Castillo de Garcimuñoz

A Poet’s Shadow, a Plain of Bronze

Stand on the castle’s broken stairway at 915 metres and the plateau rolls away like a burnished shield. Wheat stubble flashes gold, vineyards stitch dark green seams across the clay, and the sky seems ironed flat. This is the view that framed Jorge Manrique’s imagination in 1476; little has changed except the traffic on the A-3, a faint silver thread thirty kilometres south. Castillo de Garcimuñoz has 128 residents, one bar, one food shop that still shutters for siesta, and a fortress that nobody bothered to finish restoring. Perfect, in other words, for travellers who prefer their history without an audio guide.

Inside the Walls: Stone, Scaffolding and Silence

The Castillo de los Marqueses de Villena is less a castle, more a stone crown placed on a hill. You enter through a modest wooden gate—no ticket, no turnstile, nobody selling plastic swords. Climb the corkscrew keep and you emerge onto a platform where contemporary-art scaffolding cradles the masonry. Purists mutter that the galvanised poles spoil the medieval mood; others admit the lattice throws beguiling shadows at midday. Either way, the 360-degree panorama is uncompromised: La Mancha spreads out until the haze swallows it, and the only sound is the wind worrying the tarpaulin.

Down in the grassy courtyard you’ll find arrow slits wide enough to frame photos, but no crenellations to lean over—health-and-safety has not reached Cuenca province. Trainers are advised; the stone staircases are polished to an ice-rink sheen by centuries of boots. Bring water; there is no café inside the walls and the nearest fountain is in the village square, five minutes downhill.

A Village that Closes for Lunch

The inhabited part of Garcimuñoz clusters south-east of the fortress. Streets are barely two cars wide, lined with whitewashed houses whose doors still carry the family name in faded blue tile. At 14:00 a church bell clangs, the bar owner stacks chairs on the pavement, and the place empties as if someone has sounded an air-raid siren. Plan accordingly: if you want a coffee, order before two; if you need groceries, the Ultramarinos stays shut until 17:00.

When the bar is open it does double duty as village noticeboard. British motor-homers park below the walls (free service point, grey-water drain, no height barrier) and swap tyre-pressure tips with Dutch couples while the television above the bar flickers through a bullfight rerun. Order a caña and you’ll be given a free tapa of migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo—filling enough to postpone lunch. The house red comes from Villarrobledo, twenty-five kilometres west; at €1.80 a glass it costs less than the bottled water.

What You Can (and Can’t) Eat

Gastronomy here is built for shepherds, not Instagram. Morteruelo, a pâté of hare, pork liver and spices, arrives sliced like cold polenta; spread it on bread and the flavour is gamey, almost medieval. Atascaburras mixes salt cod, potato and egg into a brick-sized mound—comfort food after a frosty night on the plateau. Vegetarians get pisto manchego, a mild ratatouille topped with a fried egg, plus the reassurance that local tomatoes actually taste of summer. Pudding is tarta de almendra, dense and sticky; ask for the village honey on the side and the barman will produce a jar labelled by his cousin.

Do not expect a tasting menu. The nearest restaurant is in Villamayor de Santiago, twelve minutes by car, where weekday lunch is a three-course menú del día for €12. If you’re staying Saturday night, book ahead—half of Cuenca province seems to drive over for the roast lamb.

Walking the Plain Without Getting Lost

Paths radiate from the castle like spokes, etched by tractors rather than hikers. A gentle circuit heads north along the Cañada Real Conquense, an ancient drove road still used by sheep heading to winter pasture. The going is level, the waymarks sporadic; download the track to your phone before you set out. In April the fields are emerald, poppies flicker red at the verge, and larks keep up a constant whistle. By July the earth is cracked like broken biscuits and shade is non-existent—hat, suncream and two litres of water are mandatory.

Serious walkers can link to the Ruta de Jorge Manrique, a 16-kilometre figure-of-eight that passes the poet’s presumed birthplace in Torre de Juan Abad. The trail is signposted but lonely; you’ll meet more threshers than trekkers. Cyclists appreciate the smooth tarmac looping through vineyards—hire bikes in San Clemente if you didn’t bring your own.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring and autumn give you warm days and knife-sharp evenings; the castle keep is the perfect sundowner spot. August fiestas swell the population six-fold—brass bands, processions, and a street market selling cheap sunglasses and churros. It’s fun if you like crowds, less so if you came for silence. Winter is bleak, beautiful and occasionally inaccessible; the CM-412 is cleared after snow but the secondary road from Belmonte can stay white for days. British tourers who winter south-bound often overnight in the motor-home bay, engines ticking over to keep the heating going.

One Hour North of the Motorway

Garcimuñoz sits 45 minutes east of Cuenca’s famous hanging houses, close enough to combine in a day but culturally decades apart. Leave the A-3 at Motilla del Palancar and follow the CM-412 for 27 km; the castle suddenly appears like a ship run aground on the wheat. There is no petrol station in the village—fill up in San Clemente before you turn off. Two buses a day leave Cuenca bus station at 07:45 and 16:30, returning at 08:15 and 17:00; miss them and you’re looking at a €60 taxi.

Expect to spend 60–90 minutes in the fortress, another hour wandering the streets and bodega caves. Photographers should return at sunset; climb the hill behind the cemetery and the keep glows rust-red against a violet sky. Then drive back to the motorway, or stay for the night, listen to the wind comb the grass, and decide whether 128 souls are enough company for you.