Moral de Calatrava

The drums start at ten on Good Friday, rolling down the narrow streets like approaching thunder. By midnight the entire population of Moral de Calatrava—grandmothers in black coats, toddlers on fathers’ shoulders, teenagers clutching plastic cups of cheap rum—has squeezed into the plaza. No amplification, no fireworks budget, just 200 snare drums hammering out a rhythm that hasn’t changed since the fifteenth century. Visitors from Madrid cover their ears; the British family who parked their hire car on the A-4 “for a quick coffee” stand transfixed, suddenly understanding why nobody here bothers with Spotify.

A Town That Forgot to Modernise

At 671 m above sea level, Moral sits just high enough for the wind to carry the smell of thyme from surrounding fields into every open window. The volcanic soil—black grit that once bubbled from beneath the Meseta—makes the local olives taste faintly of smoke and keeps summer nights five degrees cooler than Ciudad Real, half an hour’s drive north. Winters, however, bite: January mornings drop to –5 °C, the whitewash on the houses turns the colour of old piano keys, and the single bus to the capital is cancelled if the motorway ices over.

The place is small—2,700 souls, rising to 5,000 when the university term ends and students drift home—but it sprawls. Low houses with red-tiled roofs push east towards the grain silos; westwards the streets simply fade into tracks between vineyards. There is no ring road, no industrial estate, no retail park. What you see from the 1990s-built mirador is essentially what the Knights of Calatrava saw in 1213, minus the castle. That fortress, Castillo de Calatrava la Nueva, stands ten kilometres away on a limestone crag that looks like a ships’ prow hacked off and dumped inland. From Moral’s highest lane you can just make out its silhouette at dusk, back-lit by the plateau’s huge sky.

Eating What the Fields Dictate

British travellers expecting tapas-on-tap learn quickly that Moral does not do “scene”. The town’s three proper restaurants open only for lunch; supper means bar stools and whatever the owner’s wife felt like cooking. Start with pisto manchego—tomato, aubergine and peppers reduced to a glossy jam, crowned by a fried egg—then choose between perdiz estofada (partridge stewed with bay and cloves in season) or caldereta de cordero, a gentle lamb casserole that won’t assault timid palates. Portions are engineered for labourers who spent the morning tying vines; order media ración unless you fancy waddling back to the car. Cheese arrives whether you ask or not: a slab of semi-cured manchego, nutty and faintly sharp, plus a basket of bread that tastes of the volcanic earth it was grown in. A glass of local clarete—rosé made heavy enough for winter—sets you back €2.20; card machines are treated with suspicion, so bring notes.

Bodega Los Llanos on Plaza de España will wrap leftovers in foil without being asked, a habit left over from the days when field workers ate dinner at the counter before heading back out. If the door is locked, knock: the owner lives upstairs and will come down in slippers.

Walking on Dormant Fire

The Campo de Calatrava’s volcanic humps are not dramatic—no Vesuvius-style cones, just smooth hills wearing caps of holm oak—but they make for easy, empty walking. From the edge of town a farm track strikes south-east towards Cerro Gordo, an extinct crater now planted with olives. The climb takes forty minutes; the reward is a 360-degree view over steel-blue vineyards and, on clear days, the snow-dusted Sierra Morena 80 km away. Take water: there are no cafés, no fountains, and summer shade is theoretical.

Spring brings colour—crimson poppies, white asphodel, the electric yellow of broom—while October smells of crushed grapes and wood-smoke from small bodegas burning vine prunings. After heavy rain the volcanic gravel turns to ankle-deep glue; trainers suffice, but proper boots earn gratitude.

If you want the castle, drive. The CV-411 twists upwards through almond terraces, then suddenly deposits you at a stone gateway run by a solitary custodian who collects €3 in cash and points to a flight of 180 steps. The fortress is mostly ruin—walls ribbed like whale bones, a chapel open to swallows—but the vantage covers half of La Mancha. English placards are non-existent; download the Spanish Heritage app before you leave the village or simply make up your own siege stories. Free guided tours run at 11:30 and 18:00 (16:15 November–March); turn up fifteen minutes early and hope the guide speaks slowly.

When the Town Lets Its Hair Down

January’s fiestas for San Sebastián are strictly local: mass, a bonfire of vine cuttings, elderly men in tricorn hats marching to a brass band that remembers the words to only three tunes. August is the big release—five nights of open-air dancing, foam parties in the polideportivo, and a bull-run so half-hearted the animals look bored. Temperatures flirt with 40 °C; restaurants respond by shutting for the entire fortnight, so self-cater or survive on crisps and warm lager sold from ice chests in the street.

Semana Santa is the surprise. Moral’s drum brotherhoods practise from February onwards; by Holy Week they can keep a steady 90-decibel roll for four hours. Processions start at the church of San Sebastián at 2 a.m., shuffle through every barrio, and finish at dawn. Spectators sip anís from tin flasks; the smell of star-anise mingles with incense and diesel from the generator that powers a single spotlight on the Virgin’s float. It is exhausting, slightly surreal, and utterly authentic—no tickets, no grandstands, no cruise-ship queue for the loo.

Getting Here, Staying Sane

Ciudad Real’s AVE station is 35 minutes away by car. Hire desks operate only weekday mornings; book in advance or you face a €90 taxi. Moral itself has no train, no metered parking, and no traffic wardens—leave the car on Plaza de la Constitución and walk everywhere. The sole cash machine belongs to Cajasur and refuses most foreign cards; fill your wallet in Ciudad Real or use the supermarket checkout for cashback.

Accommodation is limited. Casa Rural El Volcán has three doubles built into an old grain store—thick walls, small windows, Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind is in the north. €65 a night including breakfast (strong coffee, churros, homemade plum jam). Anything larger means staying in Ciudad Real and commuting.

Avoid August if you value sleep or vegetables. Easter is ear-plug territory but unforgettable. Spring and late September give you wildflowers, harvest bustle, and daytime highs of 24 °C—perfect for castle steps and volcanic strolls. Bring binoculars for bustards and sandgrouse; pack a fleece because 671 m still feels chilly after sunset. And carry coins: the town runs on them, even if the rest of Spain has moved on to contactless.