Cañaveras

At 850 metres above sea level, Canaveras sits high enough that mobile phone reception becomes patchy, which might be the village's greatest luxury. The 244 residents have watched the 21st century arrive through their stone doorways, then politely declined most of it. This is La Alcarria, the harsh plateau that Camilo José Cela trudged through in 1946, and little has changed except the tractors are now Japanese rather than Spanish.

The approach road from Cuenca winds through ochre fields where wheat struggles against thin soil and thinner rainfall. Stone walls divide properties in the medieval manner, though these days they mostly corral abandoned olive groves rather than livestock. The village appears suddenly—a cluster of ochre and terracotta roofs huddled around a church tower that has watched over these fields since the 16th century.

The Architecture of Survival

Canaveras built itself from whatever the land provided. The houses are stone at their base, transitioning to adobe brick higher up—thermal mass at the bottom, insulation at the top, a practical solution to 40-degree summers and winters that regularly touch minus ten. Wooden balconies project over narrow streets, their paint peeling in geometric patterns that would delight a contemporary artist. These aren't preserved heritage properties; they're working houses with satellite dishes bolted onto Renaissance stone, where elderly residents still dump their washing water into the street as their great-grandmothers did.

The Church of San Pedro dominates the main square, its bell tower cracked from the 1911 earthquake that rattled through this region. Inside, the air smells of beeswax and centuries of incense. The altarpiece survived the Civil War by the simple expedient of being too heavy to move—Republican forces had neither the time nor inclination to burn a village this insignificant. Look for the small plaque commemorating local boys who died at the Battle of Teruel; their names are still read aloud during the August fiestas by descendants who share their surnames.

Photographers arrive expecting golden-hour perfection and leave disappointed. Canaveras is beautiful in the way a weathered farmer's face is beautiful—earned rather than given. Mid-afternoon light is brutal, bleaching stone to the colour of dried bone. Return at 7 pm when shadows pool in doorways and old men shuffle out for their evening walk. The village transforms then, becoming briefly mysterious before darkness collapses everything into black silhouette.

Walking Through the Nothing

The real attraction here lies in what isn't present. No souvenir shops flogging fridge magnets. No tour guides clutching laminated flags. No restaurants with multilingual menus photographing every plate. Instead, there's space to think, amplified by the hollow clang of the church bell marking quarters of an hour that pass identically to the previous quarter.

Walking tracks radiate from the village like spokes, following ancient paths between cereal fields. The PR-CU 92 heads south towards Villar de la Encina, a six-kilometre ramble through thyme-scented scrubland where you'll encounter more wild boar tracks than human footprints. The full circuit takes three hours, looping back through the Valdecorneja valley where vultures circle on thermals above abandoned shepherd shelters. Spring brings carpets of purple phlomis and yellow crown daisies; autumn paints everything the colour of burnt toast.

Winter walking requires preparation. At this altitude, weather arrives suddenly—blue sky transforming to horizontal sleet within twenty minutes. The upside is empty trails and the possibility of spotting Spanish imperial eagles hunting across the steppe. Summer hikes demand early starts; by 11 am the heat becomes punitive and shade non-existent. Always carry more water than seems necessary; the nearest shop is back in Canaveras and it shuts for siesta at 2 pm sharp.

The Gastronomy of Making Do

Food here reflects geography rather than ambition. The local speciality is morteruelo, a pâté of wild boar, pork liver and spices pounded together until it achieves the texture of smooth concrete. Served cold on toast with local honey, it's surprisingly good once you overcome the grey colour. The honey itself deserves attention—La Alcarria holds Spain's oldest protected designation of origin, produced from rosemary and lavender that grow wild across these plateau lands. Buy it directly from beekeeper Paco Martín, whose garage doubles as a shop on Saturday mornings. His orange-blossom variety tastes like liquid Mediterranean sunshine.

Eating options within Canaveras itself are limited to Bar Nuevo, open whenever owner Marisol feels like it. The menu never changes: migas (fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo), huevos rotos (broken eggs over potatoes), and the daily stew which might contain rabbit, partridge or whatever the local hunters shot that morning. A three-course lunch with wine costs €12, served on formica tables while the television blares Spanish soap operas. It's not gourmet but it's honest, and Marisol will remember your preferences if you return a second day.

For serious dining, drive twenty minutes to Priego where Casa Juan serves roast lamb that falls off the bone in sweet flakes. Book ahead—word has spread among Madrid weekenders and Saturday tables disappear fast. Their wine list focuses on nearby Manchuela producers, offering robust reds that pair perfectly with the local habit of eating everything with pork fat.

When Silence Becomes Overwhelming

Visit during late April and you'll find fields green from spring rains, wildflowers blooming between wheat stalks, and temperatures perfect for walking. The village awakens briefly—weekenders from Cuenca restoring ancestral properties, children returning from city jobs to help with the harvest. Come August and the population quadruples during fiestas. Suddenly every house disgorges relatives from Madrid and Barcelona, the square fills with temporary bars, and someone inevitably organises a pig roast that continues until dawn. It's the only time Canaveras feels crowded, though crowded here means you might have to queue for beer.

November through March presents a different proposition. Many houses stand empty, their windows boarded against weather and vandals. The sole bar reduces its hours, opening only on weekends when the baker visits. Days are short—sunrise at 8:30 am, darkness by 6 pm—and the wind carries knives. This is when Canaveras reveals its essential character: a place that survived through stubbornness rather than fortune, where elderly widows still sweep their doorsteps daily despite no passing traffic.

The nearest accommodation is in Priego, unless you count the house rental occasionally available through the village mayor. Don't expect luxury—heating is via wood-burning stove, hot water arrives in limited quantities, and the WiFi password is written on a card that reads "sometimes works, usually doesn't". Alternatively, base yourself in Cuenca and visit as a day trip. The city offers proper hotels, restaurants that understand vegetarianism, and the safety net of civilisation when the silence becomes overwhelming.

Getting here requires commitment. Madrid's Barajas airport sits two hours away via rental car, the last forty minutes through winding roads where GPS signal flickers. Public transport exists in theory—a twice-weekly bus from Cuenca that arrives at 2 pm and departs at 5 am the following day. Practically speaking, Canaveras demands private transport and the flexibility to work around Spanish timetables, which treat punctuality as a foreign concept.

Some visitors leave after two hours, defeated by the absence of obvious attractions. Others stay for weeks, seduced by rhythms that pre-date smartphones and social media. The village offers no revelations, sells no epiphanies. It simply continues being itself, indifferent to tourism's whims, providing space to remember what boredom feels like and why it might be necessary.