Castilforte

The tarmac narrows, the phone signal flickers, and suddenly the Sierra de Altomira throws open its doors. At 992 m above sea level, Castilforte is the last punctuation mark before the page goes blank. Fifty-odd residents, two streets, one church, zero traffic lights. From the mirador beside the stone water trough you can watch clouds form beneath your boots while buzzards ride the thermals above the cereal-coloured void.

This is Spain’s “emptied” interior in its purest form: no gift shops, no interpretive centre, no coach park camouflaged behind oleander. What you do get is a complete reset of scale. The day is measured by the clang of the church bell (hourly, on the dot), the smell of oak smoke drifting from chimney pots, and the sight of shepherd José Luis driving his forty-odd merino sheep through the village at dawn, the animals’ bells clanking like loose change.

Stone, slope and silence

Houses are built from the mountain they sit on. Granite blocks, ochre clay tiles, timber painted the colour of ox-blood. Rooflines follow the tilt of the land; some chimneys lean at tipsy angles, trusting nothing but friction and a century of soot. There is no formal “old quarter” – the entire village is it. A five-minute stroll from the livestock trough at the top brings you to the last cottage at the bottom, where the lane simply dissolves into a cattle track scented with thyme and wild rosemary.

The parish church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción keeps its doors unlocked. Inside, the temperature drops five degrees. A single fluorescent tube illuminates a 17th-century pine retable whose paint has faded to the colour of weak tea. On the altar step someone has left a jam jar of garden roses and a handwritten list of last month’s departed. No entry fee, no donation box, just a visitors’ book that records, on average, three names a week.

Walking without way-markers

Maps here still matter. The GR-160 long-distance footpath skirts the village, but the more interesting routes are the shepherd tracks that spider into the sierra. One path drops 400 m to the abandoned hamlet of La Hoz, its stone terraces now colonised by lavender and dwarf fan palms. Another climbs east to the ridge of El Nevero, where, on a clear April morning, you can see the snow-dusted summits of the Sistema Central 120 km away. Sturdy footwear is non-negotiable: the ground is a mosaic of loose shale and hidden holes carved by wild boar. Carry more water than you think you’ll need; the only fountain en route is at Fuente del Hierro, and even that runs dry by late July.

Summer sends the mercury to 34 °C at midday, but nights drop to 15 °C – pack a fleece whatever the forecast. Winter is a different contract: the GU-926 access road is periodically closed after snow, and the village’s single plough works on a priority list that begins with the doctor’s house and ends with the passing place above the cemetery. Visit between mid-October and mid-November and you’ll get warm days, crisp nights and the aroma of curing chestnuts drifting from outhouses.

What passes for lunch

Castilforte has no bar, no restaurant, no shop. The nearest bread is 19 km away in Tamajón, so villagers bake once a week in the horno comunitario, a domed brick oven next to the church. Tourists can reserve a slot (€3 for firewood) through the ayuntamento office – ring 949 29 XX XX before 11 a.m. and someone will unlock it. Bring your own dough; local rule is “one loaf out for the oven keeper”.

For a sit-down meal, drive twenty-five minutes to Cogolludo and try Asador la Alcarria (mains €12–€18). Order ternasco asado – milk-fed lamb scented with mountain thyme – and don’t skip the migas made with yesterday’s bread, chorizo and a splash of vinegar. Vegetarians are offered a single, unapologetic dish: pisto manchego topped with a fried egg. Wine comes from nearby Iniesta, sold by the porrón at €2.50 a glass; payment is cash only and the card machine is “broken since 2019”.

When the village throws a party

Fiestas patronales kick off on 15 August. The population quadruples as descendants return from Madrid, Barcelona, even Manchester. A sound system the size of a Transit van appears in the plaza, and the evening programme mixes mass, bingo and a foam party that finishes at six in the morning. Outsiders are welcome but beds are not for hire: bring a tent or book early in Tamajón, where the only hostal has six rooms and fills by May. The high point – literally – is the sunrise walk to the Ermita de la Virgen del Rosario on 16 August. Locals haul a portable loudspeaker up the track, then blast the village anthem across the canyon while breakfasting on anise-laced coffee and sponge cake. If you want authenticity, this is it; if you want sleep, come a different week.

Getting here, getting out

Public transport is a myth. From Madrid-Barajas you drive north on the A-2 to Guadalajara, then pick up the N-320 towards Cuenca. After 47 km turn left at the petrol station in Cogolludo and follow the GU-926 for 22 km of switchbacks. The tarmac is sound but guardrails appear only on the drops that would make the evening news. Allow 1 h 45 min from the airport in daylight; after dark the journey feels twice as long thanks to free-range pigs and the occasional wandering donkey.

There is no petrol station in the municipality – fill up in Cogolludo or risk the 44-km round trip to Tamajón. Mobile coverage is patchy: Movistar works on the church steps, Vodafone demands the far end of the cemetery wall, and O₂ is fiction. Download offline maps before you leave the main road.

The honest verdict

Castilforte will not change your life. It offers no Instagrammable boutique hotel, no craft-gin distillery, no sunset yoga platform. What it does offer is a place where the loudest noise is a sheep sneezing, where the night sky still spills the Milky Way across the horizon, and where a stranger nodding “buenos días” actually means it. Come prepared – with food, water, fuel and a full spare tyre – and the village repays you with a front-row seat to a Europe that mass tourism forgot. Arrive expecting facilities and you’ll last about three hours before driving back to the motorway in search of a flat white. Castilforte doesn’t do comfort, but it does do silence on a grand scale. Sometimes that is exactly enough.