Caspueñas

The church bell strikes noon and nobody appears. Not a soul in the single square, not a car on the main street—just the wind riffling through barley that ripples like a calm North Sea. You've climbed 855 metres above the Castilian plateau to reach Caspueñas, and the air is already a degree or two cooler than it was down on the A-2. At this height the sky feels rinsed; larks rather than lorries provide the soundtrack.

Eighty-three residents remain, give or take a grand-child back for the school holidays. They live in low, whitewashed houses whose wooden doors still open onto bodegas dug into the rock. Many are unlocked; peer inside and you'll see clay vats stained crimson from the last vintage anyone bothered to make. Up above, swallows have turned the telephone wires into musical staves. The village performs its own composition—slow, sparse, in no hurry to reach the chorus.

Stone, Thyme and Endless Sky

There are no monuments to tick off, no audioguides, no gift shop selling fridge magnets shaped like Don Quixote. What Caspueñas offers instead is space. Walk past the last house and the path simply continues: a farm track edged with thyme, rosemary and the occasional poppy that has missed the memo about summer drought. In April the plateau smells like a Provencal market; by late September the scent turns resinous, the vegetation bleached to silver. Either season delivers temperatures that make walking pleasant rather than penitential.

Follow the track south for twenty minutes and you reach the old threshing floors—stone circles pressed into the limestone like millstones. Farmers once trampled wheat here; today they serve as natural balconies. Below, the Rio Sacedón trickles through a gorge; beyond, the cereal sea stretches to a horizon that could be Norfolk with added mountains. Golden eagles and red kites ride the thermals, while closer to ground level you might spot a hoopoe probing the soil with its curved bill. Bring binoculars; the only other spectators are likely to be a tractor driver and his dog.

Loop back along the Cañada Real—an ancient drove road still marked by medieval boundary stones—and you'll have covered six kilometres, burned off a portion of last night's roast lamb, and encountered more livestock than people. The route is unsigned but obvious: keep the sky on your right and the village water tank on your left. Mobile reception drifts in and out; Vodafone and EE customers should prepare for a digital detox whether they want one or not.

Bread, Lamb and Honey without the Hype

Food options inside Caspueñas are, to put it politely, finite. The lone bar opens at seven for coffee and closes once the owner finishes the washing-up after lunch. If you arrive after three you will go hungry unless you've planned ahead. The smarter move is to book half-board at Casa Rural El Maranal on the northern edge of the village. Its set-price menu (€28 in 2024) delivers three courses that wouldn't look out of place in Madrid: pink, cumin-scented lamb shoulder, honey-glazed carrots from the garden, and a slab of Manchego whose nutty edge pairs neatly with quince jelly. The house red comes from Uclés, thirty minutes away; mellow enough for a Tuesday night, inexpensive enough to take a second glass.

Self-caterers should stock up in Sigüenza before turning off the motorway. The village has no supermarket, no petrol station, and the nearest cash machine is twelve kilometres away in Torija. Saturday morning sees a white van selling bread and churros by the church; arrive early because once the dough runs out the driver heads to the next pueblo with equal demographics and identical needs.

August Heat and Winter White

Climate at this altitude is a different beast from the Costa Blanca. July and August afternoons regularly top 35 °C, yet the air is dry and nights drop to a comfortable 18 °C. Shade is scarce; bring a hat and refill water bottles at the public fountain before setting off on walks. In winter the thermometer can dip to –5 °C and when snow arrives the CM-210 becomes a curling rink. Chains are rarely required for more than a day, but without them you'll be stuck watching the same view until the sun does its work. Most holiday cottages lack central heating—confirm a wood-burning stove or electric radiators before booking. Spring and autumn provide the sweet spot: mild days, crisp sheets at night, and fields painted either green or ochre depending on the month.

Getting Here, Getting Away

Fly into Madrid from Stansted with Ryanair or easyJet (2 h 15 min), pick up a hire car at Terminal 1 and join the A-2 eastbound. Leave at kilometre 104, swing north on the CM-210 and climb for twenty-five minutes until the road flattens and Caspueñas appears on a low ridge. Total driving time from the airport: ninety minutes, unless you stop for photos of the wind turbines that crown the pass. Buses do exist—one a day to Guadalajara, none on Sunday—but relying on them turns a weekend into a week.

Accommodation is limited to a handful of casas rurales. El Maranal has eight rooms, a pool with unbroken views over the cereal plain, and an English-speaking owner who'll email directions in advance. El Edén del Ungría offers a two-bedroom cottage with a log burner and telescope for stargazers; the Milky Way is visible on any moonless night. Airbnb lists "Casa de la Abuela", a three-bedroom village house with a patio barbecue that works provided you remember to buy charcoal before Saturday afternoon.

The Quiet Verdict

Caspueñas will never feature on a coach-tour itinerary. Stay longer than a couple of hours and you may wonder what on earth to do with the silence. Yet for walkers, bird-watchers, or anyone who measures holiday success in kilometres strolled rather than souvenirs accumulated, the village delivers a rare commodity: genuine stillness. Arrive with provisions, realistic expectations and a willingness to swap nightlife for night skies, and the plateau repays the effort. Leave before you're ready and the only sound will be gravel crunching under the hire-car tyres—followed, once you reach the pass, by the faint echo of that church bell ringing for no one in particular.