Pastrana

Sixty-three miles east of Madrid, the A-3 motorway spits you onto a two-lane road that climbs steadily through thyme-scented scrub. Ten minutes later the honey-coloured walls of Pastrana appear, still intact enough to keep out modern traffic. Inside those walls live 850 people whose daily rhythms owe more to the church bell than to TripAdvisor. This is La Mancha without the windmills, a place where the 16th century lingers in the mortar joints and the evening paseo happens whether visitors turn up or not.

The Duchess, the Tapestry and the Closed Eye

Every Spanish schoolchild knows the story—Ana de Mendoza, Princess of Éboli, court beauty, spy and owner of one eye lost to a fencing accident. Philip II placed her under house arrest in the Palacio Ducal that dominates Plaza de la Hora; she spent fourteen years here dictating letters that rattled the Habsburg court. The palace still belongs to the council, and guided tours (£4, cash only) run on the hour, English by request if you phone ahead. Inside, the courtyard columns are exact copies of El Escorial’s, scaled down for a ducal budget. Look for the tiny grilled window above the main gate—her only view of the square for a decade.

Across the plaza, the Colegiata de la Asunción keeps four Flemish tapestries that most tourists race past in Toledo but which here you can study alone. They show Portuguese troops surrendering Tangier in 1471, gold thread catching the light like a medieval newsreel. The custodian will lift the rope if you ask; she’s happy to explain why one sailor has a distinctly English nose—Bruges weavers used locals as models.

Lavender, Lamb and the Alcarrian Lunch Code

Outside the walls the land drops away into a patchwork of lavender and barley. From late June to early August the fields blush violet, a cheaper, quieter stand-in for Provence. Farm tracks double as walking routes; the shortest loop (5 km) starts at the Ermita de San José and circles back through honey-coloured stone farmhouses whose doorways still carry the original family names carved in 1630. No gift shops, no entry fees, just the smell of crushed lavender underfoot and the occasional shepherd on a quad bike.

Back inside the gates, lunch follows an unwritten timetable. Bars will serve coffee until 11:30, then close the kitchen until 13:30. Ignore anyone who tells you Spaniards eat at 15:00—here the first tables are filled by 13:45 and cleared by 15:30 so staff can eat. Try Mesón Moratín for roast suckling lamb (£18 half portion, plenty for two) or the simpler Mesón Castilla if you’d rather migas—fried breadcrumbs with grapes and bacon—washed down with a glass of Mondéjar tempranillo (£2.20). Pudding is honey ice-cream made with DO Alcarria honey; the bees work the same lavender you walked through earlier.

When the Bells Ring Out

Pastrana’s calendar still pivots on the church bell. At 19:30 the tenor calls shoppers to the plaza for the paseo; grandparents claim stone benches while teenagers orbit with footballs and mobile phones. On Fridays the peal is joined by the thud of a single drum—practice for the cofradía that will carry floats at Easter. If you’re here in mid-August the Assumption fiestas replace quiet with brass bands, outdoor paella and a running of the bulls that uses the walled lanes as a natural arena. Rooms triple in price; book early or come the week after when the lavender is still in flower but the beds are £35 again.

October brings the honey fair: producers set up trestle tables in the cloister of the old convent and offer thimble-sized tastes of thyme, rosemary and multifloral varieties. Bring an empty suitcase; British customs allow 2 kg of honey per person and the prices are half what you’d pay in Borough Market.

Getting Lost Without Getting Stuck

Access is straightforward but not rapid. From Madrid Chamartín the ALSA coach takes 1 h 25 min (£8 each way, two daily) and drops you at the bottom of Calle de Éboli; the walk uphill to the plaza takes four minutes. Drivers should leave the A-3 at Taracón and follow the CM-211—narrow but newly surfaced. Park outside the walls; the old quarter is paved with granite setts that laugh at suitcases on wheels. ATMs are in the modern part across the dry riverbed; the only machine inside the walls vanished when the bank closed in 2019.

Monday and Tuesday are dead days: the palace, tapestries and convent museum all close, cafés reduce hours and the bakery doesn’t bother with croissants. Come Wednesday to Sunday if you want the full circuit, or embrace the quiet if your idea of escape is cobbles without selfies.

Evening temperatures drop sharply at 759 m—pack a fleece even in July. Winter brings proper frost; the lavender is cut back, bars light wood stoves and the surrounding plains turn cinematic under snow. Access remains open but the last bus back to Madrid may be cancelled if the motorway ices over.

Leave before you learn the bell sequence by heart. Pastrana works because it refuses to bend to every tourist whim; the bakery will not open earlier, the ducal guides will not skip siesta, the lavender farmer will not charge for a photograph. Accept the rhythm and you’ll find the village gives you more than any checklist could—an hour in a sun-warmed square, a slice of honey-soaked tocino de cielo, and the certainty that somewhere between Madrid and the coast, Spanish time still keeps its own slow beat.