Alarilla

The road peels off the A-2 at kilometre 62, climbs 12 km of switchbacks and deposits you 845 m above sea level with the whole of the Henares valley laid out like a relief map. Straight ahead is the concrete launch ramp of La Muela, bright yellow against the khaki scrub; on a breezy Sunday you’ll see technicolour canopies blossom, circle and vanish eastwards towards Guadalajara. Alarilla itself sits just behind the ridge: 150 inhabitants, one bar, one shop, and a church tower that still shows Civil War pock-marks picked out in newer stone.

Flight path and footpaths

Paragliders come for the thermals, but you don’t need to jump off anything to enjoy the view. A five-minute drive (or twenty-minute walk) up the dirt track to the mirador brings you to the edge of the meseta. From the safety of the guard-rail you can clock the cathedral 25 km away, the railway line threading the plain, and the irrigation circles that look oddly green against the cereal gold. Bring binoculars: kestrels use the same updrafts as the pilots, and on clear winter days the Sierra de Guadarrama glitters white on the horizon.

If you prefer to stay earth-bound, the old shepherd paths that fan out from the top of the village are still maintained by the local agricultural co-op. None are way-marked in the British sense – look for the double ruts between wheat strips – but the landmarks are simple: keep the paragliders on your left and the honey-coloured cliffs on your right and you’ll loop back to the cemetery in 70 minutes. Stout shoes are enough; after rain the clay sticks like brick mortar, so pick your weather.

Stone, adobe and 1950s brick

Most visitors expect a medieval core and are visibly puzzled when the first building they meet is a 1953 schoolhouse in utilitarian brick. The civil war left Alarilla with more rubble than romance, and Franco-era reconstruction favoured function over fripery. What survives is concentrated in two short streets behind the plaza: chunky stone thresholds, wooden doors warped into parallelograms, and the occasional coat of arms wedged into a wall like an afterthought. The parish church of San Juan Bautista is essentially a sixteenth-century box with a nineteenth-century tower cap; step inside and the air smells of candle wax and sieved dust. No explanatory panels, no gift shop, just a single printed sheet laminated by the font – entirely in Spanish, naturally.

Eating (or not)

Alarilla will not add inches to your waistline. Bar La Plaza opens at 08:00 for coffee and churros, shuts at 14:00, then reappears around 19:00 if trade looks hopeful. Weekend lunch is the only reliable slot for something hot: a pork chop the size of a saucer, chips, and a can of Cruzcampo for €9. Ask for migas and you’ll get a plate of fried breadcrumbs flecked with bacon – comfort food, Spanish style. Vegetarians should plan ahead; the shop stocks eggs, tinned tuna and those unlabelled jars of local honey that cost €4 and taste faintly of rosemary. If you need greens, drive 12 km to Guadalajara before 21:00 when the supermarkets shut.

Cash is king. The bar’s card reader works when the mobile signal fancies, and the nearest ATM is beside the Guadalajara bull-ring. Fill the tank before you leave the A-2; there is no petrol station in the municipality and the village shop sells only 5-litre cans for lawnmowers.

When to turn up – and when to stay away

April and late-September give you green wheat, mild afternoons and skies scrubbed clean by Atlantic fronts. In May the fields turn emerald and the first thermals tempt the paragliders, but the wind can still whip the ridge at 30 km/h – bring a jacket. July and August are honest-to-goodness hot: 35 °C by noon, cicadas drilling into your skull, almost no shade. The village does liven up for the fiestas around 15 August – temporary bar tent, brass band, night-time disco powered by a generator – yet accommodation within 20 km books out months ahead. Winter is crisp, often 8 °C in sunlight and −2 °C once the sun drops behind La Muela. On weekdays the place can feel abandoned; if solitude is your thing, you’ll love it, but if you need conversation pick a Saturday.

The practical bit you still need to know

• Getting here: From Madrid, take the A-2 towards Barcelona, exit 62 signed “Alarilla/Cabanillas”. The GU-126 climbs 12 km; the last 2 km are narrow but tarmacked. Total drive from Barajas T4 is 55 minutes on a quiet day.

• Sleeping: There is no hotel, casa rural or campsite in the village. Closest beds are in Guadalajara (12 km, NH and assorted two-stars) or the parador at Sigüenza 40 minutes east. Book early for August.

• Language: English is limited to “hello” from the bar owner’s teenage daughter. Download the Spanish offline pack in Google Translate; pointing at the menu works for pork chops, but dietary requirements need spelling out.

• Flying: Contact Club Alarilla Vuelo Libre via WhatsApp (+34 600 123 456) the evening before. Tandem flights €90, own kit €10 site fee. Wind usually switches on between 11:00 and 13:00.

• Phone signal: 4G on the ridge, patchy in the streets. Wi-Fi in the bar is password-protected and leisurely.

Last look over the edge

Alarilla will never feature on a souvenir plate. It offers space, silence and a geography lesson instead: Castilla-La Mancha rolled out like corrugated cardboard, the wind in your face, and the odd realisation that the same ridge launching paragliders once launched artillery shells. Turn up with a full tank, a phrase-book and modest expectations, and the village repays you with a horizon that stretches all the way back to Madrid.