Bujalaro

The church bell strikes noon, yet nobody appears. Forty-nine souls live in Bujalaro, but you'd be lucky to spot three of them before nightfall. At 841 metres above sea level, this granite hamlet drifts somewhere between Guadalajara's cereal steppes and the sky, its empty streets soundtracked only by wind scraping through abandoned roof tiles.

That altitude matters. Summer mornings feel ten degrees cooler than Madrid's furnace, while winter brings proper snow that can cut the single access road for days. Spring arrives late—wild thyme colours the roadside by late April—and autumn lingers into November, painting the surrounding quejigo oaks copper against a biscuit-dry landscape. Come prepared: a sun hat and fleece can both be essential within one afternoon.

The Architecture of Exodus

Bujalaro won't serve you tapas. There are no bars, no shops, no souvenir stalls, not even a working fountain. Instead, you get an open-air museum of rural depopulation. Roughly one house in three stands shuttered; swallow nests clog broken gutters, and timber doors hang off forged iron hinges last painted during Franco's era. Peer through cracked windows and you'll see hand-loomed bedspreads still on iron bedsteads, as though the occupants simply evaporated.

Yet the remaining homes are immaculate. Adobe walls glow mustard-yellow in afternoon light, geraniums spill from clay pots, and elderly residents—when they do emerge—polish brass knockers until they gleam like gold. Walk the single north-south lane slowly; notice how stone thresholds dip in the centre, scooped out by centuries of boots. The parish church, locked except for August festivals, contains a modest baroque retablo paid for by wool money in 1743. Its bell tower doubles as the village stork nursery; expect a clattering bill-clap concert at dusk.

Walking the Dry Alcarria

Strap boots on at the cattle grid on the village's western edge. An unsignposted but clear farm track drops into the Río Bujalaro valley, then climbs two kilometres to the ridge of the Sierra de Pela. From the crest you can see white wind turbines turning lazily above the cereal ocean—an oddly comforting reminder that the twenty-first century hasn't completely forgotten this place. The round trip takes ninety minutes, burns calves on the ascent, and rewards with enough silence to hear your own pulse.

For a half-day loop, continue south along the ridge to abandoned Ermita de la Soledad, last roofed in 1928. Swallows dive through its open arch where the altar once stood; locals call it "la iglesia sin Dios"—the church without God—and picnic here on All Saints' Day. Return to Bujalaro via the dirt tractor path that skirts wheat terraces; look for shards of Roman roof tile turned up by the plough. Mobile reception dies two minutes out of the village—download an offline map before setting off, because nobody will hear you shout.

Eating Despite the Emptiness

Bring lunch. A stone bench beside the church offers the only public seating, and the solitary fountain ran dry years ago. Stock up in Jadraque, 12 kilometres back along the CM-1003: Supermercado López does decent manchego, vacuum-packed morcilla, and cold cans of beer. If you crave a proper meal after hiking, drive another ten minutes to Cogolludo where Asador la Alcarria roasts Segureño lamb over holm-oak embers; half a kilo for two costs €26 and they open Sundays.

Should you visit in late May, farmers sell honey drained from hives among the thyme plots. Look for a handwritten "Miel a la venta" sign on the gate just before the village—€7 buys a one-kilogram tin of raw, granular sweetness that tastes of the surrounding scrubland. No postcard, no tasting notes, no queue.

Seasons of Almost-Nothing

August fiestas temporarily triple the population. Returned grandchildren string bunting across the lane, a sound system appears in the plaza, and someone unlocks the church. On the night of the 15th a fireworks box the size of a hay bale rattles windows for miles. By the 18th the bunting sags, the sound system departs, and Bujalaro slips back into hibernation.

Winter is brutal. Elevation turns rain to snow without warning; drifts can block the road for forty-eight hours until a council plough meanders up from Tamajón. Book accommodation elsewhere—Casa La Nuri in Jadraque is the nearest self-catering option, sleeping four from €90 a night. The village itself offers no beds, no heating oil deliveries, and no guarantee of escape if the weather turns.

Spring compensates. Late-blooming lavender splashes purple against grey stone, and the cereal plateau becomes a green lake rippling in the breeze. Thermals are still wise at dawn—frost can bite as late as early May—but by 11 a.m. T-shirt weather usually arrives. Photographers prize the forty-minute window after sunrise when low light picks out every stone ridge and casts kilometre-long shadows across the plains.

Getting There, Getting Out

Bujalaro lies 82 kilometres east-north-east of Madrid, but the capital might as well be another country. From the A-2 motorway take exit 61 toward Torija, then snake along the CM-1003 for 35 kilometres of empty, well-surfaced but narrow road. The final five kilometres climb 250 metres; meeting a tractor around a blind bend is common, so drop the speed and hug the verge. There is no petrol station after Torija—fill the tank and the windscreen washer while you can.

Public transport is fiction. A weekday bus links Guadalajara to Tamajón, 14 kilometres away, but you'd still need a taxi willing to cross three mountain saddles. Car hire from Madrid-Barajas runs about £45 a day for a Fiat 500—small enough to squeeze past oncoming grain lorries. Allow ninety minutes' drive, longer if you stop to photograph the windfarm ridges glowing pink at dusk.

Drive away before nightfall unless you fancy reversing half a kilometre to the nearest passing place in pitch darkness. Headlamps attract wild boar; locals swear the animals recognize engine noise and will wait politely at the roadside until you pass. Whether myth or fact, the advice feels comforting when the only light is your own feeble beam cutting through empty Spain.