Barajas de Melo

The petrol gauge hovers near empty somewhere between Madrid and the coast. Your hire car's sat-nav shows a village 20 minutes off the motorway, and suddenly you're climbing through olive groves towards a place that time forgot to update. Welcome to Barajas de Melo – not to be confused with Madrid's airport, despite what the name suggests.

At 700 metres above sea level, this scatter of stone houses and twisting lanes serves as Spain's most effective antidote to motorway fatigue. The A-3 might thunder with lorries heading for Valencia just 25 kilometres north, but here the loudest sound is the church bell marking the hour. Or perhaps the click of pool balls from Bar Calleja, where locals gather at lunchtime for a game and a beer that costs €1.20.

The Fortress House and Other Surprises

Most visitors arrive after dark, key in hand for one of the village's two hotels, expecting nothing more than a bed and decent meal. Morning brings revelation. From the hotel terrace, the view stretches across La Alcarria's patchwork of cereal fields and olive groves, broken by deep barrancos that glow amber in early light. This is the landscape Camilo José Cela tramped through in the 1940s, later immortalised in 'Journey to La Alcarria'. Little has changed, save for the occasional solar panel glinting on a terracotta roof.

The 15th-century Casa Fuerte squats at the village's highest point – a fortress house that guarded these approaches during Spain's turbulent medieval period. Finding it open requires a visit to the ayuntamiento (town hall) on Plaza Mayor, where someone will rummage for keys if you ask nicely. Inside, thick stone walls reveal a noble family's defensive retreat, complete with original arrow slits and a courtyard that once sheltered livestock during raids. It's no Alhambra, but the €2 donation helps maintain what remains.

San Pedro Apóstol church dominates the main square with its weathered stone tower, visible from every approach. Step inside during evening mass and you'll witness village life in miniature: elderly women in black, teenagers checking phones between prayers, the priest delivering his homily to a congregation that ebbs and flows with the agricultural calendar. The interior blends Romanesque simplicity with later Baroque additions – nothing spectacular, yet utterly authentic.

Walking Through Cela's Footsteps

The real attraction here lies beyond the village limits. A network of agricultural tracks connects Barajas de Melo to neighbouring hamlets across rolling paramera. Spring transforms these paths into corridors of wild rosemary and thyme, the air thick with scent and the chatter of skylarks. Autumn brings mushroom hunters searching for níscalos among the pine fragments that survive from ancient forests.

One particularly rewarding route heads south towards Villar de Olalla, following an old drovers' trail that drops into the Huecar river gorge before climbing back onto the plateau. The 12-kilometre circuit takes three hours at a leisurely pace, passing traditional threshing circles now abandoned to wildflowers and the occasional grazing sheep. Bring water – shade is scarce and the Castilian sun burns fierce even in October.

Cyclists find these secondary roads ideal for training rides, though the combination of heat, wind and deceptive gradients can humble even fit riders. The CM-220 towards Cuenca offers 20 kilometres of near-empty tarmac through classic Alcarrian scenery, punctuated only by the occasional farmer on a tractor who'll wave as you grind past.

What to Eat When Nobody Speaks English

Food here adheres to Castilian principles: local, seasonal, substantial. Hotel Restaurante MR serves the village's most refined version – refined being relative in a place where dinner still means meat, potatoes and wine. Their chuletón (T-bone steak) feeds two hungry adults, arriving at table sizzling on a hot plate with nothing more than sea salt and a wedge of lemon. Order it 'al punto' if medium suits; rare arrives practically mooing.

For breakfast, Bar Calleja does a proper Spanish tostada: crusty bread rubbed with tomato, drizzled with local olive oil and topped with wafer-thin jamón. The owner, Juanjo, speaks no English but understands pointing perfectly. His wife bakes pastries fresh each morning – try the milhojas, layers of puff pastry and custard that dissolve on contact with coffee.

Tuesday brings the weekly market, really just a fruit and vegetable van from Valencia. Locals cluster around examining tomatoes and commenting on prices while the vendor calls out specials in rapid-fire Spanish. It's theatre and shopping combined, useful if you're self-catering in one of the village rental houses.

Practicalities for the Unprepared

Let's be clear: Barajas de Melo offers nothing for fans of organised entertainment. No golf course, no wine tours, no flamenco shows. The nearest cash machine sits 25 kilometres away in Tarancón, so bring euros. Mobile signal varies from patchy to non-existent depending on your provider – Vodafone users might find themselves resorting to smoke signals.

Both hotel restaurants stop serving dinner at 22:00 sharp. Arrive at 21:45 and you'll eat; arrive at 22:05 and you'll go hungry. The tiny grocer's on Calle Mayor stocks basics but closes for siesta between 14:00 and 17:00, because some traditions refuse to die.

Summer brings fierce heat – temperatures regularly top 35°C in July and August, when the sensible option involves poolside shade and cold beer. Winter conversely brings sharp frosts and the occasional dusting of snow, beautiful but potentially problematic on ungritted mountain roads.

When to Come, When to Leave

Spring works best, when wildflowers carpet the paramera and walking doesn't require a litre of water per hour. Late September through October offers golden light, mushroom season and temperatures perfect for afternoon strolls followed by red wine by the fireplace.

Most visitors stay one night, sometimes two if they've discovered the walking trails. Longer stays demand self-sufficiency and a tolerance for village rhythms that move to agricultural time rather than tourist convenience. Read the signs correctly though – a weekend here resets internal clocks to something approaching natural time, away from Britain's perpetual hurry.

Drive away south towards the coast or north back to Madrid airport, and Barajas de Melo shrinks quickly in the rear-view mirror. Just another dot on Spain's vast interior map, remarkable only for what it refuses to become. For some travellers, that's precisely the point.