Mondéjar

The church bell strikes noon, shutters slam shut, and Mondéjar goes silent. By 12:07 the only sound on Calle Mayor is a tractor heading home for lunch. This is how altitude changes time: 803 m above sea level, 70 km east of Madrid, yet the village keeps the clock of 1950s rural England—if the Midlands had olive groves and 35 °C in May.

High-plain living

The air is thinner and the UV stronger than on the coast; sun-hats are not optional even in April. Because the town sits on a ridge, nights stay cool enough to justify packing a fleece whatever the season. Frost is common in January, but snow rarely settles long, so the A-3 motorway usually stays open when the Somosierra pass is snarled up. In July the thermometers nudge 38 °C by four in the afternoon; sensible people shift appointments to 09:00 and again after 20:00, the hour when the square fills with grandparents and football-bouncing children.

That rhythm matters more than any monument. Still, a five-minute circuit gives you the essentials. The 16th-century Palacio de los Mendoza is now a patchwork of reinforced walls and boarded windows; you cannot go inside, but the granite doorway is wide enough to photograph without trespassing. Opposite, the Iglesia de Santa María Magdalena throws a Gothic-Renaissance shadow across the pavement; its tower is the local Ordnance Survey trig point for orienteering. From the church door you can see the olive oil cooperative’s stainless-steel tanks glinting two streets away; the smell of crushed Picual drifts over on weekdays.

Lunch at altitude

Spanish guides promise “cordero asado” in every second sentence, yet Mondéjar’s kitchens are just as proud of the meat-free stuff. At Casa Toribio a plate of pisto manchego arrives topped with a fried egg and a lattice of La Mancha saffron—£8 including bread and a glass of young white. If you prefer protein, the same family-run dining room will bring lamb shoulder for two at £18; ring before 11:00 or they won’t light the wood oven. Vegetarians who arrive after 14:00 face closed doors: the town’s only dedicated vegetarian bar folds its awning at 13:45 and reopens for coffee at 17:30 sharp. Plan ahead, or you’ll be buying crisps from the petrol station on the ring-road.

Thirsty? Walk 400 m south-east to Bodegas Peral. The bodega looks like a warehouse, but inside are 192 clay tinajas buried to their necks. Tastings cost €5 and yields three generous pours; the Blanco de la Mancha, chilled to 8 °C, tastes of green apple and chalk—Cotswold picnic wine at £3.50 retail. Visits must be booked 24 h ahead; English is spoken, though the owner’s Gloucestershire accent comes and goes with the wine.

Walking without way-markers

Three signed paths leave from the football pitch behind the health centre. The shortest (6 km) loops through almond terraces to an abandoned ermita; the longest (14 km) dips into the Guadiela valley and climbs back through pine scrub. None is strenuous, but July heat adds at least a grade of difficulty. Carry two litres of water per person; streams marked on Google Maps are usually dry by June. In February the same tracks turn to ochre mud—decent boots recommended.

If you prefer tarmac, the CM-2014 south to Pastrana is a roller-coaster loved by British cycling clubs: 25 km, 450 m cumulative ascent, almost no lorries. The gradient never tops 7 %, but there is zero shade; start at dawn or melt.

Sunday, money and other practicalities

Saturday morning market sells honey-toasted almonds and little else; the serious supermarket is Consum on the western bypass. It contains one of the town’s two cash machines; the other hides inside Dia on the eastern roundabout. Both close on Sunday, so draw cash on Saturday or you’ll be begging the bar owner to run your card for a €2 coffee.

There is no train. Buses from Madrid (Estación Sur, platform 17) run twice daily, 1 h 45 min, €11 single. The 19:00 return is the last of the day; miss it and the Monday-morning option leaves at 06:45. Driving is simpler: exit 98 off the A-3, then 12 km of empty CM-200. Petrol is 6 c cheaper per litre than on the motorway—handy if you’re heading on to Valencia.

Free motorhome parking sits behind the polideportivo; Brits in PVC-wrapped Sprinters swap tyre-pressure tips here every winter. The service point offers potable water and grey-waste disposal, but forbidden overnight camping signs went up in 2023; the Guardia Civil occasionally move vans on at 23:00. Quiet nights are more likely from Monday to Thursday.

When to come, when to stay away

April and late-September give you 22 °C afternoons, wild marjoram on the paths and hotel rooms at £40. Easter week is louder but still manageable; the procession squeezes through streets too narrow for shoulder-damped brass bands, so the drums reverberate off stone like a Bristol dub sound-system. Mid-July fiestas triple the decibels and the population; if you need sleep before 03:00, book elsewhere. November can be golden, but when the cloud sits on the ridge the village feels refrigerated at 5 °C all day—bring British November clothes.

A town that refuses to be a museum

Mondéjar will never compete with Cuenca’s hanging houses or Sigüenza’s castle. Half the Mendoza palace is propped up with scaffolding, and the castle everyone googles vanished centuries ago; the tourist office is a single desk open three mornings a week. That is exactly why some travellers stop: no audio guides, no coach parks, no artisanal ice-cream at €4 a scoop. Instead you get real-life Spain—early closings, tractor traffic, neighbours arguing over the best lentil recipe—played out 800 m above the rush of the motorway. If that sounds like your sort of detour, time your arrival before noon; the shutters shut fast.