Munera

The thermometer on the chemist’s door reads 7 °C at eleven in the morning, though the plain below swelters at 28 °C. Munera sits at 930 m on the first ripple of the Sierra de Alcaraz, and altitude here is not a statistic but a weather-maker. In April you can breakfast in shirt-sleeves on Plaza Mayor and, forty minutes later, pull a fleece from your rucksack while the larks wheel over the cereal fields that stretch away to Albacete.

A Castle with No Safety Net

A hand-written sign tacked to the keep door requests “€2 – exact money appreciated”. The custodian, who doubles as the town’s locksmith, unlocks the iron gate at ten sharp and pockets the coins in a tobacco tin. After that you are on your own. Spiral stairs have no rope, parapets no rail, and the roof terrace delivers a 360-degree view of olive groves, red soil and the distant Laguna de Petrola, a cobalt smudge against the ochre. British visitors instinctively step back from the unguarded edge; Spanish schoolchildren do not. The ruin is small – three towers and a patch of wall – yet it explains the town’s shape: everything below radiates from this sandstone outcrop like ripples after a stone hits water.

Downhill, the twelfth-century Iglesia de Santa Catalina hides its mudéjar brickwork behind a Baroque façade added after the War of Succession. The interior smells of wax and damp stone; a single bulb illuminates a Flemish panel of Saint Catherine debating with fifty philosophers. Mass is still sung here on Sundays, the priest’s voice echoing because the congregation, mostly over seventy, occupies only the first three pews.

Lakes that Appear and Vanish

Three kilometres south-east the road turns to dirt and the land drops imperceptibly. Suddenly maize gives way to reeds; avocets pick through the shallows. The Lagunas de Munera are not postcard-pretty – they are too shallow, too seasonal – but they are loud with life. April brings glossy ibis in breeding plumage, August concentrates black-winged stilts and the odd flamingo that has wandered inland from the Salinas de Santa Pola. A rough footpath circles the main lagoon; allow forty-five minutes and carry binoculars because the hides are simply piles of stone left by farmers. Early mornings smell of mint and damp clay; by midday the wind lifts dust from the surrounding melon fields and the birds retreat to the centre.

Cyclists use the same tracks. The terrain is gentle – think Rutland, not Rockies – but distances grow: a loop to the neighbouring village of Chinchilla via farm lanes is 42 km and you will meet more tractors than cars. Take two litres of water; the only bar en route opens when the owner hears voices and feels like it.

Lunch at Spanish Time, or Not at All

The clock strikes two and metal shutters clatter down. The bakery on Calle San Sebastián has already sold out of flores manchegas (flower-shaped fritters scented with anise), and the butcher is hosing down the pavement. If you have not eaten by 13:30 you have missed lunch, because Munera still observes the peninsular rhythm: work, feast, sleep, return. Asador Alfonso VIII keeps its door open for stragglers. Order cordero asado – half a shoulder per person, the skin blistered to toffee crispness – and a bottle of Almansa red that costs less than a London pint. Vegetarians get pisto manchego, a slow-cooked dice of aubergine and pepper topped with a fried egg whose yolk becomes instant sauce. Puddings arrive unannounced: a slab of cuajada (sheep-milk junket) drizzled with local honey that tastes of rosemary and thyme.

Afternoon options shrink. The town museum – one room devoted to agricultural implements – shuts at 14:00. The library opens 17:00–19:00 unless the librarian’s granddaughter has a dental appointment. You could descend to the plain and visit the wind farm, blades whooshing overhead like slow propellers, but most visitors simply sit on a bench and watch life reboot: first the swallows, then the grandfathers, finally the children chasing footballs between plane trees pruned into lollipops.

Fiestas Where Nobody Sells Neon Wigs

Mid-January belongs to San Sebastián. At dawn the town band marches through frost-rimed streets, trumpets clouding the air. After Mass, thick hot chocolate and sponge cake are handed out free in the cultural centre; donations go to the parish roof fund. By nightfall a bonfire of grape cuttings crackles on the cementario viejo; locals leap the flames for luck, the brave towing toddlers by the hood of their anoraks.

August reverses the temperature gauge. The first week is feria time: temporary bars erected on the football pitch, lottery stalls, a fairground ride assembled by men who look as if they last slept in Burgos. British visitors expecting Benidorm-style foam parties are disappointed; instead you get orchestras playing pasodobles and elderly couples waltzing in open-toed sandals. At midnight everyone shuffles uphill for the fireworks launched from the castle mound. Sparks drift over roofs, embers land on dry barley stubble, and for a moment the whole hill glows like a kiln.

Getting Here, Leaving Again

From London it is a two-flight proposition: City to Madrid, connection to Alicante, then a hire car. Easier is the train: Eurostar to Paris, TGV to Barcelona, night service to Albacete. Munera lies 80 km south of Albacete along the CM-3203, a road so straight Roman legionaries would feel at home. Allow an hour, add fifteen minutes if the olive trucks are rolling. There is no railway station; buses from Albacete depart twice daily and the timetable favours residents, not tourists. A taxi from Albacete costs €90 – pre-book because ranks outside the AVE terminal empty fast on weekdays.

Accommodation is limited. The Hostal Alba has eight rooms above a bar whose jukebox still plays CDs. Beds are firm, wi-fi patchy, prices €35–€45 including coffee and a tostada rubbed with tomato and oil. The owners speak kitchen Spanish: “double room, breakfast eight” is understood; “Could I have almond milk?” is not. Book by telephone; they do not answer e-mails and the booking-dot-com algorithm gave up years ago.

What the Brochures Leave Out

Summer afternoons can hit 38 °C on the plain, but the castle hill funnels a breeze that feels air-conditioned. Conversely, January nights drop to –5 °C; pipes freeze, electric heaters sell out, and the stone floors of old houses suck heat through your socks. In drought years the lagoons evaporate by June, leaving white cracks like crazed pottery. When that happens the birds move on and the lagoon path becomes a short, hot walk to nowhere. Come too early, in March, and the same path may be under water, boots caked in clay the colour of dried blood.

English is scarce. One waiter knows “still or sparkling”, another “ Visa okay”, beyond that prepare gestures. Download the offline Spanish dictionary; 4G flickers on the periphery of town and the municipal wi-fi closes at midnight with the plaza lights. Carry cash – the nearest cashpoint is a five-minute downhill stroll, but the gradient back up feels twice as long after paella and three glasses of tempranillo.

Last Orders

Munera will never star in a regional tourist board video. It has no parador, no Michelin bib, no spa hotel in a converted convent. What it offers is gradient – literal and metaphorical. The land tilts, the temperature drops, the pace slows just enough to notice church bells striking the quarter. You leave early or you stay for years; there is little middle ground. Drive away at dusk and the castle silhouette shrinks in the rear-view mirror until only the tower lamp remains, blinking like a low star above the barley.