Ledanca

The church tower appears first, a stone finger pointing skywards from 924 metres up. Then the village materialises — Ledanca, population 105, clinging to a ridge where Castilla-La Mancha tilts towards the Iberian System. At this altitude the air thins and the horizon widens; Madrid lies 100 kilometres west, Guadalajara 60, yet the only sound is wind scraping across cereal stubble.

Stone houses shoulder together against that wind. Their walls, built from local rubble, have turned the colour of weathered barley. Wooden doors hang on forged iron hinges that squeal exactly like doors should. Narrow lanes funnel the breeze, so even in June, when the plateau below shimmers at 35 °C, you’ll want a jumper after sundown. Winter is another matter. Snow arrives early, lingers late, and the access road — a 12-kilometre switchback from the CM-2000 — becomes a white-knuckle ascent. Locals chain up or stay put; visitors who haven’t checked the forecast spend the night in Cifuentes wondering why the hire-car company never mentioned snow socks.

Inside the village there is no shop, no bar, no ATM. What passes for the centre is a triangle of concrete in front of the Iglesia de San Pedro. The church door stands open only for Saturday-evening mass or funerals, whichever comes first. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Baroque retablos glimmer in the gloom, gold leaf flickering over saints whose faces have been repainted so often they look mildly surprised to still be here. Light a candle — 50 céntimos in the box — and the sacristan will appear from nowhere, nod approvingly, then vanish again.

Walk east along Calle del Cerro and the settlement dissolves into threshing circles and abandoned pigsties. Beyond them the land folds away in tawny layers, wheat stubble alternating with dark islands of holm oak. Footpaths strike out towards Villanueva de la Torre (7 km) and Valdeconcha (9 km). Neither route is way-marked; navigation relies on keeping the village tower in sight and remembering that every gate you open must be closed behind you. The going is easy — gentle gradients, hard earth — but there is no shade and no water. Carry both. In April the fields blaze red with poppies; by late July they have the bleached pallor of old bone. Buzzards quarter the thermals, and if you startle a hare it will sprint downhill until it becomes a punctuation mark on the horizon.

Night falls quickly at this height. Street lighting consists of three bulbs that switch off at midnight, after which the Milky Way reclaims the sky. Amateur astronomers set up tripods on the concrete triangle; at 924 m and 40 km from the nearest sizeable town the light pollution registers zero. With binoculars you can split the double star in the handle of the Big Dipper; with the naked eye you simply remember how many stars there are. Bring a jacket even in August — temperatures dip below 10 °C once the sun drops behind the Sierra de Pela.

Food requires forward planning. The last bakery van calls on Friday; the fishmonger’s van, honking like a klaxon, swings through on Thursday morning. If neither coincides with your visit, drive 20 minutes down to Cifuentes where Bar La Espuela serves roast suckling lamb at €18 a quarter, or 30 minutes to Arcos de Jalón for the Saturday market: Manchego curado at €14 a kilo, honey from the Alcarria at €6 a jar, and tortas de aceite that shatter into anise-scented flakes. Buy extra; Ledanca’s kitchen facilities extend to whatever your accommodation provides, because there are no hotels here either. The village offers two privately owned cottages, both restored with stone floors, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that falters whenever the wind changes direction. Expect €70–90 a night, minimum two nights, sheets extra unless you negotiate.

The fiesta calendar is short and sincere. Mid-August brings the patronal weekend: mass at noon, procession at seven, paella the size of a satellite dish served in the square at nine. Visitors who drift in expecting flamenco and fireworks leave disappointed; the soundtrack is a battery-powered speaker playing 1980s pasodobles and the village’s one smoke machine coughing itself to sleep. What you get instead is invitation — to dance, to eat, to carry a chair to the door and watch children chase stray cats between the tables. Stay more than an hour and someone will ask where you’re sleeping, then insist you try their cousin’s homemade anis.

Come September the swallows leave, taking the last scraps of noise with them. Ledanca settles into a hush so complete you can hear the church clock strike from the far side of the plateau. It is not picturesque in the chocolate-box sense; the houses are too weather-beaten, the streets too empty. Yet that emptiness holds something increasingly scarce — a place whose rhythms are dictated neither by tourism nor by commuter timetables but by sowing seasons, church bells and the knowledge that when the snow arrives the world shrinks to whatever you remembered to buy in Cifuentes. Bring water, bring boots, bring a sense of how small you look under a clear sky. Then drive carefully, close every gate, and don’t expect anyone to sell you a fridge magnet.