El Olivar

The thermometer drops five degrees the moment the road climbs past the last almond orchard. At 1,050 m, El Olivar sits higher than Ben Nevis's summit, yet the only thing that announces the village is a stone church tower rising from a wrinkle of ochre hills. Seventy-odd souls live here, plus a handful of weekenders who leave Madrid before breakfast and still reach the village in time for coffee—if they remembered to bring the coffee themselves.

A village that refuses to perform

No gift shop, no boutique hotel, no olive-oil museum. The single holiday rental is a first-floor flat wedged between a disused bread oven and somebody’s grandmother’s pantry. Check-in is done by WhatsApp; the key hides under a flowerpot that contains no flowers. What El Olivar does offer is volume—of sky, of wind, of absolute quiet once the swifts stop shrieking. Stand in the tiny plaza at 22:00 and the loudest sound is the metallic clink of a distant cowbell carried on air so clean it tastes faintly of thyme.

The altitude shapes everything. Summers are warm but rarely stifling; by 23:00 jackets reappear. Winters bite: roads glaze over, pipes freeze, and the village well ices thick enough to support a dog’s weight—an event commemorated on half a dozen mobile phones. Spring arrives late, usually in a single weekend when the surrounding cereal fields flip from brown to an almost violent green. Autumn is the photographers’ favourite: the light lies sideways, picking out every stone wall and turning the scrub oaks copper.

Walking without waymarks

Set off south-east along the earth track signed “Corral de Vacas” and within twenty minutes Guadalajara’s plain spreads out like a rumpled tablecloth. The path is technically a farm access road, so don’t expect handrails or interpretive panels; do expect to stand aside for the occasional tractor whose driver will raise two fingers from the wheel in minimalist greeting. Distances feel longer than they are because the horizon keeps stepping backwards. A circular loop to the abandoned shepherd’s hut of Fuente la Teja and back takes two hours, gains 180 m, and delivers views that stretch to the snowcaps of the Sierra de Albarracín on a clear day.

Carry water—there is none en route—and a map. Mobile coverage is patchy; EE roaming drops to 3G between hills, then vanishes entirely. If the barking starts, you’ve disturbed one of the mastiffs that guard the goats. Stand still, speak softly, and the dog will usually lose interest once it confirms you carry no lamb chops.

What passes for lunch

El Olivar itself has no bar, no shop, no petrol pump. The nearest bread is 18 km away in Albendiego, a slightly larger village whose bakery opens only in the mornings. Pack a picnic from Guadalajara’s Saturday market before you leave: Manchego curado, a slab of bright-red chorizo de bellota, and the sweet, chewy bread called hogaza. Eat on the stone bench outside the church; the only company will be swallows dive-bombing the bell tower.

If you insist on a tablecloth, drive twenty-five minutes to Brihuega for mesón-style lamb roasted in a wood oven, or to Pelegrina for seasonal mushrooms sautéed with garlic and parsley. Both places serve lunch until 16:00; arrive later and the kitchen is closed, the chef asleep.

When the village parties—briefly

The fiesta mayor happens around 15 August. A sound system appears in the plaza,体积 smaller than a Fiesta boot but loud enough to vibrate windowpanes. There’s a mass, a procession, a communal paella cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish, and by midnight half the attendees have retreated indoors to escape the disco playlist from 1997. Visitors are welcome; bring your own chair and a bottle to share. Fireworks are modest—think supermarket selection box rather than Edinburgh Hogmanay.

January brings the feast of San Antón. Bonfires of vine prunings and old pallets crackle in the streets; smoke drifts through doorways and coats the whitewash with soot. The tradition predates tourism boards and feels it: no wristbands, no mulled-wine stalls, just neighbours warming hands and arguing over whose grandfather started which blaze first.

Getting there—and away again

From Madrid-Barajas, take the A-2 towards Zaragoza, peel off at Guadalajara, then follow the CM-101 north-east for 45 km of ever-narrowing tarmac. The final 8 km are single-track with passing places; meet a lorry and someone must reverse. In winter, check the Guadalajara traffic Twitter feed before setting off: snowploughs prioritise the motorway, not the road to El Olivar. A set of cheap snow socks lives in the boot of every local who owns a car; consider doing the same if visiting between December and March.

Public transport is theoretical. A weekday bus links Guadalajara to Albendiego; from there it’s a 6 km uphill hike with 400 m of ascent. Taxis will drop off but refuse to collect after dark, citing “road conditions” or simply the desire to watch football. Car hire is the sane option—book at the airport, because Guadalajara’s town-centre offices close for siesta exactly when your train arrives.

The catch

El Olivar’s beauty is inseparable from its inconvenience. Phone batteries die, cafés don’t exist, and the nearest cash machine is 25 km away. Cloud can roll in faster than you can say “weather app,” turning stone streets into rivulets. Bring layers, a paper map, and enough petrol to reach the next village. If that sounds like effort, stay in the honey-coloured cities where waiters speak fluent TripAdvisor. If it sounds like freedom, the village will still be there, half asleep under its high-altitude sky, waiting for the rare traveller who prefers silence to soundtrack.