Villar del Infantado

The 39-person plateau

Stand on the edge of Villar del Infantado at 760 metres and the first thing you notice is the wind. It rolls uninterrupted across La Alcarria’s cereal ocean, rattling the stone houses and drowning out mobile reception long before you reach the village sign. Population: thirty-nine on a confident day, fewer when the harvest calls families elsewhere. The altitude keeps July temperatures a good five degrees cooler than Madrid, but in January the same wind can slice through three layers of fleece. Bring a scarf in every season.

The village sits 80 km west of Cuenca capital, reached by the N-320 to Tarancón and then a lattice of country lanes wide enough for one car and a surprised hare. Google Maps will swear the drive takes 55 minutes; allow 70 after rain when the tarmac turns to polished clay. There is no bus. If you arrive without wheels, the nearest taxi firm is in Canalejas del Arroyo (€70 pre-booked), and the driver will want confirmation that you really do mean Villar del Infantado, not the grand Palacio del Infantado in Guadalajara two provinces away.

Stone, adobe and a tower you can’t miss

The single-lane high street ends in a pocket-sized plaza dominated by the parish church. Its brick-and-rubble tower rises in blunt stages, the local landmark long before GPS. Step inside and you’ll find a medieval foot-print patched by later centuries: a Romanesque arch here, a Baroque altarpiece there, pews polished by generations whose surnames are still read out every Sunday morning.

Radiating from the plaza are two short streets of houses the colour of dry toast. Walls are thick stone at ground level, soft adobe above, roofs weighted with curved Arab tiles that sing when the wind shifts. Many front doors stand ajar; peer in and you’ll glimpse cave-like cellars carved into the bedrock, once filled with country wine before phylloxera marched through in the 1890s. One or two owners will invite you to look properly; accept, then mind your head – the ceilings were built for people shorter than the average British visitor.

Walking without way-marks

Forget sign-posted trails. The village lies on a spider-web of old drove roads linking threshing floors to neighbouring hamlets. A favourite circuit heads south-east along the Cañada Real de la Mancha for 4 km to Arandilla del Arroyo, then returns on a higher track that gives straight-line views to the Cuenca hills. Total ascent is under 150 m, but the meseta sun is fierce; carry more water than you think necessary because the only bar en route is the one you left behind.

Spring brings a brief, brilliant green carpet and the chance of spotting short-toed eagles above the wheat. By late May the colour has drained back to gold, and the footpaths become loose, ankle-turning gravel. After heavy rain the clay sticks to boots like wet cement; locals strap on espadrilles and seem to float. Ask in the plaza for the path to the Castillo del Infantado and you’ll be directed up a sheep track to a knee-high heap of masonry. Expectations managed, the 360-degree plateau is worth the twenty-minute climb for sunset.

A bar with no boss

Hospitality is refreshingly informal. The only pub, simply called “Bar”, opens when someone feels like it. That someone is usually María, but if she’s harvesting olives her neighbour has the key, and if he’s in Cuenca the mayor’s grandson takes over. Knock confidently; payment goes in a tobacco tin on the counter. Coffee is €1.20, a caña €1.50, and the tortilla slice is whatever size the morning’s eggs allowed. Plastic chairs spill onto the lane; half the clientele arrive on foot, half on tractors.

For a sit-down meal you’ll need to travel. Cañaveras, 12 km north, has Mesón de la Alcarria where roast Cordero Alcarreño (€18 half-ration) feeds two hungry hikers. Back in the village, stock up beforehand at the unmarked pantry opposite the church: ring the bell, ask for “pan de pueblo”, and you’ll be handed a crusty loaf still warm from a domestic oven. There is no shop in any conventional sense, so pack butter, teabags and anything green if you’re self-catering.

Where to lay your head

Accommodation is limited to one house. Casa Candorras is a four-bedroom cottage split into two self-contained flats, restored by a Madrid family whose grandparents once herded sheep here. Rates start at €90 a night for the smaller flat (minimum two nights), including firewood and a bottle of local honey stamped with the Alcarria D.O. label. Beds are firm, the Wi-Fi polite rather than functional, and the roof terrace perfect for watching Orion scrape the horizon on clear winter nights. Book by WhatsApp (+34 679 16 25 71) rather than email; replies arrive after the evening news.

If Casa Candorras is full, the nearest alternatives are in Arandilla del Arroyo (7 km), a clutch of stone cottages grouped around a smithy turned lounge. Expect stone floors, under-floor heating and night skies so dark the Milky Way feels like an invasion of privacy.

Fiestas that fit in a single street

The calendar condenses into three events. Easter Thursday brings a quiet procession: twelve bearers, one brass band, everyone else following in silence because the acoustics of stone walls make whispers carry. August’s fiesta honours the Assumption with an outdoor mass, a communal paella cooked over vine prunings, and a disco that finishes by 02:00 so the farmers can milk. Mid-January sees San Antón; residents lead their dogs, horses and the occasional pet lamb to the church door for a splash of holy water and a slice of anise cake. Visitors are welcome, but don’t expect programmes, tickets or souvenirs – just turn up, stand at the back, and someone will hand you a plastic cup of wine.

The catch

Villar del Infantado is not postcard-perfect. Roofs sag, skips stand permanently outside half-restored houses, and the youngest permanent resident is forty-something. In August the village doubles in size with returning offspring, but even then the silence after midnight can feel eerie if you’re used to urban hum. Winter snow sometimes cuts the road for 24 hours; the council clears the N-320 first, the village lane last. Mobile coverage is patchy on a good day and non-existent on a bad one – download offline maps before you leave the motorway.

Worth the detour?

If you measure travel by tick-box attractions, stay on the A-3. If you’re happy to trade nightlife for starlight, and café culture for a kitchen table shared with strangers who know the names of every dog in the valley, Villar del Infantado offers a slice of Spain the guidebooks stopped listing decades ago. Come with supplies, an open timetable and a wind-proof jacket; leave before the village has had enough of you, not the other way round.