Villalba del Rey

The church bell tolls at seven, same time the diesel engine coughs to life outside the baker’s house. In Villalba del Rey nobody needs an alarm clock; the village runs on torque and tradition, 800 m above sea level where the air thins and the meseta starts to ripple into the pine-dark folds of La Alcarria.

This is cereal country—wheat, barley and the occasional almond grove—worked by families who can name every field back to their great-grandfathers. Stone walls the colour of dry toast line lanes just wide enough for a tractor with folding mirrors. At the centre, a compact square presided over by the parish church whose squat tower doubles as the local GPS: lose the footpath among the sun-baked walls, look up, reorient.

The Reservoir that Swallowed a Valley

Ten minutes down the CM-210 the horizon opens into a sheet of cobalt better suited to Norway than Castilla-La Mancha. The Embalse de Buendía—locals call it “the inland sea”—flooded eleven villages in the 1950s and still irrigates half the province. Britons expecting a Lake District idyll should know the shoreline is sparse: a few picnic tables, one licensed bar, summer water-ski club and a yacht ramp that gets busy at weekends. Bring shoes you don’t mind wading in; the beach is coarse grit and the drop-off steep. Fishing permits are €20 a day, sold online only—print before you leave Cuenca because the village library printer jams more often than it works.

For walkers, the GR-128 long-distance footpath skirts the western end. The eight-kilometre stretch from the presa to Cañada de Huete passes through umbrella-pine shade, climbs an escarpment and delivers a view across drowned rooftops that reappear like broken teeth whenever drought drops the level. Mid-week you’ll have it to yourself; Saturday brings quad-bikes and the smell of two-stroke.

A Plate, a Fire, a Reason to Sit Still

Gastronomy here isn’t theatre, it’s lunch. The only public dining room, Mesón del Rey on Calle San Roque, opens when the owner feels like it—ring ahead. If the door is up, order pisto manchego (a pepper-and-aubergine fry-up that puts ratatouille to shame) and a bowl of garlic soup thick enough to stand a spoon in. Game appears after the first frost: perdiz estofada, partridge braised with bay and cloves, served in the same earthenware dish it went into the oven with. Vegetarians should ask for “morteruelo de setas”, a mushroom pâté that replaces the traditional liver. Finish with a drizzle of Alcarria honey, protected denomination since 1992, sold in reused ketchup bottles for €6 at the counter.

Self-caterers find basics at the Co-op: UHT milk, tinned tomatoes, salty Manchego at €12 a kilo. Bread arrives in a white van at 11:00; if you miss it, drive to Buendía where the supermarket opens 09:00–14:00. There is no cash machine—stock euros in Cuenca.

When the Village Comes Home

August turns the place inside out. The population trebles as Madrilenian grandchildren descend, tents sprout in back gardens and the plaza hosts nightly verbena dances that finish only when the Guardia Civil remind the DJ of the noise by-law. Book accommodation early; the three rental houses are booked a year ahead by families who’ve claimed the same fortnight since 1998. If you must come mid-August, bring earplugs and accept that roads close for the running-ofthe-heifers—think Pamplona on a budget, with more scraping of sandalled feet.

Outside fiesta time, Villalba is audibly quieter than the average library. January’s San Antón offers a gentler spectacle: horses blessed with holy water, sausages thrown onto a communal bonfire, aniseed liqueur handed round in chipped enamel cups. The scent of pine smoke lingers on coats for days.

Getting Here, Staying Sane

Cuenca’s AVE station links Madrid in 54 minutes; from there a twice-daily bus reaches Villalba at 14:15 and 19:40. The timetable is aspirational—engineering works, sheep on the line, driver coffee breaks all add 30 minutes. Car hire is wiser: the N-320 is dual-carriageway as far as Tarancón, then rolling country where grain lorries kick up choking dust. Fill the tank at the Repsol outside Tarancón; the village garage closed in 2011 and the nearest pump is 28 km away.

Accommodation is thin. Casa Rural La Panera sleeps six, wood-burner, no Wi-Fi, €90 a night with a two-night minimum. Bring slippers: stone floors are handsome and arctic. The owners live in Valencia and leave keys in a flowerpot—directions via WhatsApp voice note, signal permitting. Campers should note wild pitching is illegal; the municipal recreation zone allows vans under six metres for €5 a night, cold-water tap only.

What the Brochures Won’t Tell You

Summer afternoons top 38 °C; the altitude tempers the heat but not enough. Siestas are not quaint, they’re survival—shutters closed, streets empty, dogs flopped under cars. In winter the thermometer can fall to –8 °C; the same houses designed to stay cool become refrigerators. Heating is pellet stoves and thick walls; pack fleece and expect a €20 supplement for fuel.

Mobile coverage is patchy. Vodafone works on the church step; Orange users need to climb the cemetery hill and face north-east. Treat connectivity like wildlife: exciting when it appears, foolish to rely on.

The village is safe, bored-teenager safe: unlocked doors, bicycles against walls, the last recorded crime a stolen wheelbarrow in 2017. Still, lock your hire car—insurance assessors in Madrid laugh at “trusted village” claims.

Worth the Detour?

Villalba del Rey will never compete with Cuenca’s hanging houses or Toledo’s sword craft. That is precisely its appeal. Come if you want to hear Spanish spoken without an accent course, if you measure days by bread vans and church bells, if you’re content to sit on a bench and watch wheat turn from green to gold. Bring a paperback, a sense of chronological elastic, and leave before August unless you fancy sharing your shower with three generations of Madrilenian in-laws.