Yunquera de Henares

The church bell strikes midday and Yunquera de Henares answers with silence. At 693 m above sea-level the air is thinner than coastal Spain; sound travels farther, heat dissipates faster, and the cereal fields shimmer like a pale North Sea. Stand on the roof terrace of the only three-storey building—Casa Consistorial—and you can watch weather approaching half an hour before it arrives. That is the first thing that surprises visitors raised on Andalusian postcards: this is a working plateau town, not a whitewashed theatre set.

Most drivers shoot past on the CM-101, bound for the cheaper hotels of Guadalajara or the brighter lights of Madrid. Those who brake at exit 17 find a grid of earth-coloured houses, 4,429 inhabitants, and a high-street that still closes between two and five. Yunquera will never elbow its way onto a “Top Ten Spanish Villages” list; what it offers is the rhythm of an interior Spain that package tours skipped. The reward is a £45 double room, free parking, and a Saturday night where the loudest noise is dominoes slapped onto bar tables.

Stone, Adobe and Sunday Best

Parroquia de la Asunción dominates the skyline the way a parish church should: bulky, slightly asymmetric, repaired so often that the stone has three shades of grey. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; villagers leave prams by the south door so babies sleep through evening mass. The font is fifteenth-century, the confessional nineteenth, the LED strip lighting twenty-first—continuity delivered by piecemeal upgrades rather than heritage grants. Photography is allowed, but the verger switches the lights off if you linger too long; electricity is cheaper than sermons.

Radiating from the church are lanes just wide enough for a tractor with hay bales. Houses alternate between granite blocks (the older, pre-1800 core) and ochre adobe (nineteenth-century expansion). Many retain half-subterranean bodegas—cellars dug into the plateau clay to keep wine at 14 °C year-round. A few owners will unlock them during fiestas; the scent is of oak, earth and the sharp yeast of last year’s grapes. There is no tasting fee, just the expectation you will listen while the host explains why tempranillo prefers these altitudes.

British visitors sometimes arrive expecting a Málaga-style “pueblo blanco”. Yunquera de Henares is not that: façades are brick-red, sunflower-yellow, weather-beaten cream. Pretty, yes, but photogenic in the way a East Anglian market town is—handsome rather than dazzling, best appreciated in low autumn light when stone glows amber.

Walking the Plateau Without a Backpack

The terrain around the village is what travel writers politely call “undulating” and farmers call “flat enough for wheat”. A lattice of unsealed farm roads makes circular walks of 5–12 km possible without a map; the horizon is always the Sierra de Guadalajara to the north-east, so getting lost requires determination. Spring brings poppies between barley rows, September brings stubble dust that hangs like talcum in the air. Expect hares bigger than Brighton seagulls and red-legged partridges that sprint rather than fly.

Cyclists appreciate the same lanes: gradients rarely exceed 3 %, tarmac is optional, and traffic means one Land Rover every twenty minutes. The regional government has way-marked a 35-km loop south to Brihuega, but locals simply follow the cereal harvest; when the combine turns, so does the route.

Winter is a different proposition. At 693 m frosts can be sharp well into April, and the meseta wind has the same edge as the Norfolk broads. January’s fiestas de San Antón involve bonfires in the main square—welcome because night temperatures drop below –5 °C. If you want four-season walking boots and mulled wine, come then; if you want T-shirt evenings and lime-green wheat, choose late April.

What You Eat When Nobody is Watching

There are two restaurants, one mesón, three bars and a bakery that opens at six. Menus do not translate themselves; the waitress will explain that “migas” are fried breadcrumbs with pancetta, and that “chuletón” is a T-bone designed for two. Expect to pay €28 for the steak, €12 for a plate of migas, €2.20 for a glass of local tinto from Valdepeñas. Vegetarians can assemble a meal from roasted piquillo peppers, sheep’s cheese with honey, and the excellent house bread, but do not mention flexitarianism—meat is central and portions large.

British visitors accustomed to Rioja should try the house red: lighter, fruitier, half the price, and served at cellar temperature because the barman cannot be bothered to heat the dining room. Desserts are homemade; the custard-like “natillas” come dusted with cinnamon that reminds older travellers of school dinners in a good way. Coffee is always long and thin unless you specify “solo corto”; requesting a flat white produces polite confusion.

Shopping is less straightforward. The village supermarket closes at 14:00 and stocks little beyond tinned tuna and hen food. Arrive with supplies if you are self-catering, or drive 20 min to Guadalajara’s Carrefour. The Saturday morning market occupies eight stalls: socks, cheap melons, one knife-grinder, zero souvenirs. Bring cash—only the pharmacy and Bar Central accept cards without a minimum spend.

When the Town Lets its Hair Down

Fiestas patronales begin 12 August and run for five days. The population effectively doubles as cousins return from Madrid; blue-zone parking overflows and hotel rooms jump from €45 to €70. Events start with a firework that could double as artillery and continue with processions, outdoor concerts, and a foam party in the municipal pool—proof that Spanish teenagers find boredom anywhere. Foreign visitors are welcome but not catered to; programme leaflets are printed only in Spanish and stock runs out fast.

January’s San Antón is smaller: bonfires, sausage grilling, and a blessing of animals outside the church. Expect dogs, two donkeys, a tractor decorated with plastic flowers, and free chorizo sandwiches. Temperatures hover near freezing; gloves are advised unless you plan to stand inside the fire ring, which locals do with practiced ease.

If crowds feel intrusive, visit in late September for the vendimia (grape harvest). Nothing is officially organised; instead families invite neighbours to help strip vines behind their houses. You will come home purple-stained and invited to lunch—accept, because refusing is impossible and the food is better than any Michelin bib.

Getting There, Staying Sane

Madrid-Barajas to Yunquera takes 55 min on the A-2 if the capital’s ring road behaves; allow ninety minutes if your flight lands at 15:30 and commuter traffic is snarling. Car rental is advisable—public transport means an ALSA coach to Guadalajara and a taxi for the final 20 km at €35. Trains do not stop here and probably never will; the plateau is wide and populations too thin.

Accommodation is limited to two small hotels and a handful of rural casas. Parking is free on the street except during fiestas; reserve the locked garage (€5/day) if you value wing mirrors. Mobile reception is patchy inside stone walls; Wi-Fi runs at 10 Mbps on a good day—sufficient for email, useless for Zoom. Bring a coat between November and March; the altitude makes nights colder than Madrid, and central heating in older houses is still a novelty.

Last Orders

Yunquera de Henares will never compete with Segovia’s aqueduct or Toledo’s cathedrals. What it offers is a slice of Spain that package holidays replaced with costas: slow afternoons, affordable menus, and the knowledge that tomorrow will look much like today. Some travellers find that dull; others discover it is exactly what they needed once the camera battery died. Arrive with modest expectations and you may leave wondering why more villages did not choose reality over renovation.