Valfermoso de Tajuña

The church tower appears first, a stone finger 960 m above sea level, long before the road levels out and the scatter of terracotta roofs comes into view. From that height the Meseta stretches like a rumpled tablecloth: wheat stubble, olive fuzz, the Tajuña River a silver thread that vanishes into heat haze. Most motorists flash past on the A-2, bound for Zaragoza or Barcelona, never noticing the turn-off that climbs to Valfermoso de Tajuna. That is the village’s blessing and its problem; it keeps the views, but struggles to keep the lights on.

Seventy-odd souls live here year-round, though the electoral roll claims ninety when the mayor remembers to count the university students who still register at their parents’ address. Castilian villages this size run on neighbourly arithmetic: one missing tractor is noticed within the hour, one extra car at the weekend counts as a traffic jam. Come August the sum changes—grandchildren arrive from Madrid, the plaza fills with plastic chairs, and the nightly murmur of voices carries until the stars dim. Then September pricks the balloon and quietness settles again, heavier than before.

Stone, Mud and Timber: A Walk-through

No gift shops, no brown heritage signs, no audio guides. The visitor simply parks by the stone cross at the entrance—there is room for six cars, eight if everyone breathes in—and starts walking. The single main lane rises past houses the colour of dry biscuits, their wooden doors painted a sun-bleached green that was fashionable during the Republic. Adobe walls bulge like well-fed stomachs; a few have modern cement patches that shout rather than whisper. At the top, the parish church of San Pedro keeps watch. Its tower is nineteenth-century, the nave older, the roof repaired after lightning in 1983. Push the south door at about eleven most mornings and it gives with a sigh, revealing an interior that smells of candle wax and old grain sacks. No entrance fee, just a box for coins that rattles if you drop in a euro.

Behind the apse a footpath squeezes between vegetable plots. Here the earth is black and smells of manure; lettuces grow the size of side plates. Follow the track for ten minutes and you reach the cement trough that passes for a public fountain. The water is potable—locals fill jerry cans for drinking, though they prefer the softer stuff that flows from a private spring on the upper pasture. Keep going another quarter-hour and the path dissolves into a farm track that loops towards the river. There are no waymarks, no distance posts, only the occasional red X painted by hunters who remember the route home after dark.

The Tajuña: Not Grand, but Obedient

Rivers in La Mancha are polite; they do not roar, they concede. The Tajuña slides past a narrow flood plain of reeds and poplars where nightingales rehearse in April. Herons stand in the shallows like grey professors. A gravel bar provides a picnic spot sturdy enough for a folding chair, though you will share it with dragonflies and, on hot weekends, one or two families from Guadalajara who have discovered the same bend. Swim? Only if you enjoy brown water the temperature of yesterday’s tea and a bottom that sucks at your sandals. Better to bring a book, or binoculars: the cliffs opposite house a colony of crag martins that dart out, loop, and return in the same second.

Upstream, an abandoned mill keeps its waterwheel intact but petrified. Someone has nailed a hand-painted board: “Prohibido entrar. Peligro de hundimiento.” Translation: the floor is gone, the stairs are gone, but the photo opportunity remains. Sunset paints the stone gold at about eight-thirty most of the year; stay until the swifts fall silent and you will hear the river, faint as a heartbeat.

What You Will Not Find (and What You Will)

No ATMs, no petrol station, no Sunday bakery queue. The grocery van calls on Tuesday and Friday, honking its horn like a 1950s ice-cream truck; bread sells out in twelve minutes, so set your watch. The nearest proper shop is in Cifuentes, 18 km away, bread £1.30 a loaf, milk cheaper than in Guildford. Mobile coverage is patchy: Vodafone works on the church steps, EE gives up halfway up the lane. Wi-Fi exists in three houses, all owned by weekenders who will, if asked nicely, share the password for the price of a conversation.

What you will find is night sky chalk-white with stars once the village lights dim at midnight. You will find Don Antonio, retired tractor driver, who greets strangers with “¿De dónde viene usted?” and answers himself with their numberplate before they speak. You will find the communal bread oven, lit twice a year for fiestas, still hot enough to roast a lamb six hours after the flames die. And you will find paths—dirt, stony, sometimes overgrown—that lead to threshing circles now full of poppies and to ridges where the wind tastes of thyme and diesel from distant combines.

Seasons: Choose Carefully

April and May are the easy months. Days reach 22 °C, nights cool enough for a jumper, and the wheat graduates from green to gold in real time. Wild asparagus sprouts along the verges; villagers carry carrier bags and a paring knife, eyes scanning the undergrowth. October repeats the trick in reverse: temperatures slide from 25 °C to 15 °C, acorns crunch underfoot, and the smell of distilling grapes drifts from a farmyard still. Both seasons tempt hikers who do not mind starting early—by eleven the sun feels serious.

July and August are blunt. Thermometers kiss 38 °C by noon; shade is currency and siesta is law. Walk then and your water bottle warms like tea within twenty minutes. The village fountain becomes a social club: dogs, children, even the mayor, all loiter with damp hair. Conversely, January cracks the landscape. Night frosts whiten the rosemary; daytime highs struggle past 6 °C. The road from the main highway can ice over; a hire car without winter tyres may need to reverse downhill to a wider bend. Pretty? Yes. Convenient? No.

Eating: Bring Ingenuity

There is no menu del día waiting beneath a grapevine. The single bar opens at seven for coffee, closes at nine for the proprietor’s breakfast, reopens at eleven, and shuts for good when the last domino falls—sometimes midnight, sometimes four in the afternoon if custom is thin. A glass of wine costs €1.20, a caña ninety cents, crisps extra. For lunch you have three choices: bring a picnic, drive 25 minutes to Hotel Guadalajara Centro for competent if uninspired fare (three courses about €18), or befriend a local and accept the invitation to a cocido that began simmering at dawn. Vegetarians should declare themselves early; the concept is understood but rarely catered for.

Supplies, therefore, are best bought before you leave the A-2. Guadalajara’s Carrefour has British staples—PG Tips, oat milk—should homesickness strike. Pack a cool bag; most cottages rentable through Spanish sites have fridges the size of a hotel mini-bar and ovens that take negotiation.

Getting There, Staying There

Madrid-Barajas is the sensible gateway. Pick up a hire car—compact is fine, diesel helps—and head east on the A-2 for 65 minutes. Take exit 62 signposted Cifuentes/CM-100, then follow the CM-200 north for 25 km of curves that tighten like a corkscrew. The final 6 km peel off to the left; the tarmac narrows but remains intact. Total distance from Terminal 4 to village centre: 108 km. Petrol on the motorway is €1.55 a litre, cheaper than the last British services you remember.

Accommodation is thin on the ground. Two village houses have tourist licences: Casa del Tío Paco (two bedrooms, wood-burning stove, about £85 a night incl. cleaning) and La Alcarria Alta (sleeps four, small plunge pool, £110). Both book solid at Easter and during the August fiestas; reserve by email, pay cash on arrival, bring your own towels if you like them fluffy. Otherwise stay in Guadalajara and day-trip, though you lose the silence that justifies the detour.

The Honest Verdict

Valfermoso de Tajuna will not change your life, unless what you need is proof that Spain can still do stillness. It offers space, stone, and a river polite enough to murmur rather than roar. Come prepared—food, water, sensible shoes—and the village returns a lesson in scaled-down living: how seventy people share one fountain, one oven, one patch of sky, and manage just fine. Arrive hungry for nightlife or Wi-Fi and you will leave hungry full-stop. The tower bell rings the hour whether anyone listens or not; that, in the end, is the deal.