Ruidera

The first glimpse is disorienting: fifteen glass-green pools stepping downhill like a giant's staircase, each spilling into the next through curtains of water that shouldn't exist in the middle of Castilla-La Mancha's wheat-coloured plateau. At 820 m above sea level, Ruidera interrupts the horizon with a chain of freshwater lakes so improbable that even locals still call them "las lagunas" rather than mere reservoirs. The village itself—population 555, one butcher, two bakeries, no supermarket—simply watches from the ridge, resigned to playing second fiddle to its own geography.

Lakes that forgot they were land-locked

The Lagunas de Ruidera Natural Park stretches 25 km along the valley floor, straddling Ciudad Real and Albacete provinces. Fed by underwater springs rather than a single river, the water arrives cold and mineral-heavy, painting every pool the colour of oxidised copper. Boardwalks join the lower six lakes—Rey, Colgada, Batana, Santos Morcillo, Tomilla, San Pedro—making a 4 km stroller-friendly circuit that still manages to feel wild when reeds close overhead and red-crested pochards scatter from the bank.

Swimming is sanctioned at two beaches: a grassy cove on Laguna del Rey (five-euro parking, cold showers, lifeguard July–August) and a narrower shingle strip by Laguna Colgada where locals arrive on bicycles at dawn. Neither sells ice-cream; bring peaches and a bottle of frozen water like everyone else. Water shoes aren't a gimmick—entry is over fist-sized pebbles that roll underfoot, and the drop-off arrives fast.

Kayaks and paddleboards appear from a hut beside the Rey dam at ten euros an hour. A slow anti-clockwise paddle under the limestone bluffs takes you past kingfishers and the half-submerged ruins of an eighteenth-century flour mill, its millstone still visible through the turquoise haze. Motorboats are banned; the loudest noise is usually someone dropping an oar.

Trails that finish in wine

Above the lakes the plateau resumes its cereal monotony, but the escarpment holds enough altitude to support Holm oaks and, surprisingly, vineyards. The signed Ruta de las Lagunas Altas climbs 250 m to the upper pools—Honda, Tinaja, Salto de la Culebra—where the water is darker, edged with bulrushes and almost empty after September. Allow two hours round-trip; the path is stony, hot and shadeless, so start early or risk a lecture from the Guardia Civil patrol that occasionally sweeps the ridge looking for dehydrated day-trippers.

Longer hikes follow the Guadiana Viejo, the river that sneaks out of the lowest lake and begins its 800 km journey to the Atlantic. Six kilometres downstream the water has already turned muddy; herons replace holidaymakers and the only bar is a prefabricated hut beside a stone bridge where an elderly couple serve ice-cold cañas for one euro twenty. They close at four, open again at nine, and will happily call a taxi back to the village if your Spanish stretches that far.

A village that keeps Spanish hours

Ruidera proper lines one main street and a couple of cul-de-sacs. Houses are whitewashed, roofs tiled, balconies geranium-heavy. The seventeenth-century church of Nuestra Señora de la Blanca keeps its doors unlocked; inside, the air smells of wax and the stone floor dips where centuries of boots have worn a path to the altar. Mass is at noon on Sunday, followed by a stampede to the two cafés for churros and brandy-laced coffee.

Commerce is low-key: a bakery that runs out of bread by ten, a butcher who doubles as the post office, and a pharmacy whose owner also rents apartments. Lunch options number four restaurants, all serving much the same menu—pisto manchego (think Spanish ratatouille topped with fried egg), cordero asado that falls from the bone, and queso manchego cured until it crunches. Raciones are built for sharing; order two between three and you still won't finish. A half-litre of local rosado costs eight euros, arrives chilled, and tastes like strawberries with the heat taken out.

Evenings follow the Spanish script: shutters close at siesta, reopen at six. By ten the plaza fills with parents, grandparents and children racing scooters until midnight. British visitors sometimes complain about the volume of conversation; ear-plugs or joining in are the only viable solutions.

Cervantes, caves and the reality of guided tours

Two kilometres north, a signposted track leads to the Cueva de Montesinos, the cave where Don Quixote supposedly descended to find the enchanted Dulcinea. Entrance is by timed tour only (six euros, cash only, Spanish commentary) and the interior is more literary than geological: a narrow fissure that drops 60 m, damp, bat-scented and mercifully cool when the plateau hits 38 °C outside. Guides relish reciting the passage in which the knight errant emerges convinced he has seen hell itself. Non-Spanish speakers can request a printed translation, but the magic is in the storytelling cadence even if you catch one word in five.

When to come, when to stay away

May and early June are the sweet spot: the waterfalls thunder after winter rains, wild gladioli dot the verges and daytime temperatures sit in the mid-twenties. July and August turn the lakes into a weekend magnet for Madrid; car parks fill by eleven, the Rey lagoon becomes a splash-fest of lilos and speakers, and hotel prices double. September empties out, water levels drop to reveal chalky bathtub rings, but birdwatchers arrive to count migrating waders. Winter is crisp, often sunny, occasionally snowy; several pensions close and the best restaurant cuts its menu to stews and grilled pork, yet you might have the boardwalks to yourself and hear only the clack of a stonechat.

Accommodation ranges from forty-euro hostal rooms with thin towels to self-catering apartments at ninety euros a night in August. Booking ahead is sensible for any weekend between June and mid-September; mid-week you can usually turn up and bargain. There is no campsite within the village, though a scruffy motorhome area by the sports ground charges fifteen euros for water and emptying. Nearest hotels outside the park are 25 km away in Tomelloso—possible, but you lose the dawn light on the water that makes the early start worthwhile.

Getting here, getting it right

Public transport is theoretical: one bus a day from Ciudad Real, none on Sunday. Hire a car at Albacete or Madrid airport and allow two and a half hours on the A-3, last 40 km on the CM-412 that wriggles through vineyards and sunflower fields. Petrol stations are scarce once you leave the motorway; fill up at Tomelloso. The village has two free car parks; ignore the touts waving you into private fields for five euros—legal spaces rarely run out except on 15 August, feast day of the Virgen de la Blanca, when traffic backs up to the motorway and even locals abandon their cars in the olive groves.

Bring insect repellent for dusk, a fleece for midnight even in July, and enough cash for cave tickets, bakery bread and the brandy that materialises after every meal. Ruidera will not change your life, but it might reset your expectations of what inland Spain can look like when water, stone and sky decide to conspire.