Castejón de Henares

The thermometer drops three degrees between the valley floor and Castejón de Henares. At 960 metres above sea level, this granite outcrop serves as the Alcarria's natural balcony, where eagles circle at eye level and the wind carries the scent of wild thyme across empty pastures. Sixty-one souls call it home—though that number swells each August when descendants of former villagers return for the fiestas, transforming the silence into something approaching bustle.

Getting here requires commitment. From Guadalajara, the N-320 winds southeast through wheat fields before surrendering to narrower tracks that climb past abandoned shepherd huts. The final ten kilometres demand attention: sharp bends, sudden drops, and the occasional goat that regards roads as mere suggestions. Public transport doesn't bother with these heights. Those without wheels must hitch or hike, though locals in nearby villages might offer lifts if asked politely in the butcher's queue.

Stone, Sky and Silence

The village materialises gradually. First, the church tower appears over a ridge, then ochre roofs emerge like stepping stones up the hillside. Houses huddle together—not for quaintness, but survival. Winters bite hard at this altitude. Walls measure half a metre thick, windows face south, and doorways sit recessed from prevailing winds. These aren't architectural affectations; they're centuries of trial and error carved into limestone.

Morning mist often blankets the valleys below, leaving Castejón floating above a cotton-wool sea. By midday, thermals rise from sun-baked rocks, creating perfect conditions for raptors. Red kites and booted eagles ride the updrafts, while hen harriers quarter the slopes for unwary rodents. Bring binoculars, patience, and a windproof jacket—the sort that actually works, not the flimsy affair sold in airport departure lounges.

Walking tracks radiate from the village like spokes, though calling them 'tracks' flatters what are essentially sheep paths. The GR-160 long-distance footpath passes within five kilometres, connecting to a network that threads through juniper groves and across limestone pavement. Summer walkers should start early; by 11am the sun turns exposed sections into natural griddles. Spring brings wild orchids and enough colour to make the drive worthwhile. Winter? Possible, but check weather forecasts—snow isn't unusual, and the road becomes entertainingly treacherous.

What Passes for Civilisation

Let's be clear about facilities. Castejón de Henares has none. No pub, no café, no shop selling artisanal olive oil to weekenders from Madrid. The village fountain still provides drinking water, though carrying bottles back uphill serves as free gym membership. Mobile reception depends on which network you're with and whether the weather fancies cooperating. This isn't oversight; it's intentional preservation of a way of life that predates tourism brochures.

Food requires forward planning. The nearest proper supermarket sits twenty-five kilometres away in Cifuentes, though small village shops in Almonacid de Zorita or Sacedón sell basics. Proper restaurants cluster around larger towns on the A-3 motorway corridor. Pack picnics, or time visits to coincide with local fiestas when someone inevitably fires up a barbecue. The regional specialities—roast lamb, migas fried with chorizo, honey from Alcarrian beehives—taste better eaten on a stone wall anyway.

The church opens for services only, typically Sunday mornings and saint's days. Its plain facade reveals nothing of the baroque altar inside, gilded to within an inch of its life by villagers who once grew wealthy from merino wool. The priest arrives from a neighbouring parish; if the door's locked, find María in the house opposite—she keeps the key and enjoys showing visitors the Romanesque font where her grandchildren were baptised.

When the Village Wakes

August transforms everything. The population multiplies tenfold as families return from Madrid, Barcelona, even Manchester and Dortmund. Suddenly there's traffic, music until 3am, and queues for the single public phone (the booth still works, though nobody uses it except confused tourists). The fiesta programme includes procession, mass, and communal paella cooked in pans big enough to bath a toddler. Visitors are welcome but not catered for—bring your own chair, your own plate, and enough Spanish to follow the toast.

September returns the village to its proper rhythm. Elderly residents reclaim bench space outside the church, discussing rainfall statistics with the precision of actuaries. Autumn brings mushroom hunting in the nearby pine plantations, though locals guard productive spots with the same jealousy Yorkshiremen reserve for fishing holes. October light turns the surrounding cereal fields amber; photographers arrive clutching expensive lenses and leave with memory cards full of essentially the same shot.

Winter means business. The temperature regularly drops below freezing from November through March. Snow falls occasionally, cutting the village off for days—though the council maintains a single plough for the access road, operated by someone who learnt to drive on these gradients before power steering existed. Central heating remains a foreign concept; villagers burn oak and holm oak in fireplaces that double as social centres. Visit in February and you'll understand why Spanish builders traditionally placed kitchens upstairs—heat rises, and so do cooking smells.

The Honest Truth

Castejón de Henares won't suit everyone. Those seeking tapas trails or boutique hotels should stick to the coast. The village offers instead a masterclass in sustainable living: water from springs, food from surrounding fields, community from necessity rather than choice. It demonstrates how Spanish villages functioned for centuries before tourism provided an alternative economy.

Come here to understand why Spain's interior emptied, and why some pockets refuse to die. Come to walk without meeting another soul, to experience silence so complete your ears invent noises to compensate. Come in spring when the stone walls warm slowly after dawn, releasing trapped heat to germinating wildflowers in cracks and crevices.

Or don't come at all. The village managed perfectly well before guidebooks discovered provincial Spain, and will continue long after the last tourist departs. That, perhaps, constitutes its greatest appeal—the complete absence of performance. What you see represents nothing more or less than daily life at altitude, played out against a backdrop bigger than any human ambition.