Argecilla

The road to Argecilla climbs past the last service station at Marchamalo and keeps climbing. By the time the village appears—perched on its limestone outcrop like a watchtower over La Alcarria—you're breathing air that's 970 metres thin and wondering why your ears have popped on what started as a gentle drive from Guadalajara.

This is Castilla-La Mancha's high plateau, where Spain's rural exodus becomes visible in stone and silence. Sixty-six souls remain in Argecilla, though that number doubles when weekenders from Madrid unlock their ancestral homes. The altitude matters here: winters bring proper snow that can cut the village off for days, while summer nights drop to 16°C—perfect for sleeping without the air conditioning that coastal Spain relies on.

Walking Through Layers of Emptiness

The village's single street follows the ridge line, dropping away to agricultural terraces that haven't seen a tractor since the 1980s. Stone walls built for oxen still divide the plots; wild asparagus grows through abandoned almond groves. Walk east for twenty minutes and you'll reach the Ermita de San Pedro, its bell tower visible for miles across the paramera—the high, dry grassland that defines this region. The path passes through three distinct ecosystems in under two kilometres: the village's microclimate of fig and pomegranate trees, the Mediterranean scrub of rosemary and thyme, then the open steppe where bustards glide between wheat stubble.

Local shepherd José María (he'll insist you call him Pepe) still uses these medieval drove roads to move his 200 merino sheep between winter and summer pastures. Time your visit for late afternoon and you'll catch him at the fuente where the animals drink, a scene unchanged since Cela wrote about these same paths in his 1948 travelogue. The sheep wear traditional bells whose tones identify each flock—Pepe can pick out his animals blindfolded by sound alone.

What Passes for Entertainment Here

The village's single bar opens at 7 am for the agricultural workers and closes when the last customer leaves, usually around 11 pm. Inside, the television shows grainy football matches while the owner, Concha, prepares tortilla española that bears no relation to the yellow foam sold in Madrid tapas bars. Her version uses eggs from her own hens, potatoes grown in the terrace behind the church, and olive oil pressed from trees that have survived forty summers of drought. A slice costs €2.50 with coffee; she'll refuse payment if you attempt school-level Spanish.

There's no accommodation in Argecilla itself. The nearest beds are in Brihuega, twelve kilometres down the mountain, where the seventeenth-century Posada de la Cadena charges €65 for rooms with views over the Tajuña valley. Better strategy: base yourself in Guadalajara's parador (the former convent of San Francisco, doubles from €95) and make Argecilla a day trip that includes lunch in one of Brihuega's lavender farms. The purple fields bloom in July, turning the landscape into something resembling Provence but without the tour coaches.

The Church That Survived Forgetfulness

San Pedro Apóstol squats at the village's highest point, its Romanesque apse propped up with scaffolding that's been there since 2009. The regional government's heritage department ran out of funds during the financial crisis; locals joke that the metal supports have become part of the architecture. Inside, the baroque altarpiece retains traces of its original cobalt paint—expensive pigment imported from Afghanistan in the eighteenth century when Argecilla's wool trade generated proper wealth.

The church key hangs on a nail inside Concha's bar. She'll hand it over with instructions to return it before closing time, trusting you with six centuries of history because that's how things work when your village has more storks than residents. The bell rope dangles through the ceiling; resist the temptation unless you fancy explaining to the Guardia Civil why fifty households just had their siesta interrupted.

When to Catch the Village Alive

Argecilla's population explodes during the last weekend of June for the fiestas de San Pedro. Former residents return from Madrid and Barcelona, pitching tents in abandoned orchards because every house overflows with cousins. The Saturday night verbena features a sound system that would shame most British weddings; whole lambs rotate over coals while teenagers sneak vodka into Coke bottles. Sunday morning's procession starts at 10 am sharp—late enough to sleep off the hangover, early enough to avoid the afternoon heat that makes the paramera shimmer like a mirage.

October brings the vendimia rural, when locals who've kept their grandfather's vines harvest grapes for home consumption. The wine tastes like nothing sold in UK supermarkets: thick, almost black, carrying notes of graphite from the limestone soil. Ask politely and someone will produce a bottle from their cellar, invariably served in water glasses because proper wine glasses disappeared with the last tourist bus—sometime around 1987.

Getting Here, Getting Away

No public transport serves Argecilla. From Madrid's Atocha station, take the high-speed train to Guadalajara (30 minutes, €18 return), then rent a car for the 45-minute drive through the CM-101. The final approach involves a series of hairpin bends that test clutch control; in winter, carry chains between November and March. Phone reception dies two kilometres before the village—download offline maps and tell someone where you're going.

The altitude means weather changes fast. Pack layers even in August, when afternoon temperatures hit 32°C but mornings start at 12°C. Spring brings the alcarria's brief green transformation: wild tulips bloom in April, gone by May. After October, mist fills the valleys below, creating the illusion that Argecilla floats above an inland sea of cloud.

Leave before dusk if you're driving—the CM-101 has no lighting and the local wild boar population considers the road their territory after dark. Or stay for dinner with Concha (she'll insist, and the tortilla really is that good) then sleep in your car at the mirador. Wake early enough and you'll understand why medieval villagers chose this windswept ridge: the sunrise turns the paramera gold for exactly three minutes before the daily heat bleaches everything back to silver-green.