Loranca de Tajuña

The church bell strikes noon. Within seconds, the single main street empties like a scene from a western—except the tumbleweeds are replaced by dusty Seat Ibizas and the saloon doors belong to Bar Central. This is Loranca de Tajuña’s daily siesta drill: shutters down, engines off, silence until the temperature drops and the tractors rumble back to life.

At 700 m above the Tajuña valley, the village sits high enough for the air to carry a sharp edge in winter yet still bake the clay roofs copper-brown by July. The cereal plains roll away in every direction, broken only by olive groves and the occasional stone hut whose roof has long since collapsed under the weight of thyme and winter rain. It is not dramatic country; it is patient country, the sort that reveals itself kilometre by kilometre if you walk slowly enough.

Stone, Sun and Ceilings that Sag

Start in the Plaza Mayor—more a widening of the road than a square proper. Plastic chairs from the two competing cafés spill across the tarmac; locals park wherever the kerb is lowest and regard white lines as polite suggestions. The 16th-century portico of the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción dominates one side, its tower patched with brick where medieval masonry gave up. Inside, the baroque altarpiece gleams with the kind of gold leaf that only survives where tourism coach parties don’t. Lighting is coin-operated: drop fifty cents into the metal box and the whole thing flares into life for ninety seconds—long enough to notice the woodworm holes in the choir stalls.

Wander the back lanes and you’ll find the usual mix: half-timbered houses whose upper floors sag like tired sofas, brand-new aluminium garage doors squeezed between them, and the occasional coat-of-arms pitted almost smooth by centuries of hail. The old communal laundry basin—abandoned since indoor plumbing arrived—is now a planter for geraniums and the village’s unofficial ashtray. Nobody photographs it, which is precisely why it matters.

A Valley that Keeps its Secrets

Loranca’s horizon is ruled by the Tajuña River, though the water itself lies three kilometres south, hidden behind folds of wheat and esparto grass. A single tarmac lane drops down to it, narrow enough that meeting a delivery van involves one party reversing 200 m to the nearest gate. The riverbank is not sign-posted, landscaped or ticketed; you simply pick a track through the reeds and sit on a boulder that sheep have polished for decades. Kingfishers flash upstream in early spring; by August the flow shrinks to a warm trickle where village kids learn to swim before their parents think it’s safe.

Walking options are of the “make-it-up-as-you-go” variety. A farm track heading west from the cemetery soon splits into a grid of dusty senters used by hunters and dog-walkers. Distances feel longer than they are: the plain is open, shade non-existent, and the only sound your boots crunching on last year’s stubble. Carry more water than you think necessary; the single village fountain looks decorative but the locals still fill jerry-cans there—best not to drain it dry.

Calories and Carbohydrates

Food is built for field labourers, not calorie-counters. Lunch at the Bar-Restaurante Isabel starts with a bowl of migas—fried breadcrumbs, garlic, pancetta and enough olive oil to make the plate transparent. Follow with cordero asado (roast lamb) and you’ll understand why the next table is occupied by three farmers who haven’t removed their overalls. Price for two courses, bread and a caña of beer: €12. Service begins at 13:30 and stops the moment the last shoulder of lamb is sold—usually around 16:00. Arrive at 16:15 and you’ll be offered crisps and little else.

If you’re self-catering, the mini-supermarket opens 09:00-13:00 and 17:30-20:30. Stock is unpredictable: one week you’ll find locally jarred honey from a cooperative in Brihuega, the next only tinned mackerel and custard biscuits. The bakery van parks outside the church at dawn; by 09:30 the crusty loaves are gone, replaced by plastic-wrapped cakes that could survive nuclear winter.

When the Village Remembers It’s Spanish

August’s fiesta turns the decibel level up considerably. A temporary bar appears in the square, pumping 1990s euro-pop until the Guardia Civil suggest 03:00 is quite late enough. The bull-run here involves heifers with padded horns; teenagers sprint alongside, smartphones raised, dignity optional. Visitors are welcome to join, though health insurance rarely covers ego bruises. Rooms disappear weeks in advance—book early or resign yourself to the 40-minute drive to Guadalajara after last drinks.

January brings the Blessing of the Animals on San Antón day. tractors, hunting dogs and the occasional bewildered tortoise queue beside the church door while the priest sprinkles holy water from a plastic colander. It’s half agricultural ritual, half social club; cameras are fine, but kneel for the prayer or you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

No train comes within 25 km. From Madrid-Barajas you follow the A-2 towards Barcelona, peel off at km 61 and snake along the CM-101 for twenty minutes. The final approach is a single-carriagement roller-coaster: wheat fields above you, sky below, then suddenly the village crown appears. Sat-nav loses nerve here; keep heading uphill until the road admits defeat and deposits you in the square.

Accommodation is limited to two rural cottages on Airbnb—both convert 19th-century haylofts into open-plan lofts with wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that wheezes. Expect €70-90 per night, minimum two nights at weekends. There is no hotel, no reception desk, no breakfast buffet; keys are left under a flowerpot and the neighbour brings fresh milk if you smile convincingly. Mobile signal is patchy inside two-foot-thick walls—stand in the street like everyone else.

The Bottom Line

Loranca de Tajuña will not change your life. It offers no souvenir shops, no sunrise yoga, no craft beer brewed with artisanal despair. What it does offer is a village that continues to function long after the guidebooks have moved on. Turn up expecting to be entertained and you’ll be disappointed. Turn up prepared to match the slow cadence of the place—walk at 3 km/h, greet the old men on the bench, accept that lunch dictates the clock—and you might leave with a slightly better understanding of how most of Spain actually lives, well away from the coast and the hashtags.