Torralba

The church bell rings once, twice, then stops. Nobody appears. In Torralba, perched at 940 m on the wind-scoured plateau of La Alcarria, the bell isn't calling anyone to action—it's simply reminding the village it still exists. Below the modest stone tower, forty-odd houses, a handful of vegetable plots and two streets that meet at a dusty triangle constitute the entire settlement. Motorists who follow the CM-210 from the N-320 usually drive straight through without realising they've visited anything at all.

That is precisely why walkers, bird-watchers and anyone allergic to souvenir stalls make the 75 km detour south-east from Cuenca. The map shows a blank swathe of ochre labelled páramo: a high, treeless expanse once favoured by transhumant shepherds. Torralba squats in the middle of it, ring-fenced by wheat stubble, thyme and the occasional ruined threshing circle. Mobile reception flickers, the nearest petrol pump is 25 minutes away, and night skies register a Bortle Class 3—dark enough for the Milky Way to throw a shadow.

Stone, Adobe and the Smell of Rain on Thyme

Houses are built from what lay to hand: granite footings, adobe bricks sun-baked on site, and flat clay tiles that turn salmon-pink at dusk. Many still have the original poyos—stone benches set into the façade where grandfathers once warmed their faces in winter sun. New aluminium windows clash cheerfully with eighteenth-century lintels; satellite dishes bloom above bread ovens. Nothing is "restored" in the heritage-industry sense, so you see the working history of rural Spain in a single wall: medieval masonry, 1950s cement patch, 1998 breeze-block extension.

There is no ticket office, audioguide or interpretation board. The single monument, the parish church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, keeps its doors unlocked. Inside, a roughly carved crucifix from 1642 hangs above an electric organ bought second-hand in Guadalajara. The sacristan will appear if you linger long enough; ask and he'll crank open the bell-chamber so you can see how the mechanism still relies on a leather strap cured in local walnut tannin. Donations go straight into the oil-fired heater that keeps the building just above freezing in January.

Walking the Invisible Lines

Torralba functions as a trailhead rather than a destination. Four farm tracks radiate from the plaza like compass points; follow any for an hour and you will hear nothing louder than your boots on flint. Spring brings a brief, almost shocking green—verdant barley, poppies the colour of railway signal flags—then the palate reverts to bronze by late June. Farmers leave 2 m uncultivated margins around each field; from these strips hoopoes, calandra larks and the occasional little bustard call before dawn.

Maps are optimistic: a dashed line labelled "Sendero Local 27" peters out at a barbed-wire gate where the farmer has rolled an old water tank to stop 4×4 traffic. Smartphone GPS still works, but downloading the free IGN 1:25,000 sheet beforehand saves walking into freshly planted cumin plots. After rain the clay sticks like fresh mortar; gaiters are worth the extra 200 g in your pack.

If you prefer someone else to do the navigating, Cuenca-based guide Jorge Martínez runs sporadic day walks (€45 pp, minimum four people, reserve via WhatsApp). His four-hour loop east to the abandoned hamlet of Valdecabriel ends with wild-boar stew and a glass of resoli—coffee laced with anisette—served on his mother-in-law's porch.

Calories for Cold Dawns

Gastronomy here predates the Mediterranean diet fad; it is fuel rather than fashion. The signature morteruelo, a thick pâté of hare, pork liver and breadcrumbs, was designed to travel: scoop a spoonful and it keeps its shape like putty. Order it at the only weekend-only bar, La Casa de los Deseos, and it arrives sizzling in the earthenware mortar itself. The owner, Mari-Loli, closes when the food runs out—usually by 3 p.m.—so don't plan a late lunch.

Locals still bake paniella, a flat bread of unbolted flour that tastes faintly of toasted almonds. Ask at the bakery counter inside the grocery on Calle Real (open 9–11 a.m. except Monday). A whole loaf costs €2.30 and stays edible for a week, longer if you hang it from the customary ceiling nail.

Autumn brings wild mushrooms, but the rules are strict: pick only níscalo (saffron milk-cap) and rovellón (blewit), carry them in a wicker basket so spores fall, and register your intention at the town hall window. Fines for basket-less hoarding start at €300; the Guardia Civil patrol the tracks because, as the mayor says, "even here, someone always tries to fill a rucksack for Madrid markets."

When the Village Swells to 400

August 15 turns Torralba into a rehearsal of what it once was. Emigrants return from Valencia, Barcelona and a warehouse in Swindon; the population quadruples overnight. The plaza hosts a verbena dance that finishes at 6 a.m., powered by a single generator that also lights the paella gigante—a 4 m pan requiring 60 kg rice and a week's worth of wood chopped by the village youth. Visitors are welcome to queue for a plate (€6, proceeds fund next year's fireworks) but don't expect accommodation within 30 km unless you booked in March.

Winter is the inverse. January mean temperature hovers at 2 °C, the water tank on the church roof freezes, and the access road is gritted sporadically. Chains are advisable after snow; if the wind drifts across the plateau you may wait a day for the farmer's tractor to clear a single lane. On the plus side, the silence is absolute and short-eared owls hunt at midday.

Getting There, Staying Over, Filling the Tank

Public transport is theoretical: the weekday bus from Cuenca to Torralba left in 2011 and never returned. A taxi from the provincial capital costs €95 one way; sharing the ride through the BlaBlaCar app usually halves the fare but departures are unpredictable. Driving remains the practical option. From central Cuenca take the N-320 towards Guadalajara for 42 km, turn right on the CM-210 signposted "Torralba/Fuentenava", then wriggle 19 km across the plateau. The final stretch is single-track with two blind summits; flash your headlights before cresting them—farmers move cattle at dawn and the herds have right of way.

The village itself offers no hotels. Nearest beds are at Casa Rural Casa Carmen, 12 km back towards the main road (double room €70, wood burner, no Wi-Fi). Owners José and Pilar will collect walkers who arrive bus-less if you phone a day ahead. Bring groceries: the village grocery opens erratically and the nearest supermarket is in Carboneras de Guadazaón, 22 km east.

Fill your petrol tank before leaving the N-320; the village has no fuel and the pumps at Carboneras close at 8 p.m. sharp. A spare 5 L can in the boot removes the anxiety of watching the gauge drop while the road keeps climbing.

Parting Without Promises

Torralba offers no postcard moment, no "must-see" checklist. Instead it delivers something British cities lost long ago: the audible distance between passing cars—six minutes, maybe seven—and the realisation that you can stand in the middle of the road to photograph larks without anyone hooting. Come for that, or stay on the motorway. The plateau will still be here, silent under its enormous sky, whether you stop or not.