Alcaudete de la Jara

The bakery opens at seven, but the bread isn’t ready until the baker hears the first hoopoe. That’s the unwritten rule in Alcaudete de la Jara, a hill-ringed village 140 km south-west of Madrid where human timetables still negotiate with nature. At 654 m above sea-level the nights stay cool even when the Meseta is frying, and the only traffic jam you're likely to meet is a shepherd moving 200 merino sheep between oak groves.

Dehesa Days and Pig-Proof Fences

Every road out of town dissolves into dehesa, the open woodland of holm and cork oak that gives western Toledo province its trademark grey-green tweed. The trees are spaced just wide enough for shade and acorns, not so close that a pig can’t wander through. From October to February those acorns become the sole diet of free-range ibérico pigs; the resulting ham retails in London for £90 a kilo, yet here you’ll eat it in a £2 tapa, cut with a penknife and served on a chipped plate. Walk the signed 7 km loop south-east towards Puerto de la Serrana and you’ll cross three cattle grids, two derelict stone huts and one information board that admits, with disarming honesty, “path may be indistinct after rain”. Indistinct it is, but the views stretch clear across to the Gredos peaks, snow-capped until late April.

Birders bring binoculars for booted and short-toed eagles; everyone else comes for the silence. Mid-week in March you can stand on the ruined Moorish watch-tower above the cemetery and hear nothing but bee-eaters overhead and the distant clank of a tractor that hasn’t yet learnt about AdBlue. Mobile reception is similarly retro: Vodafone drops to 3G in the main square, EE gives up entirely by the football pitch. Download your offline map before arrival or prepare to ask directions; locals are delighted to supply them, usually accompanied by a six-minute history of whichever field you happen to be pointing at.

Bars without Wi-Fi and Other Endangered Species

There are two bars, both on Calle Real. Neither advertises Wi-Fi; one still has a cigarette machine that accepts peseta-sized tokens left over from the 1990s. Order a caña before noon and you’ll get a free tapa of migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo—heavy enough to cancel lunch. The owner, Jesús, keeps a chalk list of who owes what; tourists are expected to settle up before leaving, regulars when the olives are harvested. If you need vegetarian food, ask for pisto manchego with a fried egg on top; the kitchen will swap chorizo for home-grown courgettes without raising an eyebrow.

The only shop selling anything resembling groceries is the Ultramarinos Cruz opposite the church. It opens 09:00-13:00, then again 17:30-20:30, unless María’s grandson has a football match. Stock is eclectic: tinned octopus, brillo pads, local honey, tractor fan belts. Card payments are refused under €10; the nearest ATM lives in the neighbouring village 12 km away and frequently runs dry on Saturday afternoon when hunters arrive for the montería. Bring cash or you’ll be washing dishes.

A Church with a Bell that Rings Twice for Brits

The parish church of San Andrés looks plain enough—stone, squat, no fancy spire—until you step inside and discover a sixteenth-century Flemish triptych looted, so they say, from a Spanish ship bound for Antwerp. The sacristan, Don Aurelio, will unlock the door if you ask in the bar; he speaks slow, careful English learnt while picking strawberries in Kent during the 1970s and delights in demonstrating the double-peal reserved for foreign visitors. Sunday Mass is at eleven; if you’re merely sightseeing, stay away between 10:55 and 11:40 unless you fancy being press-ganged into carrying the processional cross.

Outside, the stone benches around the tiny Plaza de España fill with old men in flat caps who discuss rainfall as if it were Premier League standings. Sit long enough and someone will produce a bottle of anís to lubricate the conversation; refuse politely if you’re driving—the stuff tastes like liquid liquorice and kicks like a mule.

Walking, Mushrooms and the £1 Map

Serious hikers drive on to the Gredos or the Cijara reservoir, but Alcaudete is perfect for half-day rambles that end in beer. Two waymarked paths start at the cemetery gate: the 4 km Ruta de las Encinas Centenarias and the 9 km Ruta del Agua, which follows a seasonal stream to an abandoned flour mill. Both are signed with painted dashes that would shame a British footpath association—white splodges on rocks, occasional tin cans nailed to trees—yet the routes are obvious and the leaflets cost €1 from the town hall. October brings wild mushrooms: níscalos (saffron milk-caps) and rebozuelos (orange trumpets) appear after the first rains. Picking is allowed provided you carry them in a wicker basket so spores can fall; plastic bags earn a lecture from the Guardia Civil and a €60 fine.

Summer, by contrast, is hot, still and loud with cicadas. Daytime temperatures nudge 36 °C; the village pool (free, opens 12:00-20:00, no lifeguard after 18:00) becomes the social hub. Arrive before 11:00 or the only spare patch of grass will be next to the overflowing bin. August fiestas feature foam parties in the square and a procession of the Virgin decked with carnations; British visitors are bemused to discover the bar shuts during the procession out of respect, reopening precisely when the band strikes up the paso doble.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

No train line comes within 60 km. The simplest route from the UK is Madrid-Barajas airport, then the A-5 motorway west to Navalmoral de la Mata (junction 108), followed by the EX-118 south for 35 km of empty, winding road. Petrol is 15 cents cheaper at the motorway services than in the village, so fill up before you turn off. Accommodation is limited to Hostal El Torreón (seven rooms, €45 double with breakfast, Wi-Fi that actually works). Weekends in hunting season book out; mid-week in February you’ll have the corridor to yourself. Alternative beds lie 20 minutes away in the historic parador of Oropesa if you fancy four-star comfort after a day of pig-tracking.

Leave time for a detour to the nearby walled village of Castillo de Bayuela, population 543, where storks nest on the Mudéjar tower and the bar still serves coffee in glass tumblers. Then head back to the motorway, Madrid, and the twenty-first century. Somewhere around Talavera de la Reina the phone signal returns, the bread tastes of plastic wrapping, and you realise Alcaudete de la Jara hasn’t so much been left behind as opted out—an arrangement that suits both the village and the occasional visitor lucky enough to discover it.