Torija

The A-2 motorway between Madrid and Zaragoza carries 40-tonne lorries at 120 km/h, yet every so often indicators flash left as drivers spot a sandstone castle rising from a limestone gorge. That involuntary swerve is Torija's doing. One moment you're counting kilometres to Barcelona; the next you're parking on rough gravel beneath fifteenth-century battlements, wondering how a place so close to the carriageway can feel this quiet.

At 944 metres above sea level, the village is high enough for the air to feel thin after Madrid's heat. The castle keep houses the world's only museum devoted to a single travel book—Camilo José Cela's 1948 chronicle Journey to the Alcarria—and the modest €2 ticket buys you pages of the Nobel laureate's original manuscript plus a 360-degree view of cereal fields that still look exactly like his prose described them. Most visitors allot an hour; the car park rarely holds more than a dozen vehicles even on August Sundays.

A Castle That Prefers Readers to Sieges

The fortress was built to guard the road between Castile and Aragón, but these days it welcomes whoever pulls off the motorway. Staff will tell you—without prompting—that Monday closures catch out more Britons than any other nationality; timetable checks are worth the effort because the interior is unexpectedly good fun. Exhibits include Cela's typewriter, a 1950s road map printed on cloth, and a wall of visitors' comments that ranges from GCSE Spanish homework to marriage proposals. Climb the narrow spiral and you're on the roof with the Tagus basin stretching westwards; the wind up here can knock a cap off even in July.

Back at ground level, the village itself needs ten minutes to cross end to end. Houses are the colour of dry biscuits, their wooden balconies painted the deep green you see all over Guadalajara province. There is no souvenir gauntlet—just a single shop in the castle courtyard selling honey labelled Miel de la Alcarria and fridge magnets shaped like sheep. If you need the loo, the castle café lets you use theirs for fifty cents; generosity is not included in the price of a coffee.

Lamb, Honey and the Smell of Thyme

Food options inside Torija are limited to that same courtyard café—adequate tortilla, indifferent coffee—so smart travellers time their arrival for 13:30 and walk two minutes to Asador Pocholo on Calle de la Constitución. Segureño lamb arrives as a quarter rack for two, slow-roasted in a wood-fired oven until the fat turns glass-crisp. It tastes like the best Welsh mountain lamb, only the shepherd has added rosemary instead of mint. A half-litre of local white, Blanco de la Alcarria, costs €6 and tastes pleasantly neutral after the salt crackling; ask for a small pour of Torta del Casar if you enjoy ripe French brie, but beware—this sheep's-milk cheese smells like old socks and costs €8 for a wedge you could spread with a knife.

Should you picnic instead, buy honey at the castle shop: 250 g jars for €4, mild enough to please children and light enough to survive in hold luggage. The gorse and thyme notes come through once you're home and the jar is half empty.

Using Torija as a Springboard

Most motorists stretch their legs, photograph the gorge, and rejoin the motorway, but staying longer makes sense if you want to walk without way-marked crowds. The GR-160 long-distance path skirts the village, following sheep tracks through wheat stubble to the ruins of an Roman bridge at Bujalcayado, 7 km south. Go early: by noon the sun ricochets off the limestone and shade is theoretical. In April the plateau is purple with viper's bugloss; October brings stubble fires whose smoke drifts across the road like early morning fog.

Cyclists rate the minor road south to Brihuega even higher: 12 km of gentle false flat through almond orchards, virtually traffic-free except for the odd tractor heading to the cooperative. Hire bikes in Guadalajara first—Torija has no shop, and the castle custodians refuse to lend you theirs.

Winter visits are a different proposition. At altitude the wind carries snow from the Guadarrama, and the castle museum shortens afternoon opening to 16:00-17:00. The upside is atmospheric photography: stone the colour of bone against iron skies, and hot chocolate thick enough to stand a spoon in back at Pocholo. Chains are rarely needed on the A-2, but the slip road can ice over; Spanish drivers treat snow as a moral failing, so caution is advisable.

The Honest Verdict

Torija will never compete with Segóbriga's Roman mosaics or Cuenca's hanging houses, and that is precisely its charm. It offers a medieval castle you can have to yourself, a lamb lunch that justifies the detour, and a crash course in twentieth-century Spanish literature without the academic dust. Treat it as a 90-minute pause and you'll leave content; stay half a day and you'll have walked Roman roads, tasted thyme honey, and understood why Cela kept stopping here. Just remember to bring coins for the ticket machine and to avoid Mondays—unless you enjoy explaining to disappointed teenagers why the drawbridge is up.