Durón

The church bell in Durón rings thirteen times at noon. Nobody seems to notice; the sound simply folds itself into the grain fields and vanishes. A tractor idles, a dog yawns, two elderly men finish their game of dominoes on a stone bench that has outlasted three mayors. This is village time, slower than cathedral time, and it starts the moment you leave the CM-201 and realise the road signs are hand-painted.

Duron perches on a low ridge forty minutes north-east of Guadalajara, close enough to Madrid for a weekend escape, far enough to keep tour coaches away. The census claims 110 residents; mid-week it feels closer to forty. Houses are the colour of oatmeal and limestone, roofs the colour of toast. Nothing is “restored”, merely kept alive: a patched wall here, a re-hung balcony there. The overall effect is less chocolate-box, more lived-in work coat—stitched, comfortable, honest.

Walking without waymarks

Footpaths radiate from the plaza like spokes on a wheel. Pick any track and within ten minutes the village sinks behind the wheat, leaving only skylarks and the crunch of limestone grit under boot. The most satisfying loop drops into the Entrepeñas reservoir gorge, a 6 km circuit that switch-backs through rosemary and kermes oak to the water’s edge. Mid-October the slopes smell of apple and damp thyme; in July you will crave every centimetre of shade. There are no signposts, so download the track before you set off—mobile signal gives up at the first bend.

If you prefer a linear stroll, follow the farm lane south to Tortuera (population 52). The distance is 4.5 km; allow ninety minutes with gate-fiddling and photo stops. Mid-way you pass an abandoned threshing floor where stone still bears the swirl of decades-old chaff. Farmers wave from cabs; say “Buenas” back and they may point out a hoopoe or the nest of a little owl tucked under the eaves of a barn.

What passes for lunch

Duron itself has no restaurant, only a tiny shop that unlocks when its owner finishes feeding her chickens. Plan accordingly. Bar El Cruce sits two kilometres away on the main road, a truckers’ halt where laminated menus stick to the table with tomato sauce. Order the menú del día (€12) and you receive soup, pork shoulder, chips, pudding, wine and coffee—enough calories for the entire walk back. Vegetarians can request galianos, a saffron-laced bread stew, but you must ask for it sin carne or they’ll chuck in chorizo by reflex. Kitchen closes at 3.30 pm sharp; arrive late and you’ll be offered crisps and a shrug.

For self-caterers, the last reliable supermarket is a Mercadona in Marchamalo, forty minutes by car. Stock up on manchego, local honey and crusty barra; Durón’s bakery van visits on Tuesday and Friday, horn blasting the first eight bars of Suspiros de España.

Where to sleep (and why you might hear a jacuzzi at 2 am)

Accommodation is scarce but thoughtful. Las Casas de Durón offers four stone cottages clustered round an unheated pool. Bedrooms come with corner jacuzzis—handy in February if you enjoy the sound of pumps grinding through stone walls. Each house has a tiny terrace facing west; buy a €3 bottle of Valdepeñas in the village and you have front-row seats for melon-pink sunsets that last twenty minutes. Nightly rate hovers round €90 for two, minimum two nights. Book ahead for April and October; painters and Madrid birdwatchers bag the weekends first.

If you prefer humans to whirlpool baths, El Botánico has three rooms inside a 19th-century house smothered in jasmine. Hosts leave fresh rosemary on your pillow and remember how you take coffee. Either option gives you a key code and thereafter zero interference—perfect if your idea of holiday is forgetting what day it is.

When fiestas trump siestas

Visit in late August and you will witness the village’s annual fiesta: three nights of brass bands, bingo, and communal paella cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish. Outsiders are welcome but anonymity is impossible; by the second beer someone will be asking where you parked and whether your hire car has good clearance for the track to the reservoir. Semana Santa is quieter—one evening procession, candles in jam jars, women wearing the same black lace their grandmothers wore. If you hanker after fireworks and fairground rides, aim for Brihuega in mid-August instead; Durón’s charm is the absence of amplified noise.

The catch (there always is)

Public transport is fiction. A school bus trundles through on weekdays but drivers refuse luggage larger than a rucksack. Without wheels you are stranded. Car hire from Madrid Barajas is painless: take the A-2 towards Zaragoza, peel off at km 82, follow the CM-201 past briar fields and the smell of sheep. Fill the tank in Brihuega; after that petrol stations exist only in your imagination.

Weather can be petulant. April delivers flawless 22 °C afternoons and knife-edge dawns; pack layers or breakfast will be a shivering affair. August tops 38 °C—walk at dawn or pay for it with a headache the colour of sangria. Winter is crisp, often 12 °C at midday, but the cottages have wood burners and the gorge turns emerald after rain.

Leaving (and why you might U-turn)

Drive out at sunrise and you’ll meet shepherds moving sheep across the road, dust rising like stage smoke. The first instinct is to brake, the second to keep going—Madrid’s ring road is only eighty minutes away. Yet the bell will still be tolling in your ears, counting a time that bears no relation to the clock on the dashboard. Many visitors find themselves turning round for one last photo of wheat against limestone, one last swig of honey-sweetened coffee. Durón doesn’t shout; it murmurs. The risk is that you keep listening long after the engine has cooled.