Saceda-Trasierra

Nine hundred metres above small talk

The road to Saceda-Trasierra climbs so steadily that ears pop before the first roof appears. At 900 m the air thins and the plateau spreads like a fawn-coloured ocean; stone walls replace hedges, and the only traffic jam is a farmer moving twenty sheep with a stick. Thirty-seven residents are listed on the padron, though on a weekday you might count fewer. The village sits on the lip of La Alcarria, a high, wind-scoured region that feels closer to the Meseta’s sky than to the almond groves of coastal Andalucía.

Most visitors arrive from Madrid after a 130 km dash down the A-3. Hire cars are essential; the last bus worth mentioning turned round in the Nineties. Leave the motorway at Tarancón, follow the CM-310 for half an hour, then watch for a sign so modest it could be advertising turnips. The tarmac narrows, the verges sprout broom and juniper, and suddenly the hamlet is there: stone houses gripping a ridge as if they might otherwise slide into the void.

Stone calendars and shuttered schools

Architecture is the village diary. Granite blocks the colour of wet cardboard record every drought, every frost that forced earlier settlers to build thick walls and tiny windows. The parish church, finished in 1743, has a single nave and a bell tower you could miss if you blink; its lime-washed façade still bears scorch marks from when a lightning strike tried to shorten Mass in 1921. Next door, the primary school closed in 1978 when the roll dropped to four; desks remain inside, coated in pigeon guano and speculation. Peek through the padlocked gate and you can read the timetable chalked in Franciscan script—Lunes: Religión—as though lessons might resume tomorrow.

Walk uphill past corrals where chickens wander freely and you reach the cemetery. Iron crosses lean at angles that would give a surveyor hiccups. Many graves carry the same half-dozen surnames; cousins repeated until the gene pool begged for mercy. Fresh flowers appear only on Saturdays, brought by relatives who now live in Guadalajara or Valencia and treat the village as an open-air reliquary.

Wind that tastes of thyme and sheep

Saceda-Trasierra offers no souvenir shops, no interpretive centre, not even a cash machine. What it does offer is space. South of the houses a dirt track strikes out across the páramo, signed only by the occasional cairn. Within twenty minutes the hamlet shrinks to a grey smudge and the loudest sound becomes your own pulse. Kestrels hang overhead; a distant combine crawls across wheat stubble like an orange ladybird. The trail links a necklace of semi-abandoned farmsteads—Fuente del Pino, Los Rincones—whose inhabitants left when television aerials promised a better life elsewhere. Roofless cottages make convenient shelters for picnics; stone thresholds still warm in the afternoon sun.

Serious walkers should allow three hours for the circuit to La Cierva spring and back. The route dips into a barranco where oleander grows wild, then climbs through rosemary scrub to a plateau grazed by Manchego sheep. Stout footwear is non-negotiable: the path is a goat’s idea of a joke, and mobile reception vanishes with the first bend. Carry at least a litre of water per person; at 900 m dehydration arrives faster than you expect, especially when the cierzo—a dry northerly wind—blows at 30 km/h.

Calories and credit cards

Hunger presents two options, both requiring forethought. Bar La Fragua, halfway along the only street, opens at 07:00 for farmers and again at 20:00 for everyone else. Inside, three tables share a wood-burning stove that smokes more than it heats. Miguel, the owner, serves migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic and chorizo—plus ice-cold cañas for €1.80. He will accept euros but not excuses for poor Spanish; point, smile and say “¡Qué rico!” when the plate arrives. Alternatively, drive 18 km to Huélamo where Casa Juan offers a three-course menú del día for €12, including wine that tastes of blackberries and Monday morning.

There are no hotels. Tourist accommodation consists of three privately owned casas rurales, each sleeping four to six and booked months ahead by Madrileños seeking “digital detox”. Prices hover around €90 per night for the entire house—cheap if you split the cost, expensive if the heating oil runs low. Electricity cuts are common during storms; pack a head-torch and a sense of humour. Check-in is by arrangement: your host meets you at the fountain, hands over a key the size of a shoe, then disappears back to Cuenca.

When the sky performs

April and May turn the surrounding steppe an improbable green. Poppies flare among the wheat, and the temperature hovers in the low twenties—perfect for walking without resembling a sweat-soaked tissues advert. September repeats the trick, adding the aroma of freshly cut barley. July and August are a different proposition: 38 °C by noon, UV index 9, and a sun that regards suncream as a personal challenge. Afternoons become siesta by force majeure; even the dogs postpone barking until dusk. Winter brings snow perhaps twice a year, enough to make the road from Tarancón entertaining but rarely impassable. If you fancy photographing roofs wearing white wigs, book for February—and bring chains.

Resistance in the form of drums

Keeping a fiesta alive with fewer residents than a London book club requires stubbornness. Each 15 August the village stages its romería in honour of the Virgin of Grace. One brass band, hired from a larger town, squeezes into the church square. A communal paella stretches three metres across a wood fire tended by men who argue about saffron dosage with the seriousness of constitutional reform. Visitors are welcome to donate ingredients—bring a bag of rabbit joints or a litre of good oil and you’ll be kissed on both cheeks by women you met five minutes earlier. The party ends before midnight; fireworks would terrify the sheep and, frankly, nobody can afford them.

Leaving without promising to return

Saceda-Trasierra will not suit travellers who measure holiday success by tick-box attractions. There is no Roman amphitheatre, no Michelin star, no gift-shop fridge magnet to evidence your intrepidity. Instead you get a lesson in subtraction: fewer people, less noise, minimal infrastructure, and a horizon that refuses to be photo-bombed by cranes. Drive away at sunset and the village recedes into its own silence; the plateau looks empty again, as though you imagined the whole thing. That, perhaps, is the point.