Hita

The morning bus from Guadalajara wheezes to a stop at 983 metres, and suddenly Madrid's heat feels like a different country. Hita's stone walls rise straight from bedrock, their limestone the same pale grey as the circling vultures. At this altitude, even in July, the air carries a sharp edge that makes the medieval walls seem less like ruins and more like something that simply hasn't finished happening yet.

A village that wrote its own footnotes

Every Spanish schoolchild knows Juan Ruiz, the 14th-century Archpriest who padded these lanes composing Spain's first literary blockbuster, The Book of Good Love. His presence here isn't marketing fluff—it's documented in the very fabric of the place. The Museo-Casa del Arcipreste occupies a house that might, or might not, have been his. The curator admits this readily, then points to reproductions of manuscripts where Hita's name appears in Ruiz's own hand. Admission costs €2, and on weekdays you'll likely share the exhibition rooms with nobody except perhaps a retired teacher from Zaragoza who's come to settle an academic bet.

The museum's modesty works in its favour. Instead of interactive screens, you'll find grainy photographs of 1920s scholars measuring wall thickness, and a single glass case containing playing cards printed with verses from Ruiz's work. These details matter because they reflect the village's relationship with its own past: neither reverential nor commercial, simply practical. When the museum needs a new lightbulb, someone walks to the hardware shop. When the hardware shop's closed for siesta, it waits until five.

Walking the defensive loop

Three stone arches puncture the remaining walls: Santa María, San Pedro, and de la Cadena. Each frames a different aspect of the Alcarrian landscape—wheat fields to the east, the Badiel river gorge to the south, and a modern cemetery whose marble graves catch afternoon light like scattered mirrors. The walls themselves aren't pristine reconstructions; they're patched and bulging, with saplings growing from their crowns. This honest decay feels refreshing after Spain's more manicured heritage sites.

Inside the walls, lanes narrow to shoulder-width. Houses grow directly from bedrock, their wooden doors painted ox-blood or indigo, iron studs rusting into interesting patterns. The Plaza del Arcipreste functions as outdoor living room. At 11am, two men in work boots discuss football scores while a woman waters geraniums overhead, sending drips onto the flagstones below. Nobody's performing medievalness here; they're simply living in old buildings, which turns out to be more interesting.

The climb to the castle ruins takes eight minutes if you're fit, twelve if you're carrying shopping. What's left wouldn't pass English Heritage standards—fragments of keep wall and a flagged area that might have been a chapel. But the 360-degree view explains everything. To the north, the A-2 motorway slashes across the plain like a grey zipper. To the south, nothing but rolling cereal fields until the blue smudge of the Sierra de Altomira. This geographical choke-point made Hita valuable to whoever controlled it, from Moors to Christian knights to modern-day lorry drivers seeking coffee at the motorway services below.

When the village becomes a stage

For fifty-one weeks annually, Hita's population hovers around 325. During the first weekend of July, that number multiplies by ten. The Festival Medieval del Arcipreste transforms every doorway into a stall selling leather pouches or honey-glazed almonds. Knights in chainmail queue at the cashpoint. The smell of grilled chorizo drifts from temporary barbecues where archaeology students earn summer money wearing fake medieval tabards.

The festival's success brings genuine benefits—last year's proceeds paid for the church roof—but it also changes the village's character completely. Accommodation books up months ahead; expect to pay €90 for a basic double that normally costs €45. Parking becomes a contact sport; arrive before 10am or prepare for a kilometre walk from the overflow field. Most telling: locals disappear. Those who haven't rented their houses lock up and visit relatives elsewhere, leaving the streets to performers and tourists.

Visit during festival weekend if you want organised chaos and Instagram opportunities. Visit any other time for the village's actual rhythm: bread van honking at 9am, elderly men feeding pigeons beside the church, teenagers practising skateboard tricks outside the medieval walls because that's where the smooth concrete happens to be.

Eating slowly, drinking later

Hita's restaurants number exactly three, plus a bar that serves tortilla wedges from a counter sticky with morning coffee. None employ English-speaking staff, though patience and pointing works wonders. At Posada de Hita, the chuletón arrives on a wooden board, a T-bone the size of a laptop, barely seasoned, cooked over vine trimmings. It costs €28 and feeds two comfortably. The house red from Uclés arrives in a plain glass bottle; at €6 it tastes like something you'd pay three times more for in London.

Vegetarians face limited options unless they've planned ahead. The local speciality, patatas revolconas, combines paprika-spiked mash with crispy pork belly. Even the vegetable dishes—escalivada of roasted peppers and aubergine—often arrive garnished with jamón shards. Phone ahead if meat-free matters; the restaurants will accommodate, but they need notice to raid their personal vegetable gardens.

Afternoon closing (2pm-5pm) remains non-negotiable. Arrive at 3:30pm hungry and you'll wait, possibly on the church steps with crisps from the vending machine. This isn't awkward tourism—it's simply how labour works when staffing costs exceed daily takings. Use the downtime wisely: walk the circumference path outside the walls where nightingales sing from olive groves, or sit in the tiny park where information panels explain local geology in academic Spanish.

Practical altitude

Hita's height matters more than most visitors expect. Summer nights drop to 15°C even when Guadalajara swelters at 28°C. Pack a fleece regardless of season. Winter brings proper mountain weather; the access road closes during snow, and the occasional resident keeps skis by the door for the steep lane to the bakery. Spring and autumn provide the sweet spot: warm days, cool evenings, and wheat fields that shift from emerald to gold in late June.

Mobile signal fades in the gorge-like streets. Download offline maps before arriving. Cash remains king—many businesses lack card machines, and the village ATM runs dry during festival weekend. The nearest petrol sits 18 kilometres away in Brihuega; fill up before the climb.

Public transport exists but requires patient planning. Weekday buses connect to Guadalajara at 7:15am and 3:45pm, returning at 1:30pm and 7pm. Miss the afternoon departure and you're sleeping over, which might be the best accidental decision you make. Hita after five belongs to swallows and locals walking dogs. The church bell still marks quarters of an hour. Somewhere in the walls, a generator hums—modern life keeping medieval stone company, neither quite winning but both persisting, which seems appropriate for a place that's spent seven centuries refusing to become anywhere else.