passing olive groves and the ruined watchtower of San Bartolomé. Setting off at sunrise you’ll meet dog-walkers and the odd vineyard keeper; by nine the sun is already high enough to send you back to the plaza for a second coffee.

When to come, when to stay away

Spring and autumn give warm days and cool nights without the 40°C bake of July. The International Classical Theatre Festival (entire month of July) turns every courtyard into a stage; rooms triple in price and the Parador books out twelve months ahead. If you’re here for the drama, reserve early and expect queues for restaurants after 22:00. Otherwise come in late September when the harpsichords have left, the aubergines are being bottled, and the Plaza Mayor belongs once again to grandparents pushing prams.

Trains from Madrid’s Atocha station reach Almagro in 2 h 15 min on the Ciudad Real line (€24 each way, two daily). Driving is faster—1 h 45 min down the A-4—though you’ll want the car for the volcanic lagoons. Parking on the ring-road is free; the underground garage under the Retiro del Maestre costs €12 a day if your hotel lacks spaces.

Leave room in the suitcase for a jar of pickled aubergines; they survive the flight to Luton and make conversation-starting Christmas gifts. Just remember to wrap the glass in socks—after four centuries, Almagro has learnt how to cushion its treasures for the journey.