Almonacid de Zorita

At 683 metres above the Tagus valley, Almonacid de Zorita’s church bell still rings the quarters—useful, because mobile coverage vanishes the moment you duck under the stone archway into Plaza Mayor. The altitude knocks three or four degrees off Madrid’s summer furnace, but it also means winter mornings start at minus two, with the wind rolling across La Alcarria’s wheat sea hard enough to make your eyes water. Come prepared: this is a village that keeps its own climate calendar.

A grid you can walk in seven minutes

The entire urban core fits inside a rectangle 300 metres by 200. One supermarket, one chemist, one cash machine (BBVA, sometimes empty by Sunday evening) and two bar-cafés whose terraza tables share the same chipped-green paint. Park in the square—no metres, no traffic wardens—and you’re done with logistics. Everything radiates from the 16th-century Convento de la Concepción, its brickwork the colour of burnt biscuits after four centuries of sun. Step inside and the air drops another five degrees; the single nave smells of candle wax and the floor tiles sag like old books.

Outside, house walls are built from the same ochre limestone, sliced so thin you can read the fossil shells that once sat on the seabed here. Doorways sit low—people were shorter when these were chopped out with hand tools—and the wooden gates still carry iron studs shaped like daisies. No souvenir stalls, no multilingual menus. If you want a postcard you’ll have to ask in the tiny stationery shop that opens unpredictably at 10.30 when Señora Milagros finishes her coffee.

What the Moors left behind

The name “Almonacid” comes from “al-monastir”, the monastery, a leftover from the 200-odd years this ridge marked a frontier between Islamic Toledo and Christian counts. You won’t find horseshoe arches here—the place was thoroughly rebuilt after 1085—but the street pattern keeps the zig-zag meant to slow cavalry. Walk south along Calle del Castillo and the lane narrows until shoulders almost scrape both sides; glance up and the sky becomes a ribbon. That’s the old defensive throat, still doing its job against modern invaders in SUVs.

Five kilometres down the GU-185 lie the real remains: Zorita de los Canes castle, headquarters of the Knights of Calatrava. Allow a morning. English signage is non-existent, but the custodian will lend you a dog-eared A4 sheet that translates the highlights—keep it, you’ll need the map. Climb the keep and you can sight Almonacid’s church tower poking above the wheat, a useful landmark when you trek back along the livestock track that doubles as a footpath. Stout shoes essential: the path is a dry river of fist-sized stones that twist ankles for sport.

Walking without waymarks

The municipality owns 36 kilometres of rural lanes, most blazed originally by shepherds moving merino sheep to winter pasture. Today they form a loose network for anyone content with self-navigation. A sensible loop starts at the cemetery gate: follow the gravel road signed “Bolarque 7 km” for forty minutes until an olive grove opens into a natural balcony over the Tagus. Griffon vultures cruise at eye level, riding the same thermals that once lift glider pilots from the abandoned airstrip below. Turn left at the stone hut roofed with terracotta tiles, drop into the valley, then climb back via the pine ribbon that marks the ridge. Total distance: 9 km; ascent: 320 m; shade: almost none. Carry more water than you think—farmers recall hikers needing rescue after underestimating July’s 35 °C bite.

Spring is kinder. From late March the plateau turns lime-green with young cereal, poppies splatter vermilion along the verges and night temperatures linger around 10 °C. By mid-May the wheat is knee-high and rustles like paper. That’s also snake season; the local viper is timid but wear boots and stick to paths. October repeats the colour wheel in reverse, plus the advantage of empty lanes once the school term starts.

Calories and caffeine

Food options are limited but honest. Bar El Paraíso opens at 6.30 a.m. for farmers; by 8 the counter is sticky with anise drips and the espresso machine hisses like an angry cat. Order a “café corto” if you like it short and fierce—milk arrives hot, not steamed. Mid-morning tostadas come rubbed with tomato and a glug of olive oil pressed from trees you can see out of the window. Lunch is a set menú del día (€11, bread and half-bottle of wine included) that might be roast lamb or, on Thursdays, cocido stew thick enough to stand a spoon in.

Evening dining means Don Chiqui grill on the CM-210. British visitors gravitate towards the half-chicken and chips—portions defeat most appetites, but staff will box leftovers without being asked. Locals pick migas: fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, pepper and shards of bacon. It sounds stodgy; it is, but after a windy hike the carbohydrate hit feels medicinal. Vegetarians get tortilla española or a salad that arrives buried under tinned tuna—request “sin atún” if fish isn’t your thing. Vegetables, like everything else here, travel 60 km from Madrid’s wholesale market; don’t expect al dente.

When not to come

The fiesta mayor (7–12 September) triples the population. Fairground rides occupy the football pitch, brass bands rehearse at 2 a.m. and every relation who ever left returns with a baby and a barking dog. Rooms within 20 km vanish months ahead; if you must sleep here, book before Easter or resign yourself to Guadalajara’s edge-of-town motel half an hour away. Equally, avoid the first weekend of August when the neighbouring village stages a medieval re-enactment that clogs the only access road with parked cars and sweating knights in chain mail.

Winter has a different problem. The GU-185 is kept clear after snow, but the link from the A-2 can ice over. Rental cars without winter tyres slide backwards on the 8 % gradient into the petrol station forecourt—an entertaining spectator sport, less so if it’s your bumper. Bring chains or travel by bus; one service leaves Madrid’s Estación Sur at 15.15, arrives 17.03, and returns at 6.55 a.m.—handy for a night, impossible for a day trip.

The honest verdict

Almonacid de Zorita offers no jaw-dropping monument, no boutique hotels, no craft-beer taproom. What it does give is a slice of Castilian routine that larger towns have long since painted over: bread delivered in wicker baskets, neighbours arguing across balconies, a sky so wide the sunset seems to slow time itself. Come if you need reset, not entertainment. Bring Spanish phrases, a paper map and an appetite built by altitude. Leave before the fiesta unless you fancy sharing a bathroom with your host’s entire extended family.