Cifuentes

The church bell strikes midday, yet the plaza remains in shadow. At 894 metres, Cifuentes sits high enough for its own microclimate—three degrees cooler than Madrid on scorching August afternoons, sharp enough in January to warrant a proper coat. This altitude shapes everything: how the limestone walls glow amber at dusk, why the Río Cifuentes shrinks to a ribbon each summer, and why conquerors from Romans to Moors kept rebuilding on this ridge above La Alcarria's dry plains.

Stone, Water and a Name That Means Business

Cifuentes literally translates as "one hundred fountains". The claim is modest these days—locals count closer to twenty natural springs—but water still gurgles through stone channels beside Calle de la Fuente, feeding troughs where neighbours rinse vegetables and fill plastic jugs for home. Unlike the meseta's usual dust-coloured villages, this one grew around reliable water, giving it a greener edge: poplars line the riverbank, vegetable plots survive July, and housewives stubbornly grow geraniums in terracotta pots.

That water built the town's fortune. Romans extracted salt at nearby Salinas; medieval kings granted market rights; Dominican friars raised a convent hefty enough to dominate the western skyline. The result is a grid of golden stone barely a mile across, compact enough to cross on foot in fifteen minutes, layered enough to occupy a morning.

Sunday Morning Without the Crowds

Start at Plaza Mayor before ten. Arcades shield café tables from sun or sleet depending on season, and the weekly ritual is refreshingly ordinary: pensioners compare lottery numbers, the baker delivers bread by hand, someone tunes a portable radio to Radio Nacional. Order a café con leche—€1.40, cheaper than airport coffee—and watch the village wake up.

From the plaza, Calle Mayor climbs gently towards the Iglesia del Salvador. The doorway is pure sixteenth-century plateresque, silver-work in stone, worth a pause even if Gothic naves aren't your thing. Inside, the alabaster tomb of Juan de Silva, 3rd Count of Cifuentes, lies cracked but polished by centuries of curious fingers. The sacristan will switch on lights if you ask; tips are welcome but not demanded.

Behind the church, the Castillo de Cifuentes is essentially a keep with attitude. Reconquered from the Moors in 1085, rebuilt after each rebellion, it now serves as weekend cultural centre. The gate stays locked Monday to Friday unless you telephone the tourist office (949 30 70 05) the day before—worth doing, since battlements give a 40-kilometre sweep across lavender fields and granite scarps. English isn't guaranteed; a basic Spanish phone phrase book helps.

Lunch Choices and a Cheese Revelation

By one o'clock stomachs rumble. Cifuentes has three proper restaurants and a couple of bars serving raciones. Lamb rules: cordero al horno arrives in wide earthenware dishes, shoulder bones caramelised, meat sliding off at the touch of a fork. A half-kilo portion feeds two hungry walkers for €22; order it when you sit down—roast takes an hour.

Vegetarians aren't abandoned. Pisto manchego, the local ratatouille, comes topped with a fried egg if you wish, and the tomato-pepper base tastes of soil and sun rather than chillies. Ask for a side of Manchego curado; the village grocer matures his own, nuttier than supermarket versions, and will cut a wedge to take away wrapped in wax paper.

House wine from Uclés—less famous than La Mancha's bulk whites—turns out soft, almost Beaujolais-like, and costs under €12 a bottle retail. The barman may produce an unlabelled version from beneath the counter; locals call it vino de pueblo and finish carafes by 3 pm before siesta kicks in.

Walking Off the Calories

Afternoon is for short loops, not marathon hikes. Pick up the circular "Ruta de los Barrancos" leaflet at the town hall: a 5-km circuit dropping from the cemetery into chalk gullies where griffon vultures ride thermals. Paths are way-marked but rocky; trainers suffice outside rainy season. Spring brings wild rosemary and the distant hum of bees producing DO La Alcarria honey—sold in 500-g jars for €8 from a machine outside number 14 Calle Nueva; leave coins in the honesty box.

Serious trekkers can drive ten minutes to the Salinas gorge, a deeper canyon lined with abandoned salt pans. Flash-floods sculpted smooth pools now used as natural swimming holes in May and June; by August they're puddles, so don't plan August cliff-jumping.

Practicalities the Guidebooks Skip

Getting here requires wheels. Guadalajara's AVE station lies 50 minutes away on the A-2; from Madrid Barajas it's 133 km of fast motorway—hire cars abundant, fuel cheaper than British prices. Public transport does exist: a weekday bus leaving Guadalajara at 14:00, returning 07:00 next morning—timetable designed for pensioners, not day-trippers.

Inside the village everything is walkable, but gradients are steeper than they look. Cobbles get slippery after rain; bring rubber soles, not leather town shoes. One cash machine stands beside the pharmacy; it rejects some foreign cards. Stock up on euros before arrival, especially for weekend visits.

Accommodation is the weak link. No hotel occupies the historic core; nearest beds are in rural cottages two kilometres out, or at the Parador de Sigüenza thirty minutes west. Many visitors treat Cifuentes as a half-day stop between Madrid and Zaragoza, which works—though staying for dusk, when limestone turns honey-gold and swifts screech above the keep, gives a sharper sense of place.

When to Time Your Arrival

April–May deliver wildflowers and comfortable 22 °C highs. September evenings smell of baked earth and fermenting grapes; photographic light is gentle until 19:30. Mid-winter brings sharp blue skies, frost on rosemary, and the Fiesta de San Blas (first weekend February) when locals parade the saint's relics and hand out blessed loaves—tourists welcome, no booking required.

High summer is punishing. July thermometers can nudge 38 °C; shade is scarce on the ridge, and cafés close between 16:00-20:00. If August is your only window, sightsee before 11:00, retreat for siesta, re-emerge at sunset. The castle keep offers a breeze, but stone walls radiate heat like storage radiators.

Worth the Detour?

Cifuentes won't dazzle with blockbuster museums or souvenir boutiques. Its appeal lies in proportion: enough history to fill a morning, enough walking to earn lunch, enough authenticity that you won't hear English at the next table—unless another stray Brit has read the same advice. Come for the altitude-cooled air, the cheese that ruins supermarket Manchego, and the satisfaction of working a Spanish weekend without queueing for tickets. Arrive curious, phone ahead for the castle key, and the town quietly reveals why people still choose to live at the top of a very long hill.