Campo de Criptana

The first thing that hits you is the altitude. At 707 metres, Campo de Criptana sits high enough on the La Mancha plateau that even in May you'll want that jacket you left in the boot. The air thins slightly, sharpening the light that turns the white-washed houses blindingly bright against the cobalt doors and window frames. Then you see them—ten windmills strung along the ridge like sentinels, their sails motionless but somehow expectant against the endless Spanish sky.

The Giants on the Ridge

These aren't the sanitised windmills you'll find at more tourist-trodden spots further south. Three of them—Burleta, Infanto and Sardinero—date from the 16th century and still contain their original wooden gearing. Turn up on the first Sunday of any month between October and June and you'll catch the "molienda de la paz," when volunteers actually grind grain using nothing but wind power. The flour's bagged up and sold for a euro or two; buy some, if only for the novelty of bread made from wind.

Each mill has a name and a personality. Culebro houses a tiny museum dedicated to Sara Montiel, the village's most famous daughter and Spain's first international film star. Inside, her sequinned gowns seem almost alien against the rough stone walls, but that's Campo de Criptana all over—comfortable with contradictions. The Pilar mill still smells of toasted grain; stand inside the cap (the bit that turns) and you can feel the whole structure shift slightly when the wind catches.

The ridge walk takes ninety minutes at a stroll, less if you're just after the Instagram shot. But that would be missing the point. Sit on the low stone wall as the sun drops, and you'll understand why British visitors on TripAdvisor keep using words like "spectacular" and "uncrowded." The plateau stretches flat as a table-top to every horizon, interrupted only by the occasional olive grove and the distant purple smudge of the Montes de Toledo. When the wind picks up, you can hear the sails creak even when they're locked in position—a sound that's been echoing across this ridge for four centuries.

Below the Ridge

The old town tumbles down the hillside in a maze of alleyways barely wide enough for a Seat Ibiza. Houses here aren't just white—they're carved into the limestone itself, cave dwellings that stay a constant 18 degrees year-round. Some have been converted into micro-museums where you can peer into recreated 19th-century kitchens, complete with soot-blackened pots and the sort of implements that would have Health & Safety reaching for their clipboards.

The 16th-century Pósito Real dominates the main square, its stone walls thick enough to keep grain cool through La Mancha's ferocious summers. These days it hosts temporary exhibitions—recently, a surprisingly compelling display on traditional cheese-making that ended with generous samples. The adjoining Convento de las Carmelitas Descalzas is more restrained, its cloisters silent except for the slap of sandals on stone. Knock on the door during opening hours (mornings only) and a nun will sell you biscuits made to a recipe unchanged since 1630. They're almond-shortbread affairs, wrapped in plain paper, costing three euros a packet. No card payments, naturally.

What to Eat When You're 700 Metres Up

The altitude does something to appetite. Maybe it's the thin air, maybe the walking, but food tastes better here. Gazpacho manchego arrives as a proper stew—rabbit and flat-bread in a paprika-heavy broth, nothing like the cold tomato soup Brits expect. Migas, fried breadcrumbs studded with bacon and grapes, tastes oddly familiar; one UK blogger wasn't wrong when she compared it to savoury Christmas pudding.

Pisto manchego works for vegetarians—essentially Spanish ratatouille but with more depth, the vegetables cooked down until they melt into each other. Pair it with a local rosado; the young rosés from DO La Mancha are light enough for lunch but stand up to the region's robust flavours. If you're driving, the 0.5% beers actually taste of something—a pleasant change from the watery versions served further north.

Restaurant choices are limited but solid. Casa Cándido on Calle Cristo does the best value menú del día—three courses with wine for €14. The roast suckling lamb falls off the bone, served with potatoes roasted in the same wood-fired oven. Book ahead at weekends; Spanish families drive in from Ciudad Real and tables fill fast.

Getting There, Staying There

Here's the rub: Campo de Criptana isn't on the way to anywhere much. The AVE station sits six kilometres outside town with no regular bus service—taxi costs €12 each way, assuming you can find one. You really need a car, which makes it perfect as a halfway stop between Madrid and Granada. From the capital, it's 90 minutes down the A-4; break the journey here and you'll arrive in Andalucía properly fed and surprisingly refreshed.

Parking's straightforward. Ignore the sat-nav's attempts to thread you through the medieval streets. Head for the free car park signed "Parque de los Molinos" on Calle Sierra de los Molinos—flat, tarmac, and usually half-empty. From there it's a ten-minute walk uphill to the mills; wear trainers, not flip-flops. The cobbles are lethal when dry, worse after rain.

Accommodation runs to a handful of small hotels and casa rurales. The Molino de los Podios occupies a converted mill on the ridge—rooms from €65, breakfast included, and you'll wake to views across five provinces. Cheaper options cluster around the main square; Hostal Cervantes does clean doubles for €45, though weekends add €15 and August is hopeless unless you booked in January.

When to Go, When to Avoid

Spring and autumn deliver the goods—mild days, cool nights, and wind that's bracing rather than brutal. Summer brings fierce heat; even at this height, temperatures hit 35 degrees by noon. The mills offer precious little shade, and that wind feels like someone's pointing a hairdryer at you. Winter's crisp and often empty, but check the forecast—when snow comes to La Mancha, it comes fast, and those ridge roads turn treacherous.

Fiestas transform the place. February's Carnaval features locals in elaborate costumes that would shame Rio; book accommodation months ahead. August's patronal fair fills every room within 20 kilometres but delivers proper Spanish chaos—fireworks at 3am, processions that block streets for hours, and bars serving until the last customer staggers home. October's Vendimia (harvest festival) strikes the best balance: enough atmosphere to feel authentic, not so crowded you can't move.

The Honest Truth

Campo de Criptana won't change your life. It's not undiscovered—Spanish school parties arrive daily—and if you're after boutique shopping or nightlife, keep driving. What it offers is something increasingly rare: a place that's famous for something specific that still functions as a real town. The woman sweeping her cave-house steps couldn't care less about your blog. The barman serving your coffee at 8am has been doing it since 1987 and sees no reason to switch to oat milk now.

Come here for the windmills, obviously. But stay for the sense of continuity, for views that stretch to the curvature of the earth, for food that doesn't bother with presentation because flavour's enough. Just bring that jacket. The windmills might not be tilting any more, but the weather certainly is.