Yélamos de Arriba

The church bell strikes noon, yet only swifts circling the tower reply. At 950 metres above sea level, Yélamos de Arriba is a place where silence has weight—so complete that the crunch of gravel under a walking boot sounds almost rude. Eighty-four residents, one grocery that opens three mornings a week, zero cash machines: this is rural Castilla-La Mancha stripped to its bones.

Stone, Sky and the Smell of Thyme

Houses the colour of dry earth huddle round a single knoll. Walls are thigh-thick masonry; roofs carry orange clay tiles heavy enough to resist the wind that scours the plateau. Adobe patches show where owners have recycled medieval mud bricks rather than buy new breeze blocks—practicality before prettiness. There is no plaza mayor lined with geraniums; instead, narrow lanes tilt toward the horizon as if the entire village is leaning to see what lies beyond the cereal plains.

Those plains change palette every six weeks. In April the wheat glows emerald; by July it has bleached to straw gold; October brings ochre stubble and the sweet smoke of farmers burning stubble. The transition is best watched from the cemetery terrace: stand by the 1898 granite cross and the Tajuña valley unrolls 30 km southward, a rumpled quilt of olives and almond terraces.

Altitude does funny things to weather. On an August afternoon you can swelter in 32 °C shade while, 50 km away in Guadalajara city, thermometers read five degrees higher. Come December, the same altitude dumps snow that lingers for days; the CM-110 becomes a white ribbon and villagers fit chains before driving the 25 km to Sigüenza for supplies. If you book a winter break, pack the same layers you would for a Peak District hike—nights drop to –5 °C and heating is paid for by the propane canister.

Walking the Invisible Network

There are no way-marked trails, which is precisely the point. Download the free IGN Spain 1:25,000 map, screenshot the relevant square—phone signal dies on the northern ridge—and head west past the last cottage. Within ten minutes tarmac turns to a dusty camino between stone walls built to stop 19th-century livestock wandering. Follow it for 4 km and you reach the abandoned hamlet of Yélamos de Abajo: roofless, goat-grazed, but with a stone bread oven still intact. Sit on its threshold and the only mechanical noise is the faint buzz of a tractor on a distant hill, operator invisible like an ant on a tablecloth.

Serious walkers can stitch together a 17 km loop south-east to Salmerón, returning along the sheep track that hugs the Arroyo de Valdehierro. Gradient is gentle, but carry two litres of water per person—there are no taps, and the summer sun is deceptively strong. Birders should pause every time the path tops a rise: kestrels hang in the updraft, and if you spot a black-shouldered shape gliding with v-shaped fingers, that is a griffon vulture dispatched from the nearby Sierra de Pela.

Where to Lay Your Head and Fill Your Cool-box

Accommodation is self-catering or nothing. Casa Rural María sleeps six, has beams dark as ox-heart, and leaves a bottle of local tempranillo plus a loaf of village bread on the table. Cost is €90 a night for the house; bring coffee—shops open too late for early risers. Larger groups rent Casa Rural La Posada de Yélamos up the lane: roof terrace gives 360-degree sunset, handy when the Perseid meteor shower streaks across the August sky.

The village shop (Calle Real 14, ring the bell) stocks UHT milk, tinned tomatoes and the regional honey that tastes of rosemary and thyme. For anything fresh you need wheels: Tuesday and Friday is market day in Sigüenza—25 minutes by car—where stalls sell Manchego at €14 a kilo and skin-on almonds at €5. The nearest supermarket consuming British bank cards without a hiccup is Mercadona on the Sigüenza ring road; insert “Sigüenza 19007” in the sat-nav.

Eating out means driving. Casa Gerardo in Salmerón does a €12 menú del día—soup, entrecôte, chips and a half-bottle of wine—served by waiters who treat foreigners like long-lost cousins. Closer, the venta beside the CM-110 crossroads grills excellent cordero, but phone first; if no one answers they have probably gone to the fields. Back in the village, your kitchen is it: plan a one-pot meal, open the shutters and dine to the sound of swifts switching roosts.

Day-Trips for When the Horizon Starts to Repeat

Sigüenza’s medieval castle, now a parador, is 25 minutes south. British visitors rate the audio-guide (€5) for its dry humour about bishops turned wartime jailers. Thirty-five minutes north-east, the hilltop fortress of Atienza looms like something from a border-reivers’ ballad; climb the keep at dusk and the plain stretches so far you swear you can see tomorrow.

If you need a city hit, Guadalajara is 50 minutes away. The Infantado Palace façade drips late-Gothic carving that would suit a Yorkshire church, while the indoor market sells saffron at half London prices—perfect, legal, hand-luggage-friendly presents.

The Quiet Arithmetic of a Weekend

Fly Stansted to Madrid on the early Ryanair; collect a hire car by 11:00 and you can be uncorking María’s welcome wine by 13:30. Three nights gives two full days: one for a 12 km hike and an evening in Sigüenza’s cathedral, another for the castle at Atienza and a picnic among almond trees. Fuel the car before leaving the airport—villages have no garages—and download an offline playlist; once the sun sets, Wi-Fi slows to a nostalgic crawl.

Leave on Monday before 10:00 and you hit Madrid in time for a late lunch and the 16:00 flight home. Total spend for two sharing a house: under £250 including car, wine and cheese, excluding flights. That is cheaper than a rainy weekend in Devon—and the sun nearly always shines.

The Catch

Do not come seeking nightlife, boutique shops, or someone to make your flat white. When the weekenders depart on Sunday evening, the village reverts to its elemental maths: eighty-four people, one bar that may open, zero taxis. If the thought of hearing your own pulse in the dark unsettles you, stay in Sigüenza and visit on a day-trip instead.

For everyone else, Yélamos de Arriba offers the rare gift of volume control. Stand on the track at sunrise, watch the mist pool in the valley like milk in a bowl, and you will understand why some villagers turned down Madrid salaries to return. They traded decibels for distance, and traffic for thyme-scented wind. Spend a couple of days here and you might start calculating the same equation.