Valderrebollo

The Sound of 970 Metres

The engine stops. Door shuts. Then nothing—just wind scraping across parched grass and the faint clink of a distant goat bell. At 970 metres above sea level, Valderrebollo is high enough for the air to feel thinner, dryer, almost surgical. Twenty-three residents, one parish church, zero shops. Mobile signal flickers in and out like a faulty lighter. This is La Alcarria at its most honest: no garnish, no soundtrack, nowhere to buy a fridge magnet.

The village squats on a shallow ridge north-east of Guadalajara, 70 km of wriggling CM-110 and CM-201 that take seventy minutes if the wheat lorries aren’t in a hurry. Stone and adobe houses—many still roofed with Roman-style teja árabe—lean into the slope as if sheltering from a wind that never quite arrives. Adobe patches are the colour of digestive biscuits; newer cement screams hospital white. Gates hang from medieval iron hinges; some open into empty corrals where the only occupant is a sun-bleached feed bucket. It isn’t pretty, but it is coherent: everything built from what lay underfoot.

Walking the Blank Spaces

Forget way-marked trails. Valderrebollo offers a spider’s web of agricultural tracks that dissolve into thyme-scented pasture. Head south-east and you’ll drop into the Barranco del Miedo—a 60-metre gash carved by a stream that only remembers to flow after March thunderstorms. Griffon vultures circle overhead, casting cruciform shadows; in spring, bee-eaters stitch the sky with neon. The going underfoot is stony but never technical; a pair of approach shoes suffices. Carry water—there’s none between here and the next scattering of roofs, often 8 km away.

Cyclists on gravel bikes love the high plateau for its blank canvas. The CM-2015 toward Tortuero is rolled-flat tarmac for 9 km, then turns to fist-sized gravel. Ride at dawn and you’ll share the road with a lone farmer in a 1994 Land Cruiser, cigarette glowing like a third indicator. Bring spares: the nearest bike shop is 45 km west in Sigüenza.

Evening delivers the real show. With zero light pollution, the Milky Way drips across the sky like spilt sugar. A basic DSLR on a tripod, 20-second exposure, ISO 3200, and you’ll capture it above the bell tower of San Juan Bautista. August nights can drop to 12 °C—pack a down jacket.

What Passes for a Centre

The church of San Juan Bautista is locked most days. Turn up at 11:00 on Sunday and you might find Don Aurelio, 78, who’ll unlock for anyone polite enough to ask. Inside: a single-nave box thickened over centuries, a 16th-century pine retablo blackened by candle soot, and a Christ whose painted blood looks almost fresh. No audio guide, no gift shop, just the smell of paraffin and old linen. Drop a euro in the box; it goes straight to roof tiles.

Opposite stands the old communal wash trough, fed by a spring that locals claim never dries. The water is potable—fill your bottle—but algae slime makes it taste of metal. Stand still and you’ll hear the trough’s echo: women’s laughter from the 1950s, when laundry doubled as the daily news conference.

Eating Without a Village Bar

Valderrebollo itself has no tavern, but 12 km north in Tamajón the Bar La Plaza fires up a wood-burning oven at weekends. Order cordero al estilo alcarreño—half a milk-fed lamb, hacked through the bone, roasted with garlic and bay until the skin shatters like caramelised sugar. €18 a portion, feeds two greedy walkers. Their house red comes from a 20-litre bag-in-box behind the counter; ask for “el del año” and you’ll get something drinkable for €1.20 a glass.

If you’re self-catering, stock up in Guadalajara before you leave. The last reliable supermarket is a Carrefour Express on the CU-112 ring road; after that, it’s village minimarkets selling tinned asparagus and sad lemons. Local shepherds sell cheese direct—look for hand-written “Queso de Oveja” signs on farm gates. Expect a 1 kg wheel for €12, wrapped in cling film and still warm.

When the Silence Breaks

Festivities are short, intense, and largely private. Around 24 June, San Juan brings a single marquee, a sound system run off a diesel generator, and a pig roasted in the open air. Outsiders welcome, but there’s nowhere to sleep it off. Book early in Tamajón or Marchamalo—both have small guesthouses—or expect a 45-minute night-time drive back to Guadalajara.

Winter is brutal. At 970 m, Valderrebollo catches the meseta’s Siberian streak; January nights dip to –8 °C and the wind scythes across the plateau. Roads get icy; the CM-201 hugs a ridge with 200-metre drops and no barrier. Visit between mid-April and late May instead—days warm to 22 °C, the thyme flowers, and you’ll have the tracks to yourself.

The Exit Tax

Leaving feels like switching radio frequency back to the world. Descend toward the A-2 and mobile bars flicker alive—WhatsApp pings, Spotify reloads, the twenty-first century rushes in. In the mirror Valderrebollo shrinks to a dark smudge on a beige horizon, already refilling with silence. You won’t have “done” anything; you’ll have practised the forgotten art of standing still.