Pareja

The church bell tolls twelve times, and the only other sound is gravel shifting beneath your boots. In Pareja, midday announces itself with silence rather than bustle. This village of 464 souls sits 760 metres above sea level, where the wind carries thyme and the horizon stretches like a promise across Castilla-La Mancha's forgotten corner.

Pareja doesn't shout for attention. It simply exists, much as it has for centuries, surrounded by a patchwork of cereal fields and olive groves that glow amber in the late afternoon light. The stone walls, some dating back to medieval times, have witnessed the ebb and flow of rural Spain – from grand noble families to modern-day farmers who still rise with the sun.

Stone, Sun and Soil

The village centre reveals itself gradually. Calle Real, the main thoroughfare, narrows and widens unpredictably, following the contours of ancient footpaths rather than modern planning. Houses lean together for support, their wooden balconies sagging under the weight of geraniums and decades of harsh Alcarrian weather. Look up and you'll spot crests carved above doorways – reminders that Pareja once hosted Spanish nobility who chose this strategic hilltop for their summer retreats.

The Parish Church of Santa María Magdalena dominates every view. Its tower, visible from kilometres away, served as both spiritual beacon and practical landmark for travellers navigating these rolling plains. Inside, the air carries incense and centuries. The baptismal font dates from 1547, its stone worn smooth by generations of Parejanos. Don't expect elaborate gold leaf or soaring Gothic arches – this is rural architecture built for survival, not spectacle.

Wandering the back streets reveals Pareja's true character. Here, elderly women still beat rugs against stone walls at precisely four o'clock. A man in a flat cap waters his tiny vegetable patch, nodding acknowledgement but not breaking his rhythm. The rhythm of village life continues regardless of visitors, which is precisely what makes it worth witnessing.

Walking Into The Horizon

The real magic happens beyond the village limits. Tracks lead into the paramera – the characteristic scrubland of La Alcarria where holm oaks provide sparse shade and wild boar root for acorns. Spring transforms these seemingly barren fields into a purple haze of lavender and rosemary. The air becomes intoxicating, heavy with aromatics that flavour the local honey and settle into your clothes.

Serious hikers might find the terrain limited, but that's missing the point. The joy here lies in walking without destination. Follow any farm track for twenty minutes and you'll reach a viewpoint – though don't expect signposts or safety railings. These are simply natural rises where the land falls away, revealing layer upon layer of ochre earth, green olive groves and golden wheat fields. On clear days, the Tagus River glints silver in the distance.

Birdwatchers should bring binoculars. Imperial eagles circle overhead, while bee-eaters flash emerald as they dive for insects. The best time for wildlife is dawn, when the rising sun turns the dew to diamonds and the only sounds are birdsong and distant sheep bells.

Tables Built For Farmers

Food here reflects the landscape – honest, substantial, designed to fuel long days in fields. The village's two restaurants serve almost identical menus, which is reassuring rather than disappointing. Gazpacho manchego arrives not as the cold Andalusian soup Brits expect, but as a hearty stew of game and flatbread. Order it on a chilly evening and understand why shepherds have survived winters here for millennia.

The roast lamb deserves its reputation, slow-cooked until it surrenders at the touch of a fork. Local wine comes in unlabelled bottles, rough around the edges but perfect with the food. Save space for migas – breadcrumbs fried with garlic and chorizo – which transforms humble ingredients into something magical. Vegetarians should enquire ahead; this is meat country where even the beans contain ham.

Don't leave without buying honey. The Alcarrian beekeepers produce something extraordinary – thick, almost cloudy, with hints of thyme and rosemary from the surrounding hills. At €8-10 per kilo from village houses (look for signs saying "Miel"), it's cheaper than supermarket versions and infinitely superior.

Practicalities Without The Pain

Getting here requires patience. From Madrid, drive north on the A-2 towards Barcelona, then exit at Guadalajara. The final 40 kilometres wind through increasingly empty landscape on the CM-110. Public transport exists but tests dedication – two buses daily from Guadalajara, timed more for schoolchildren than tourists. Hire cars prove essential for exploring beyond the village.

Accommodation options remain limited. The village has one small hotel, Casa Rural La Alcarria, with six rooms overlooking the church square. Expect to pay €60-80 per night for simple but clean rooms with beamed ceilings and walls thick enough to silence the church bells. Book ahead during fiesta weeks in August, when former residents return and every room fills with three generations of families catching up on a year's worth of gossip.

Summer visitors should prepare for extremes. July temperatures regularly exceed 35°C, and shade remains scarce. Spring and autumn offer the best balance – warm days, cool nights, and fields either green with new crops or golden with harvest. Winter brings sharp frosts and occasionally snow, transforming the landscape but making mountain roads treacherous.

The Quiet Reward

Pareja won't suit everyone. Those seeking boutique hotels, cocktail bars or Instagram moments should look elsewhere. The village offers something increasingly rare – a place where tourism hasn't replaced tradition, where the evening entertainment involves sitting in the plaza watching grandparents play cards while children chase footballs until midnight.

Come here to reset your internal clock to agricultural time. Wake with the sun, walk until hungry, sleep when tired. The village works its way into you slowly, like the honey that sweetens your morning yoghurt. Long after leaving, you'll find yourself recalling the quality of light on stone walls, the smell of thyme crushed underfoot, the sound of absolute silence broken only by church bells marking another unhurried hour.

Pareja doesn't need to shout. Its quiet confidence stays with you, a reminder that some places remain stubbornly, gloriously themselves.