Montiel

A murder on the hilltop

Nine hundred metres above sea-level, where the wind combs the olive groves of Campo de Montiel, a crumbling wall still bears the scar of a royal dagger. In 1369 Pedro I of Castile—known to history as “the Cruel”—met his bastard half-brother Henry in single combat inside the fortress above Montiel. Henry left alive; Pedro did not. The brief fight changed the Spanish crown and turned the castle into a ruin that tourists still have to climb a low fence to reach. No gift shop waits at the top, only storks and a 40-kilometre sweep of ochre plain that reddens at dusk.

What you actually see

The village itself is a single steep ridge. One road in, one road out, and barely a thousand residents. Park on the southern rim: the tarmac ends at a cattle grid and the rest is cobble and gradient. From here it is a five-minute walk to the only monument that matters, the Castillo de la Estrella. English Heritage would panic at the access—loose masonry, no handrail, a drop on three sides—but the guard rail is a waist-high chain and the locals treat it as a public terrace. Sunset gathers first on the Sierra de Alcaraz, then slides across the olives until the stone itself glows. Most visitors stay twenty minutes; photographers stay until the griffon vultures call it a night.

Back in the lanes, the Iglesia de San Sebastián keeps the usual Spanish timetable: open only for mass on Sunday and for the 20-minute window when the sacristan feels like it. If the wooden doors are shut, knock at the house opposite—señora García keeps the key and will lend it for a euro slipped into the poor box. Inside is a single Gothic nave, restored with more enthusiasm than cash in the 1970s, but the carved choir stalls came from the castle chapel and still smell of candle wax and old pine.

The Museum of Battles is two rooms in the old town hall. Entry is free, though a polite sign suggests €2 “for the lights”. One room explains the 14th-century fracas with maps and toy soldiers; the other shows armour dug up during a farmer’s drainage trench in 1998. Allow fifteen minutes, longer if you like heraldry.

Walking without waymarks

Montiel sits on the GR-160 footpath, a 90-km loop that nobody completes. A more realistic outing is the olive-track west to Torre de Juan Abad: 6 km there and back, flat, no shade. Spring brings poppies between the trunks; by July the ground is iron-hard and the only colour comes from sheets of aluminium foil hung to scare the birds. Carry water—there is no bar until Torre, and that one closes on Tuesdays.

Birders arrive at dawn. Golden eagles ride the thermals above the castle ridge; little owls sit on the telecom mast. A decent pair of binoculars doubles the entertainment, because the human pace of life is otherwise set by the storks clapping their beaks on the church tower.

Food that tastes of sheep

The regional menu is built on Manchega sheep: milk for the cheese, meat for the roast, fat for the stew. The local queso curado is aged six months, milder than a Pecorino and safe for timid British palates. Order it as a starter with a drizzle of local oil—peppery, green, sold in 250 ml tins that slip neatly into hand luggage.

For mains, the choice is basically lamb or more lamb. Cordero segureño is milk-fed, roasted in a wood oven until the skin cracks like thin toffee. A half-kilo portion (€18) feeds two; the waiter will look offended if you ask for mint sauce. Vegetarians get pisto manchego—aubergine, pepper and tomato topped with a fried egg—though you need to request it; it is not printed on the card.

Pudding is usually skipped in favour of sobremesa, the Spanish art of sitting until the coffee cups are cold. No one rushes you: the barman is also the cook and he will only clear the table once you stand up. Wine is from Valdepeñas, sold by the porrón at €2.50 a glass; the red is drinkable, the white best avoided.

When the shutters come down

Weekday afternoons feel post-apocalyptic. The school empties, the baker pulls the metal gate, even the dogs vanish. Bars close at 17:00 and reopen at 20:30; if you arrive in the gap you will drink nothing until evening. Plan accordingly: fill the car at the A-4 services before turning off—the nearest petrol is 25 km away in Villanueva de los Infantes, and the village cash machine is broken more often than it works.

Summer nights are cooler than the plain below, but August still hits 35 °C by 11 a.m. Spring and autumn are ideal: 22 °C, clear air, and the castle silhouetted against a sky the colour of Cornish china clay. Winter brings sharp frosts; the road is gritted but the castle path turns to glass. Wear trainers with grip, not fashion plimsolls.

The honest verdict

Montiel is not a base for sightseeing—it is the sight. Most travellers rack up 90 minutes between parking and coffee, snap the sunset and leave. That is perfectly reasonable. Staying overnight means one of three small guesthouses, all clean, all €45–€60 for a double, none serving breakfast before 09:00. The reward is silence so complete you hear the storks shift on their nests.

Come if you like your history bloody and your villages empty. Skip it if you need craft beer, Post Office queues, or anywhere to spend money after 22:00. Montiel does not do entertainment; it simply stopped updating around 1600 and forgot to tell the rest of Spain. For some, that is the best reason to make the 40-minute detour off the motorway and climb the hill where one king murdered another.