Fuente-Álamo

The petrol gauge flirts with empty somewhere between Albacete and Hellín, and Fuente Álamo appears just in time—a compact knot of white walls at 820 metres, hovering above the cereal ocean of La Mancha. There is no dramatic sierra backdrop, no Instagram-ready gorge; only the meseta rippling gently like a tablecloth shaken by giants, then flattening into a horizon so wide it hurts the eyes. The village doesn’t shout. It clears its throat and waits for you to notice.

A Plateau That Forgets the Sea Exists

Summer arrives like a debt collector. By 11 a.m. the thermometer kisses 38 °C and the asphalt softens; by 3 p.m. it can touch 43 °C. August is for mad dogs only—most villagers retreat behind thick walls, metal shutters clattering like castanets. Spring and autumn repay the wait: skies rinsed clean, poppies flickering scarlet between wheat rows, and the smell of wet earth after the brief, theatrical storms Spaniards call gota fría. Winter nights drop to –5 °C; frost sugar-coats the olive branches and the single hotel leaves an electric heater outside every bedroom door.

The nearest coast is 115 km away at Alicante, a ninety-minute dash down the A-31. Nobody here bothers. The closest most residents get to the Mediterranean is the blue-and-white tiling around the fountain on Plaza Mayor, installed in 1978 and still leaking politely into the flowerbeds.

What Passes for a Skyline

The Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de los Remedios squats at the top of Calle Mayor, its tower visible long before you reach the centre. Inside, the nave is refreshingly bare—no dripping baroque excess, just a 17th-century retablo whose gold leaf has been allowed to tarnish to a dignified bronze. The sacristan unlocks if you ask in the bakery opposite; tip him €2 and he’ll point out where a medieval arrowhead is embedded above the side door, a relic nobody has bothered to carbon-date.

From the small rise behind the church you can survey the entire urban footprint: 2.4 km of streets, 1,600 houses, one supermarket, one cash machine that refuses foreign cards every second Friday. British estate agents sometimes claim Fuente Álamo is “on the verge of discovery”. Estate agents lie. The place is discovered already—by storks, who nest on the bell tower and deliver guttural sermons at dawn.

Walking Without a Summit

There are no mountains here; the word is used locally for anything taller than a two-storey house. Still, the network of caminos blancos offers satisfying mileage. A 6 km loop north-east passes the Ermita de San Antón, a single-cell chapel locked eleven months of the year. Continue another 4 km and you reach an abandoned railway siding where the tren de la voz once stopped—so named because the guard would shout passengers’ names into the darkness. The trackbed is now a dirt lane perfect for gravel bikes; hire one from the petrol station for €15 a day, pump included.

Carry water. The plateau breeze evaporates sweat so efficiently you won’t notice dehydration until your vision tunnels. Locals wedge plastic bottles into the fork of almond trees—an unofficial refreshment station for walkers. Refill, but bring a few sweets for the children who sometimes appear on quad bikes to demand tribute.

Food That Apologises to No One

Lunch starts at 2 p.m.; arrive earlier and the cook is still deciding whether you merit a table. Mesón El Parral serves gazpacho manchego—not the chilled tomato soup confused by tourists, but a game-and-bread stew thickened with tortas de pan. A portion feeds two; ask for medio and the waiter will look at you as if you’ve admitted voting for the wrong party. Starters, mains, dessert, half-litre of house wine: €18. The wine comes from Villarrobledo, 40 minutes west, and tastes of blackberries and tin.

Hotel Encarna, on the main square, offers the only evening menu outside fiesta week. Its migas—fried breadcrumbs with chorizo and grapes—arrive in a ceramic dish hot enough to brand the table. Breakfast is instant coffee and a slab of sponge cake; accept it gratefully, because the nearest alternative is a vending machine at the medical centre.

Vegetarians should lower expectations. The village vegetarian is a pregnant goat nicknamed La Verdulera who steals lettuces from the grocer. You can buy tinned chickpeas from Supermercado Lola and improvise.

When the Village Forgets to Whisper

The pace is not always sepia-toned. Fiesta season detonates in September with the Feria de los Remedios: three nights of brass bands, fairground rides wedged between olive trucks, and a procession where the statue of the Virgin is carried at shoulder height through a tunnel of fireworks. Accommodation triples in price—though that means €60 instead of €20—and the single hotel books out nine months ahead. If you must visit then, stay in Hellín (18 km) and taxi in for €25 each way.

January brings the Bendición de los Animales. Farmers lead horses, sniffer dogs and the occasional bemused British terrier to the ermita gates for a sprinkle of holy water. The priest keeps things brisk; the temperature demands it. Afterwards everyone retreats to private garages where home-distilled orujo appears from the freezer. Refuse the first shot and you’ll be offered a “milder” version; it’s the same spirit tinted green with walnut husk and tastes like liquid Christmas pudding.

Getting Here, Getting Away

Fuente Álamo has no railway station; the bus from Albacete (1 hr 15 min, €6.80) runs twice daily except Sundays, when it doesn’t run at all. Car hire from Alicante airport costs £90 for three days in shoulder season; the final 12 km snake across open plateau where GPS drifts and you’ll swear you’ve driven in circles. Fill the tank in Hellín—village fuel is 8 cents dearer and the card machine still runs on dial-up.

Leave before noon in July or August. The asphalt radiates heat like a griddle, and the Guardia Civil have been known to close the road while they rescue overheated hatchbacks. Spring hail is equally theatrical; pull under the first olive tree if the sky bruises purple—roof dents are cheaper than windscreens.

The Honest Verdict

Fuente Álamo will not change your life. It offers no boutique caves, no Michelin stars, no sunset yacht trips. What it does offer is the chance to practise your Spanish on people who will not switch to English out of politeness, to walk until the only sound is wheat brushing against itself, and to eat food that tastes of the place, not of focus-group paprika. Come with a full tank, a phrasebook and modest expectations. Leave before the storks start their summer gossip, and the plateau will fold itself back into anonymity behind you—exactly as it has done for everyone else who ever mistook stillness for simplicity.