Villar del Pozo

The tractor arrives before the hire car. At 7:30 sharp it rattles past the single stone bench that passes for Villar del Pozo's village square, towing a trailer of wheat stubble that smells faintly of toast. Fifty-four residents, 640 metres above sea level, and not a souvenir shop in sight—this is the Campo de Calatrava stripped back to its bones.

A Plateau Forged by Fire

Drive south from Madrid for two hours and the motorway thins into the A-4, olive groves giving way to an ocean of cereal fields. Just beyond exit 208 the land wrinkles, evidence of the 250-plus extinct volcanoes that pepper this corner of Castilla-La Mancha. Villar del Pozo sits on the northern lip of that field, a cluster of white cubes that look down over slopes once glazed with molten rock. The altitude keeps summer nights breathable—temperatures can drop ten degrees after sunset—but it also means winter wind that whips across the plains and finds every gap in a British traveller's wardrobe.

There are no sign-posted craters to tick off. Instead, geology reveals itself in blackish stones that jut from field boundaries and in soil so dark farmers joke they grow "volcanic bread." A 6 km loop west of the village, tracked by local MTB riders, passes a low basalt outcrop where lichens have colonised the vesicles left by escaping gas. OS-style maps are non-existent; download the GPX file at home or follow the tractor ruts and hope the grain has already been harvested.

What Passes for a Centre

The whole place is three streets wide. Houses are built from the same calcareous rock that lies just beneath the topsoil, their wooden doors painted the colour of oxidised farm machinery. One cottage still keeps its outdoor bread oven, dome sealed since electricity arrived in the 1960s. Another has a rusted mule shoe nailed above the lintel—less good-luck charm, more a practical note that the animal was last shod inside the courtyard.

The parish church of San Pedro closes unless the sacristan remembers to unlock it after morning mass. Step inside and the air smells of beeswax and sun-baked plaster; the single nave measures barely fifteen metres, but the retablo is carved from walnut that grew in the next valley. Bell ringing remains manual: pull the rope at the wrong moment and the resulting clang carries for kilometres across the plateau, earning a reprimand from whoever is trying to finish siesta.

Silence, then Wings

Forget the idea of "things to do." The menu here is distance and sky. At dawn the horizon glows copper; by eight the cereal fields have turned gold and kestrels start their working day, hovering over verge mice. Walk the camino that strikes south towards the ruined Cortijo del Cura and within twenty minutes village noise has been replaced by the creak of boots on gravel and, if it is April, the mechanical song of Calandra larks. Binoculars are worth the extra weight: great bustards sometimes feed on the fallow plots further out, though they spook at the glint of a camera lens.

Cyclists can join the 38 km signed loop, but the surface varies from packed clay to fist-sized volcanic scree—road tyres need not apply. There is no bike shop, no pump, no café for a mid-ride cortado. Carry two bidons; the only reliable fountain stands outside the cemetery gate, and locals prefer you use the left-hand tap because the right irrigates geraniums on their relatives' graves.

Eating on the Plateau

Villar del Pozo itself has neither bar nor restaurant. The nearest kitchen open to strangers is three kilometres away in Ballesteros de Calatrava, where Casa Marta serves a caldereta manchega that tastes of rosemary and smoke rather than the over-salted versions found on the coast. Portions are built for field hands; half raciones are available if you ask before the order goes in. Expect to eat after 14:00—turn up at noon and you will be offered coffee while the stove warms up.

For self-caterers, the weekend market in Ciudad Real (25 km) stocks Manchego curado from the dairy that collects Villar del Pozo's milk. Buy the semicurado if the plan is to leave it in a hot car; the fully aged stuff weeps oil at anything above 20 °C. A loaf from the industrial bakery in Ballesteros, a tetra-brick of local gazpacho and a folding knife make a serviceable picnic—just add the village's only bench and a sunset that sets the wheat stubble on fire.

Timing and Tribulations

Spring is the kindest window. Mid-April brings green wheat and daytime highs around 18 °C; night can still touch 5 °C, so pack a fleece. By July the thermometer sails past 35 °C and shade is limited to a single row of eucalyptus outside the cemetery—hardly ideal for a three-hour hike. Autumn returns gold to the fields and flocks of skylarks that winter in North Africa pass overhead, but October storms can turn the clay tracks into pottery wheels that glue themselves to boots.

Access is strictly by car. The last bus to anywhere stopped in 2011. From Madrid-Barajas follow the A-4 south, leave at kilometre 208, then thread two minor roads edged with thistles. Fuel before you turn off—the first 24-hour station is back on the motorway. Mobile coverage is decent on the plateau but drops to one bar in the narrowest street; Vodafone seems happier than EE-roaming here, though that may be cold comfort when you are trying to book the only guest-house room in Ballesteros.

When the Village Wakes Up

Fiesta days triple the population. On 2 February the image of the Virgin is carried to a tiny country shrine; locals dish out rosquillas—ring-shaped pastries that taste of aniseed and engine oil if fried in too-old olive residue. The first of May is for picnics among the volcanic stones; someone always brings a guitar and someone else invariably forgets the bottle opener. San Juan, 24 June, ends with fireworks that bounce off the surrounding hills and scare the sheep. These events run on Spanish time: processions start fifteen minutes late, dinner thirty. Visitors are welcomed but not orchestrated; there are no wristbands, no guided tours, no multilingual commentary.

Leave the car on the edge of the village those nights—streets become impromptu dance floors and a British-registered hatchback blocking access to someone's stable will earn more glares than thanks. Accommodation within walking distance is scarce; book the Posada de Ballesteros early (telephone only, no online form) or resign yourself to a 25-km taxi ride back to Ciudad Real after the last song.

Heading Home

Villar del Pozo will not suit everyone. There are no gift shops, no viewpoints with selfie frames, and the nearest cathedral is a forty-minute drive. What it does offer is a calibration point: wheat fields that meet the sky without interruption, nights so dark the Milky Way feels like an intrusion, and a reminder that half of Spain still lives by the tractor's timetable rather than TripAdvisor's. Arrive prepared—water, boots, a sense of horizontal space—and the plateau will return the favour with silence broken only by larks. Miss the turn-off and you will find yourself back on the motorway, coffee chain cups rattling in the cup-holder, wondering whether that pocket of volcanic calm really existed or was simply a trick of heat haze on the horizon.