Humanes

The grain silo appears first, a concrete cylinder rising from wheat stubble like a misplaced lighthouse. Then the tower of San Pedro Apóstol cuts the horizon, and you realise the entire village of Humanes is balanced on a ridge 746 metres above sea level, surveying a ocean of cereal fields that roll eastwards towards Guadalajara. At this altitude the air thins just enough to make the sky feel larger, the clouds closer, and the midday sun sharp enough to slice shadows clean across the Plaza Mayor.

A Ridge Above the Plain

Humanes doesn’t shout. Its 1,724 inhabitants live in low houses the colour of baked biscuits, walls patched with mampostería—rough chunks of local stone held together by centuries of repointing. Narrow streets tilt gently towards the church, following the spine of the hill rather than any grand urban plan. There are no souvenir shops, no multilingual menus propped on easels, and the nearest cash machine is twelve kilometres away in Sigüenza. What you get instead is the sound of grain trucks grumbling through at dawn, the smell of wood smoke from someone’s kitchen around eleven, and a horizon that keeps sliding further back as your eyes adjust to the scale of La Campiña.

The altitude matters. Mornings can start at 4 °C even in late April, while August lunches demand shade and a slow hand with the wine—the altitude does nothing to blunt the Castilian sun. Winter brings proper frost; roads in and out were gritted only twice last January, and locals still talk about the 2021 storm that cut power for three days. If you’re driving from Madrid (1 h 45 min on the A-2 and CM-1006), pack a jacket whatever the season, and fill the tank at Azuqueca; the village petrol station opens when the owner feels like it.

Stone, Storks and the Smell of Roast Lamb

San Pedro Apóstol anchors the western edge. The church is a patchwork: a fifteenth-century base, baroque tower added after lightning split the first one, neoclassical portal grafted on when the town could finally afford stone freighted from quarries near Zaragoza. Inside, the altarpiece still bears traces of the original azulejo blue, though candle soot has blackened the evangelists’ faces. Drop a euro in the box and the sacristan will switch on the lights for five minutes—long enough to notice that the pulpit is carved with wheat sheaves rather than the usual grapes, a reminder that bread, not wine, pays the bills here.

Walk the perimeter and you’ll spot stork nests balanced on telegraph poles, the birds clacking like faulty semaphore. Some nests weigh over 200 kg; the council reinforces the poles rather than risk eviction proceedings. Beneath them, elderly men in berets sit on stone benches arguing about rainfall records. The conversation stops when the mobile pork van arrives—Thursday and Saturday—its loudspeaker blaring “¡Jamón a diez euros el kilo!” Housewives emerge, aprons still on, and the queue becomes an impromptu parliament.

Lunch options are limited. Bar Carmen opens at seven for coffee and churros, shutters at three, reopens for evening tapas if her grandson feels like cooking. The menu changes according to what the hunters bring in: partridge stew in autumn, migas—fried breadcrumbs streaked with garlic and chorizo—when the bread is stale. A plate costs €8, wine included, served in a glass etched with the logo of a long-defunct fertiliser brand. If you want vegetarian, ask for “gachas” made with flour and water; it arrives bright yellow from sweet paprika and tastes better than it sounds.

Walking Without Waymarks

Humanes ignores the Spanish obsession for signposted routes. Instead, farm tracks radiate into the wheat like spokes, used by tractors rather than hikers. Pick any track before eight and you’ll have it to yourself, save for the occasional perky spaniel trotting home with a dead partridge. After twenty minutes the village sinks behind the ridge and the only vertical feature is the derelict pigeon loft on the next hill—square, windowless, built to house squabs for the bishop’s table three centuries ago.

Spring walks deliver green wheat squeaking under your boots and larks dropping vertical songs. By late June the same fields bleach to blond, cicadas drown out conversation, and shade becomes currency. Carry two litres of water; there are no fountains once you leave the streets. A circular trudge south to the abandoned hamlet of Palazuelos takes two hours, returns via a sunken lane where wild fennel grows taller than your head. Mobile coverage dies halfway, so download offline maps or, radical thought, remember how to read field patterns.

Cyclists find the terrain gently deceptive: long false flats where the road looks level yet the effort spikes. Road bikes work fine; gravel bikes are overkill. Drivers are courteous, largely because they’re related to half the village and know your rental plates will be noted.

When the Village Returns to Itself

The feast of San Pedro, last weekend of June, is Humanes at its most extrovert. The population doubles as offspring return from Madrid, Barcelona, even Manchester. A soundstage appears opposite the church, brass bands play pasodobles until two, and the young drink mixed spirits in plastic cups shaped like medieval goblets—€3 a shot, proceeds fund next year’s fireworks. Sunday’s procession is serious: the statue of Saint Peter, wood darkened by candle smoke, is carried round the plazas while women in black lace shuffle behind reciting rosaries. By Tuesday the stage is gone, the square hosed clean, and the village exhales back into ordinary time.

August brings a low-key verbeneta: open-air cinema of Spanish comedies dubbed in the eighties, a paella for 200 cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish. Tickets sell out at the bar; you add your name to a paper list taped between the coffee machine and the jamón leg. Turn up late and you’ll eat standing, but you’ll still be fed.

Outside these dates Humanes belongs to its own again. Shops shut from two to five, dogs sleep in the middle of the road, and the evening paseo consists of six pensioners, one pushchair and a teenager scrolling TikTok against a 500-year-old wall. It isn’t sleepy, just certain of its rhythms.

Practicalities Without a Brochure

Accommodation is thin. Casa Rural La Torreta has three rooms above the old bakery—beamed ceilings, wifi that copes with email but buckles at Netflix, €60 a night including eggs from the neighbour’s hens. Book by WhatsApp: the owner, Concha, answers after the morning soap opera. The nearest hotel with a reception desk is in Sigüenza, twenty minutes down the GU-112; last orders in the restaurant there is 22:00 sharp.

Public transport is theoretical. A weekday bus leaves Guadalajara at 06:45, returns at 14:00; miss it and you’re hitchhiking. Car hire from Madrid Airport is painless, but remember the speed cameras on the A-2—€100 fine, no discount for tourists. Petrol in the village is usually two cents cheaper than the motorway services, when it’s available.

Bring cash. The bakery card machine fails during storms, and the Saturday market stall selling local cheese—manchego curado at €14 a kilo—operates from a tin box. English is not spoken; a greeting of “Buenas, ¿qué tal?” earns warmer service than perfect subjunctives.

Come in late April for green wheat and baby storks, or mid-October when the stubble smoulders after harvest and the air smells of straw wine. Summer works if you can handle 35 °C by noon; winter is bright, sharp and empty. Whatever the month, climb the rough track behind the cemetery at sunset. The village lamps flick on one by one, the plain falls away, and for a moment you understand why Castilians talk to the sky: up here, it is the only neighbour that never moves away.