Villanueva de la Fuente

The thermometer reads 31 °C at noon in July, yet the air feels thinner than it should for southern Spain. At 1,050 m above sea level Villanueva de la Fuente sits higher than Sheffield, and the altitude shows: nights drop to 16 °C even in midsummer, and almond trees blossom two weeks later than they do in neighbouring Albacete. This is the moment when British visitors realise the town is less a dot on the dusty Manchegan plain and more a balcony over it, the land tilting eastward toward the cider-green olive groves of Montiel.

A grid for grain, goats and gossip

No ring-road, no industrial estate, no retail park. The A-32 deposits you at a single roundabout; from there the N-430 slides straight into Calle Mayor, a 400-metre spine that ends at the 16th-century church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción. Stone benches run the length of the plaza, occupied by men in flat caps who still greet the pharmacist by her first name and debate rainfall as if it were football. Walk two blocks east and the streets surrender to cereal fields; walk west and you are immediately among goat sheds whose bells clank softly at dusk. The town plan is so compact that locals give directions by nodding toward the grain silo or the solitary traffic light—there is only one.

British travellers hunting for souvenir tat will come away empty-handed. The single gift shop stocks school stationery, fairy lights and, inexplicably, one model of the Eiffel Tower. What the town does offer is an unfiltered slice of Castilian agricultural life: tractors parked outside the bar, sheep lorries blocking the narrow high street at seven in the morning, and the smell of fresh straw drifting through open stable doors.

Wind on the ridge, thyme underfoot

The GR-160 long-distance path crosses the municipal boundary, but most visitors opt for the shorter 7 km loop that leaves from the cemetery gate and follows an old drovers’ trail to the ruins of the Venta de Cardenas, a roadside inn abandoned in the 1960s. The route is way-marked by hand-painted stones rather than aluminium posts, and in April the track turns into a carpet of purple flax and white chamomile. Adders sometimes sun themselves on the quartzite slabs; farmers advise stamping your pole to announce human arrival. Midway, a stone drinking trough still fills from a clay pipe—water is potable, though it carries the taste of iron.

Cyclists find the same landscape more demanding than the map suggests. The CM-412 south toward Alcaraz looks flat on Google Earth, yet constant 3 % grades chip away at thigh muscles. Traffic averages one car every nine minutes, which is ideal until you meet an oncoming combine harvester occupying the full width of the tarmac. Carry two spare tubes: thorns from centenarian olive prunings are needle-sharp, and the nearest bike shop is 42 km away in Villarrobledo.

Inside the cool stone

The parish church keeps summer visiting hours—11:00-13:00, 17:30-19:00—and the door is locked outside those slots. Inside, the temperature drops ten degrees at once. Whitewashed walls rise to a Mudejar ceiling of interlaced cedar beams, blackened by centuries of candle smoke. Look for the wooden side-pulpit carved in 1694: the carpenter signed his name, “Domingo de la Torre,” backwards so it can be read only in the mirror he installed opposite. Entrance is free, but a polite €1 coin left in the box funds roof repairs; storm Lucia tore off several terracotta tiles in 2023.

Across the square the Casa de la Encomienda hides a one-room ethnographic museum. Exhibits are labelled in Castilian only, yet objects translate themselves: a hand-forged ploughshare, a shepherd’s tar-lined water flask, a metal collar once fitted to sheep-killing dogs. Press the red button and a recording of a threshing song crackles from 1950s wire-spool tape. The caretaker, Martín, will switch on the English subtitles if you ask—he keeps a laminated translation sheet beneath the counter but doesn’t offer it unless prompted.

What lands on the plate

Menus are short and seasonal. At Mesón la Vega the weekday lunch costs €12 and arrives in three acts: vegetable soup thick with chickpeas, pork loin stewed in tomato and bay, and a wedge of Manchego curado that has travelled 18 km from the shepherd’s dairy at Fuensanta. Order the house rosé—pale, almost onion-skin in colour—and it comes chilled in a plain glass tumbler; no one here sees the point of stemware. Vegetarians should head for El Rincón de Pilar, where pisto manchego (pepper and aubergine ratatouille) is topped with a fried egg unless you specify otherwise. Breakfast is easier: any bar will serve tostada con tomate for €1.80; ask for “pan de pueblo” if you want the crusty loaf rather than sliced baguette.

British tastes for reduced salt are met with blank stares. Dishes arrive already seasoned; the cook has usually left for the day and the waiter is her nephew. Politeness dictates you eat at least half before requesting the rarely used pepper mill.

When to come, when to stay away

April brings 60 mm of rain spread over nine days—green shoots and mud in equal measure—yet the countryside smells of crushed mint and wild fennel. October is the reliable sweet spot: 23 °C afternoons, clear skies, and the harvest traffic thinned out. In August the town empties as families flee to the coast; half the bars close, but the outdoor swimming pool on the western edge stays open (€3 entry, 10:00-20:00). Winter is seriously cold. Night frosts begin in late October and can stretch into May; the council grits only the main street, so side roads turn to polished ice. If you book the rural cottage on the northern ridge, pack slippers—stone floors suck heat from bare feet.

Getting here, getting stuck, getting out

High-speed trains serve Albacete (50 min from Madrid) and Ciudad Real (55 min). From either station a pre-booked hire car is essential; no bus reaches Villanueva de la Fuente on weekends. The final 28 km from the A-31 wind across open plateau where petrol stations are separated by 40 km gaps—fill up before you leave the motorway. Phone reception drops to Edge in the valleys; download offline maps. The village itself is walkable end-to-end in 12 minutes, but drives into the hinterland involve unmade tracks. A standard Fiesta survives until the first axle-deep rut; after that you need something with clearance and a spare wheel.

Leave time for delay. Farmers move herds at dawn and dusk; the CM-412 is closed to cars while 800 merino sheep shuffle between pastures, a process that can take 45 minutes. You can either fume at the windshield or cut the engine and listen to the soft clatter of bells disappearing into silver olive groves—an honest soundtrack to a place that has never hurried for anyone.