Huete

The lambs start roasting at dawn. By nine o’clock the smell drifts through the narrow lanes above the Mayor valley, curling around the Convento de la Merced and seeping into bedrooms whose windows have been left ajar for the cool September air. At 810 m on the southern edge of the Alcarria plateau, nights drop to 12 °C even in late summer; days can still touch 30 °C if the wind turns south from La Mancha. That swing—sharp, dry, almost alpine—defines Huete more than any guidebook superlative.

A Town That Outgrew Its Boots

Walk the upper streets and the proportions feel off: churches built for thousands, monasteries you could drop a Cambridge college into, yet the town head-count struggles to top 1 700. The answer lies in the fifteenth century when four separate parishes, two convents and a commandery of the Knights of Christ all squeezed inside the same granite walls. Wool money and bishopric privileges piled stone upon stone; when trade routes shifted, the population simply trickled away, leaving the architecture behind like an outsized coat.

Start at the Arco de Almazán, the only surviving city gate. The cobbled ramp funnels you upwards beneath a Tudor-width arch, past houses whose wooden balconies sag with geraniums and whose doorways still carry the coats of arms of long-extinct noble lines. Five minutes later the lane opens into the Plaza de la Cadena where the Iglesia de Atienza lifts its brick-and-stone Mudéjar tower. The door is usually ajar; push it and the interior smells of candle wax and recently ironed altar cloths. No ticket desk, no audio-guide—just a sign asking for one euro towards roof repairs. Drop the coin and you can climb the tower for a 360-degree view: cereal fields ripple towards the horizon like a yellow sea, olive groves flash silver in the breeze, and the only sound is the clank of a distant tractor.

Contemporary Art in a 13th-Century Cloister

Round the corner, the Ex-Convento de Cristo houses the Antonio Pérez Foundation, a photography museum that punches far above its weight. The current exhibition might be Catalan industrial landscapes; the permanent collection includes portraits by Jane Bown and a whole room given over to Martin Parr’s seaside postcards. Entry is €4, open 11:00–14:00 and 17:00–19:00 daily except Monday. If the attendant sees you hesitate at the ticket machine she’ll wave you through, muttering “paga después” in the relaxed Castilian Spanish that drops half its consonants. British visitors tend to emerge dazed: world-class curation in a place where the nearest traffic light is 40 km away.

Downhill again, the Monasterio de la Merced spreads across an entire block. Founded in 1513, it has served as barracks, prison, girls’ school and, briefly, a store for saffron during the Civil War. Restoration is piecemeal: one cloister gleams with fresh lime wash, the next is open to the sky and colonised by swallows. Entrance is free but you must ask for the key at the Oficina de Turismo on Plaza de España. They’ll lend you a heavyweight iron ring the size of a doughnut and point you towards a doorway that looks permanently shut. Inside, the church nave soars like a pocket-sized cathedral; the stone still carries the faint smell of sheep wool from when merchants used the side chapels as pens during winter fairs.

Walking the Dry Gorge

Huete sits on a shelf above the Río Mayor, and two signed footpaths drop from the town to the water. The shorter, the Senda de las Yeseras, is a 4 km loop that takes 90 minutes and passes old gypsum kilns now favoured by eagle owls. The longer PR-CU-91 strikes south along the gorge to the abandoned village of Zafrilla—11 km return, bring water because the fountains dried up in last year’s drought. Spring brings purple rosemary flowers and the air tastes faintly of honey; by July the same path is a dusty treadmill where boot soles soften in the heat. In winter the gorge traps cold: leave early and you’ll walk through pockets of air 5 °C cooler than the town, a reminder that the Sistema Ibérico begins just beyond the next ridge.

What to Eat and When

Lunch starts at 14:00 sharp. Try La Posada de Huete on Calle de la Plata where the menú del día runs to €12 and includes ajo arriero—salt-cod pâté thick enough to spread like gentleman's relish. Ask for the lamb “poco hecho” if you want it pink rather than charcoal. Vegetarians get migas—fried breadcrumbs with grapes and melon, tastier than it sounds. Afterwards walk to the honey cooperative on Calle Nueva and buy a 500 g jar of miel de romero for €7; it tastes of the same bushes you walked through earlier and passes UK customs without a murmur.

Evening options are limited. Two bars stay open past 23:00 in summer, one of them showing La Liga on a screen that judders whenever the Wi-Fi drops. Bring cash: the nearest working ATM is inside a locked foyer that closes at 20:00, and many shops still stamp your credit-card slip with carbon paper.

Getting There, Getting Out

From Madrid, the ALSA coach takes two hours fifteen and costs €14 each way—usually half-empty except Friday evenings. If you drive, leave the A-3 at Tarancón and follow the CM-310 for 36 km of switchbacks; the final climb rises 300 m in 8 km and can collect snow as late as March. Parking on the ring-road is free and avoids the medieval lane scrum where wing mirrors are considered optional.

Stay overnight if you can. Hostal Mesón de la Merced has doubles for €45 including breakfast (strong coffee, churros, no marmalade). Check-out is a civilised 12:00, but don’t expect anyone to speak English; download Spanish offline in Google Translate and learn “horario de invierno” before you arrive—opening times shrink by an hour the moment the clocks go back.

The Quiet Season

Come November the saffron harvest ends, bars reduce their hours and the wind whistles through the monastery roof. Some afternoons you’ll share the streets with more storks than people. That is Huete’s honest face: generous with space, sparing with comfort, indifferent to whether you tick it off a list or not. Bring walking boots and an extra layer; leave the hurry in Madrid.