Buendía

The castle keep catches the dawn light before anywhere else in Buendía. From the mirador below its walls, the Entrepeñas reservoir spreads westwards like polished pewter, 3,000 hectares of water that shouldn't exist this far inland. This is La Mancha, after all – the archetype of parched Spain – yet here sits a village that gazes down on its own inland sea.

A Medieval Settlement That Grew A Beach

At 740 metres above sea level, Buendía sits high enough for the air to carry a bite on March mornings. The village predates the reservoir by eight centuries; what changed in 1956 wasn't the town's footprint but its horizon. Where farmers once watched wheat fields, they now track wind patterns across open water. The shift happened overnight – locals speak of waking to find their ancestral valley flooded, the old road to Entrepeñas disappearing beneath twenty metres of water.

The castle remains the reference point. Technically private – don't expect to breach its stone gateway – the fortress rewards walkers who circle the outer walls at sunset. Swifts nest in the ruined battlements; their aerial Sorties against a pink sky make a more compelling photograph than any interior chapel could manage. From the western rampart you can trace the original town moat, now a dry scar of grass, and beyond it the modern cemetery where marble graves catch the last light.

Down in the herrería, the smithy rings on Tuesday market days. It's one of five working forges still operating in Castilla-La Mancha, kept alive by orders from neighbouring villages that refuse mass-produced ironwork. The smith, Julián, learnt the trade from his grandfather; ask politely and he'll demonstrate how Castilian steel gets its temper, heating bars until they glow the colour of Saffron rice, then hammering them into grape-knife blades used during September harvests.

Walking Routes That Start With Water And End With Honey

The Camino Natural del Tajo passes straight through Buendía, following the old Guadalajara-Cuenca drovers' trail. Eastwards the path climbs 200 metres through Aleppo pine to the Ermita de la Soledad, a sixteenth-century hermitage that doubles as a storm shelter. The return loop takes three hours, descending past apiaries whose hives produce the dark, thyme-scented honey that carries La Alcarria's protected designation. Buy a 500g jar at the bakery on Calle Real – it costs €7 and tastes of the same rosemary that lines the footpaths.

For a shorter outing, follow the reservoir's northern arm to the abandoned railway tunnel. The track, built in 1929 and flooded twelve years later, ends abruptly at a concrete wall where graffitied names date back to Franco's era. Swallows nest inside; their echoing calls make the tunnel feel cathedral-large. Bring a torch – the interior stays a constant 14°C even when outside temperatures top 35°C in July.

Swimming remains unofficial. There's no beach infrastructure, no lifeguard service, and the regional government posts crocodile-warning signs that refer to the reptilian silhouette of floating logs rather than actual animals. Locals enter at the slipway below the cemetery, where concrete steps built for boat maintenance provide the only access. Water quality tests clear – the reservoir feeds Madrid's taps – but bring sandals; the shoreline drops sharply over chalky slabs slippery with algae.

A Menu That Doesn't Translate

British visitors expecting tapas tours will find none. Buendía has three bars, all opening only when the owner feels like it. Weekend lunch service starts at 15:00 sharp; arrive at 15:30 and the migas ruleras might be gone. The dish – fried breadcrumbs, chorizo, and halved grapes – sounds eccentric until you taste how the sweetness cuts the paprika oil. Pair it with a clay bowl of tiznao, salt-cod stewed with potato and sweet pepper, mild enough for tentative palates yet substantial after a morning's hike.

Queso de la Alcarria arrives unannounced. The barkeep sets down a wedge of semi-cured sheep cheese with a drizzle of local honey, no charge, assuming you're staying for dinner. Accept it; refusing breaks village protocol. The cheese tastes of mountain thyme and carries the same granular texture as aged Wensleydale, though locals would bristle at the comparison.

Vegetarian options narrow to tortilla and salads, but the bakery on Plaza Mayor stocks empanadillas filled with pisto – Spain's answer to ratatouille – that travel well for picnic lunches. Buy before 11:00; once the schoolchildren swarm in at break time, the counter empties fast.

When Silence Costs Less Than Company

April delivers the village at its brightest. Almond blossom foams along the ridge roads, and the reservoir reflects a sky scrubbed clean by Atlantic fronts that still reach this far east. Temperatures hover around 18°C – light-jacket weather for British walkers – and wild asparagus sprouts along path edges, free for anyone who recognises the fronds.

August swells the population to perhaps double, mostly grandchildren of locals escaping Madrid's heat. Even then Buendía never feels crowded; the lack of rental accommodation sees to that. The single three-star hostal has twelve rooms, booked solid by Spanish families who reserve the same fortnight annually. Expect to pay €65 bed-and-breakfast, more if you want the castle-view balcony.

Winter brings the reverse migration. By November the place empties, the bakery reduces hours, and afternoon shadows stretch long across shuttered houses. Snow falls rarely but when it does the CM-210 becomes treacherous; the regional council grits only after accidents get reported. Chains or 4WD are sensible between December and February, though most Brits visit outside these months anyway.

Leaving Before The Reservoir Freezes

The last bus to Cuenca departs at 19:15. Miss it and you're staying overnight, whether you'd planned to or not. That isn't the hardship it sounds – night skies here register a Bortle scale 3, dark enough to see the Andromeda Galaxy with bare eyes. Stand by the lookout, let the castle silhouette bracket the stars, and the Milky Way appears as a frost across glass.

Drive away the following morning and the village shrinks fast in rear-view mirrors. Within five kilometres the reservoir disappears behind limestone ridges; within ten, Buendía becomes a stone smudge indistinguishable from any other Castilian hill town. What lingers is the smell of bee-smoke and rosemary on your jacket, the taste of honey that isn't acacia yet isn't heather either, and the memory of water where maps insist there should be none.