Almedina

Almedina sits at 901 metres, high enough for the air to feel thinner and the horizon to bend. From the southern approach the village appears as a single stone ridge riding the plain, no trees for shade, just wheat stubble and the occasional holm oak. Population 489, recorded last census. That number swells by thirty or forty on summer weekends when grandchildren arrive from Madrid, then drops again before Monday’s bread van does its round.

The house that remembers Quevedo

Halfway up Calle del Medio a small brass plate marks the Casa-Museo Francisco de Quevedo. The satirist lived here briefly in 1611, hiding from creditors and writing sonnets that still make Spanish sixth-formers wince. Inside, the rooms are cool even at midday: thick walls, brick floors, a desk with a dried inkwell. Admission is free but the guardian will ask for a euro “para la luz”; the light bulbs need it. Opening hours are erratic—morning only, closed Mondays, and if the caretaker has gone to the fields the door stays locked. Most visitors peer through the grille, photograph the plaque and leave, which is probably what Quevedo did.

Below the house the streets narrow into a medieval tangle laid out during the Caliphate. The name Almedina comes from “al-madina”, the city, though the place has never held more than a thousand souls. Walk downhill and you slip out of the walls in two minutes; uphill and you reach the cemetery in three. Between the two poles the village keeps its rhythm: bread delivery at ten, siesta from two until four, evening paseo along the single pavement where neighbours exchange the day’s only gossip.

Bread, oil and the absence of cash

There is no ATM. The nearest cash point is fifteen kilometres away in Alcázar de San Juan, so fill your wallet before you arrive. Both food shops shut at 14:00 and neither accepts cards for purchases under ten euros. If you arrive on Sunday afternoon you will eat what the casa rural provides or go hungry. Most guests book half-board; breakfast is coffee, toast and a pool of olive oil, dinner is gazpacho manchego (a thick game stew, nothing like the cold Andalusian soup) followed by cubes of mature Manchego so dry they squeak against your teeth.

Vegetarians last about twenty-four hours before surrendering to the lamb. Ask for “pisto” if you need respite—peppers, aubergine and tomato reduced to a jammy heap, usually served with a fried egg on top. Pair it with the local young white wine from Campo de Criptana; at 3.50 € a bottle you can afford to be reckless.

Walking the blank plain

The GR-41 long-distance path cuts straight through the village, part of a 600-kilometre loop that links the ruined castles of Montiel. Northbound it heads across stubbly wheat towards the Sierra de Alhambra, a low blue bruise on the skyline. Southbound it drops into an oceanic flatness where bustards skim the furrows and the only shade is your own shadow. Either direction works for an hour’s stroll; beyond that you need water, a hat and the tolerance for landscapes that refuse to change. British walkers who tackle the full stage to Villanueva de los Infantes report 23 km of “magnificent boredom” and recommend May or late September, when the mercury stays under 30 °C. August walkers have been known to beg lifts from passing tractors.

If you prefer wheels, the tarmac road east to San Carlos del Valle carries almost no traffic. Hire bikes through your accommodation (10 € per day, helmets optional) and glide past stone farmhouses where storks clatter on chimneys. The return leg is uphill; the plain that looked level reveals itself as a shallow ramp once you pedal against it.

Silence, stars and signal bars

Mobile reception is fickle. Vodafone and O2 fade in and out; EE holds a single bar on the upper streets, none at all in the lower houses. The absence is deliberate rather than technical: people still greet strangers, and the evening entertainment is to sit on a plastic chair outside the bar watching swifts stitch the sky. At night the silence is so complete you hear your own pulse. Light pollution is officially zero; the Milky Way looks like cloud until you realise clouds don’t have constellations printed on them. Bring a red-filter torch if you intend to read on the roof terrace; anything brighter ruins night vision and brings neighbours to their windows.

Temperature swings catch visitors out. Even in May the thermometer can dip to 6 °C before dawn and touch 28 °C by lunchtime. Pack layers and a fleece for star-gazing; the village sits on a plateau and the wind has no obstacles between here and the meseta. In winter the roads ice over and the ayuntamiento spreads straw instead of grit—drive carefully or not at all.

A practical pause, not a destination

Almedina works best as a breather between the art-saturated crowds of Toledo and the limestone trails of the Sierra de Cazorla. One night is usually enough: arrive late afternoon, walk the GR-41 at sunset, eat lamb, count shooting stars and leave after coffee the next morning. Stay longer only if you crave silence louder than cathedral organs or need to finish a novel without distraction.

Monday closures are ruthless: the museum, both bars and the bakery all shut. Tuesday to Sunday the bakery opens at 08:00 and sells out of tiznao—salt-cod and potato salad sharpened with paprika—by 11:00. If you want some for the road, queue early and bring your own Tupperware; they charge by weight and plastic bags leak oil.

Drive time from Madrid-Barajas is two hours fifteen on the A-4 and CM-412, toll-free the whole way. Petrol stations thin out after Manzanares; fill the tank and the jerrycan if you’re heading into the parkland lagoons around Ruidera, thirty kilometres east. Buses reach Alcázar de San Juan but go no further; a taxi from the station costs 25 € and must be booked the day before. Without wheels you are effectively marooned, which is precisely why people come.

Leave before August unless you enjoy 40 °C shade and the knowledge that the nearest swimming spot is half an hour away. Come in October if you like mushrooms: the council issues free permits at the town hall and locals will point you towards legal patches of níscalos under the holm oaks. Pick only what you can identify; the hospital in Ciudad Real deals with several poisonings each year and the antidote serum is not guaranteed to be in stock.

Almedina will not change your life. It offers a pause, a lungful of wind that smells of thyme and distant sheep, a reminder that geography still dictates tempo. Arrive with modest expectations and a pocket of coins; depart when the silence starts to feel like company.