Alcohujate

The road climbs past Cuenca's industrial estates until the tarmac narrows and the last petrol station disappears in the rear-view mirror. At 830 metres above sea level, Alcohujate materialises as a cluster of stone houses pressed against the paramera, twenty-six souls clinging to a ridge that feels like the edge of something. Below, the meseta stretches eastwards in wheat-coloured waves; above, only sky and the occasional golden eagle.

This is La Alcarria proper, the high plateau that Camilo José Cela trudged through in 1946, notebook in hand, recording a Spain that hadn't yet discovered tourism. Little has changed. The village's single street still ends where the ploughland begins, and the loudest sound remains the wind combing through thyme and esparto grass. Mobile reception flickers in and out like a faulty lighthouse.

Stone, Sky and Silence

The houses speak a language of granite and slate, their roofs weighted against the gales that sweep up from the Tagus valley. Peek through any half-open doorway and you'll see the original floorboards, worn to a polish by centuries of hobnailed boots. There's no architectural grandstanding here—just the honest geometry needed to survive winters when the mercury slips below zero and the paramera turns white.

The church squats at the village's highest point, its bell tower barely taller than the neighbouring hay barns. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and damp stone. The altar cloth, embroidered by women whose grandchildren now live in Madrid, depicts wheat sheaves and bee orchids in thread that has faded from crimson to dusty rose. Sunday mass still draws a congregation, though priest and parishioners alike arrive by car from neighbouring villages.

Walk fifty paces beyond the last house and you're in cereal country. The footpaths—really just tractor ruts—radiate across a landscape that feels African in its austerity. Stone walls divide nothing from nothing, and every kilometre or so a ruined cortijo sinks back into its foundations. Bring water; the nearest shop is twenty-five kilometres away in Saelices.

Walking the Paramera

The GR-160 long-distance path passes within two kilometres of the village, part of a 400-kilometre circuit that threads together La Alcarria's forgotten settlements. A morning's walk eastwards brings you to Algarra, population nine, where the bar opens only on Saturdays and the mayor doubles as postman. West lies Valhermoso de la Fuente—slightly larger, with a working fountain where shepherds still fill plastic jerrycans for their flocks.

Spring arrives late at this altitude. April transforms the plateau into a mosaic of poppies and wild fennel, while May brings out the bee orchids that give Valhermoso its name. By July the colour has drained away; everything turns the shade of toasted almonds that local painters call color alcarreño. Autumn is brief—a two-week window when the stubble fields glow amber before the first frosts.

Night walking requires nerve. There's no light pollution because there's no lighting. The Milky Way appears so close you could scoop it up with a handful of the stony soil. Locals claim you can read by starlight once your eyes adjust, though they've had three generations to practise. Bring a torch anyway; the paramera is criss-crossed by abandoned irrigation channels that can snap an ankle.

What Passes for Civilisation

Alcohujate has neither bar nor shop, a fact that surprises even Spaniards who think they know rural Castilla. The last grocery closed in 1998 when Doña Pilar retired at eighty-three; her counter now serves as a potting bench in her nephew's garden. For provisions you drive to Saelices, where the Día supermarket stocks local honey at €6 a jar and cheese made from Manchega sheep that graze the same plateau you'll be walking across.

The nearest restaurant, La Huella de la Alcarria, hides in an industrial unit on the Saelices bypass. Don't let the location fool you. The chef trained in San Sebastián before returning to his grandmother's village. His cordero al estilo alcarreño—milk-fed lamb roasted with thyme and garlic—justifies the forty-minute drive from Cuenca. Order it with ajoarriero, a salt-cod mash that shepherds invented to use up yesterday's bread. Lunch for two with wine runs about €45.

Accommodation options are limited. The village itself offers one self-catering house, Casa de la Paramera, restored by a Madrid architect who summers here. It sleeps four, has underfloor heating powered by a ground-source pump, and costs €120 nightly with a three-night minimum. Otherwise base yourself in Cuenca—Hotel Conquense charges €65 for doubles with secure parking—and treat Alcohujate as a day trip.

When the Weather Turns

Winter arrives overnight, usually between the last week of October and the first of November. The paramera becomes a wind tunnel funnelling Siberian air across the meseta. Temperatures drop to -12°C, and the access road—never more than a paved goat track—can ice over for days. Chains are advisable from December through March; without them you'll be walking the last eight kilometres from the main road.

Summer brings the opposite problem. At 830 metres you'd expect relief from Castilla's furnace, but the paramera offers no shade. By 11 a.m. the stone houses radiate heat like storage heaters, and the only cool spot is inside the church. August afternoons are best spent in Cuenca's museo abstracto; return at sunset when the plateau turns the colour of Cardenal Mendoza brandy and the temperature drops twenty degrees in an hour.

The sweet spots are May and late September. In May the wildflowers peak and the wheat creates golden ripples that visible from the village bell tower. September brings the saffron rose—not the spice but a purple crocus that appears after the first rains. Both months offer daytime temperatures in the low twenties and nights cool enough to justify the fireplace at Casa de la Paramera.

Getting There, Getting Away

Public transport doesn't. The last bus passed through in 1994, driven by Señor Agustín who retired the same day. From Madrid it's 165 kilometres via the A-3 to Tarancón, then the CM-310 country road that signs warn is "unsuitable for heavy goods vehicles." Allow three hours including the inevitable tractor behind which you'll crawl for twenty minutes.

Hire cars from Cuenca train station start at €35 daily with unlimited mileage. Petrol stations thin out after the CM-310 turn-off; fill up in Villalba de la Sierra unless you fancy explaining in Spanish why you've run dry on a road with no hard shoulder. Phone coverage dies ten kilometres before the village—download offline maps or risk discovering that Google thinks you're in a field.

Leave before dusk unless you've booked the house. The paramera swallows light; darkness here has texture. As you drop back towards Cuenca's sodium glow, Alcohujate recedes into blackness, twenty-six people and their stone island suspended between earth and sky. It's not a place for ticking off sights. Come for the silence, stay while it lasts, and understand why some Spaniards still measure distance not in kilometres but in the time it takes for church bells to fade.