Azután

A Village that Forgets to Check the Time

The church bell in Azután strikes whenever the sacristan feels like winding the mechanism. It might be 9:15, it might be 10:30—nobody argues. At 329 metres above sea level, on a ridge that smells of resin and dry grass, the 290 villagers have better things to do than synchronise watches. They are busy feeding the wood-fired oven for Saturday’s bread, or arguing over whose turn it is to chase the loose pig that wanders the lanes every autumn when the acorns drop.

This is La Jara, the south-west corner of Toledo province, a triangle of oak and cork forest wedged between the A-5 motorway and the Portuguese border. The guidebooks call the region “undiscovered”; the locals call it “Tuesday”. British drivers thunder past on the way to Extremadura or Andalucía, unaware that a left turn at Oropesa drops them into a landscape that looks exactly like the sepia photographs sold in Madrid flea markets: rolling dehesa, stone huts, a horizon that never quite arrives.

What Passes for Architecture

San Bartolomé church squats at the top of the single paved hill, its bell-tower more functional than pretty, the stone patched so often that the original colour is anyone’s guess. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and the floor dips where centuries of boots have worn grooves. There is no audioguide, no gift shop, no roped-off aisle. If you want to see the sixteenth-century fresco of Saint Christopher, ask in the bar: the landlord keeps the key in an old tobacco tin and will lend it in exchange for a €1 coin or a polite sentence in Spanish.

The houses below are the same tawny ochre as the earth. Many still have the family pigpen attached to the kitchen wall; the animals were moved outside only when EU inspectors arrived in the 1990s and explained that salmonella was not a traditional seasoning. Satellite dishes bloom like metal mushrooms on every roof, yet the laundry strung between balconies is hand-washed, and the onions drying under the eaves will last until the first wild boar comes down from the Sierra de San Pedro looking for an easy supper.

Walking, Listening, Not Falling Over

Maps of Azután are optimistic. The footpath marked “PR-42” peters out after two kilometres in a field of thistles and discarded irrigation pipe. Better to start at the cement trough on the eastern edge of the village, follow the track that smells of wild rosemary, and keep the sun on your left. Within twenty minutes the only sounds are boot soles on flint and the distant clonk of a cowbell. Buzzards wheel overhead; if you are lucky, an imperial eagle cruises the thermals, wings white as a RAF roundel.

The reward for this minimalist navigation is a granite outcrop locals call “El Toro” because someone once thought the rock looked like a sleeping bull. From the top you can see three provinces: Toledo, Cáceres and Badajoz. In April the ground is a Pointillist canvas of crimson poppies and lavender; by July everything has been bleached to biscuit. Take water—there is no café, no fountain, and mobile reception vanishes with the first juniper bush.

Autumn brings mushroom pickers, baskets slung over tweed coats, eyes scanning for níscalos (saffron milk-caps) that fetch €18 a kilo in Toledo market. The rules are simple: never pick within twenty metres of the track, never admit how many you have found, and if you hear a shotgun it is not the season, it is the neighbour warning you off his secret patch.

Food that Apologises to No One

Lunch is served at 15:00 sharp in Bar La Parada, the only public dining room. The menu is written on a paper napkin and changes according to what the landlord’s cousin has shot. Perdiz estofada (partridge stew) arrives in a chipped bowl, two birds submerged in wine-dark gravy, the leg bones perfect for teasing out marrow. A plate of migas—fried breadcrumbs, garlic, chorizo and enough pig fat to worry a cardiologist—costs €6 and will keep you walking until dusk. Vegetarians get a tomato salad and an apology; vegans are advised to bring sandwiches.

If you are staying Saturday night, preorder cocido in a clay pot: chickpeas, morcilla, fatty pancetta, and a marrow bone the size of a cricket bat. The waitress will ask whether you want the broth first or everything together; either way you will be offered a second helping before you have finished the first. House wine comes from a plastic barrel and tastes of blackberries and aluminium. It is €1.20 a glass; the locals dilute it with lemonade and call it “tinto de verano”, even when the thermometer has dropped to 5 °C.

When the Village Decides to Party

The fiesta of San Bartolomé, 24 August, is the one date the calendar refuses to ignore. The population quadruples as emigrants return from Madrid, Barcelona, even Bradford. A sound system that could service Glastonbury is bolted to the church wall; teenage DJs play reggaeton until the priest cuts the power at 04:00. Next morning a brass band marches through the hangover, followed by a procession in which the saint’s statue is carried downhill so fast the bearers have to jog. Fireworks are let off at head height; health and safety consists of shouting “¡Agua!” if the rocket points towards the crowd.

January brings the lumbres de San Antón. Bonfires of vine prunings and old pallets light every street corner; the smoke smells of resin and pork fat because everyone throws their chicharrones (crackling) rinds into the flames. You are handed a clay cup of anise liqueur and expected to drink it while the plastic cap melts. The mayor insists it is “exactly the same ceremony as 200 years ago”, apart from the mobile phones recording the moment for WhatsApp.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

From London, fly to Madrid; the Ryanair fare is often under £40 if you remember to print your boarding pass. Pick up a hire car at Barajas—an economy hatchback is fine, ignore the upgrade pitch—and take the A-5 west for 90 minutes. Exit at Oropesa, follow the CM-410 south for 18 kilometres, then turn left at the sign that says “Azután 8 km” and half-believe it. The final road is single-track; if you meet a tractor, reverse uphill—the farmer will not.

There is no hotel. The ayuntamiento rents two village houses: thick walls, Wi-Fi that works when the wind blows from the east, kitchens equipped with a moka pot and a bottle of olive oil left by the last guests. Price is €45 a night for the two-bedroom house, payable in cash to the caretaker who lives opposite the petrol pump that has not sold fuel since 2003. Bring slippers—the stone floors are cold even in May—and earplugs because the neighbour’s cockerel thinks 05:30 is a lie-in.

Check-out is equally low-tech: leave the key on the table and pull the door until it clicks. The village will not wave you off; someone may nod, another may ask whether you saw the eagle. Drive back up the lane, join the motorway, and within forty minutes the radio picks up a traffic bulletin for London. The transition feels like changing television channels, except the scent of woodsmoke lingers on your coat for days, reminding you that somewhere between the A-5 and Portugal the twentieth century is still negotiable.