Hontanaya

The church bell strikes noon and the village simply stops. Shop shutters rattle down, the bakery's lights click off, and the single café on Plaza Mayor empties as if someone has thrown a switch. By 12:15 the only movement is a elderly man wheeling his bicycle across the dusty square, tyres squeaking, while a pair of storks circle high above the 16th-century tower. This is Hontanaya at siesta time: 256 residents, 800 metres above sea level, and absolutely no rush.

A Plain That Won't Let You Rush

Perspective changes out here. The CU-V-901 unrolls like a grey ribbon across cereal fields that stretch so far the curvature of the earth feels visible. Wheat, barley and saffron alternate in neat rectangles until, suddenly, the village appears – a cluster of whitewashed cubes huddled around the sandstone church of San Juan Bautista. There is no gentle approach; the road spears straight into the centre, deposits you beside the stone cross that serves as both war memorial and evening meeting point, then carries on towards the next identical horizon.

Park anywhere; traffic wardens don't exist. The entire urban core is four streets by three, takes eighteen minutes to circumnavigate at photographic pace, and smells of bread, wood-smoke and warm stone. Houses are low, one or two storeys, painted the colour of fresh yoghurt. Many still have the original wooden doors wide enough for a mule cart, studded with iron nails the size of teacups. Peek through an open portal and you'll see the classic Manchego layout: narrow entrance passage giving onto an open patio where a fig tree provides the only shade for miles.

What Passes for Sightseeing

San Juan Bautista won't make the cover of any art-history survey. Its tower is square, sturdy, patched with brick where stone grew scarce. Inside, the nave is cool and echoing; a single bulb dangles above the altar like a lonely planet. Yet stand here at 19:30 on a summer evening when the west door is wedged open and sunlight slants through incense smoke onto the lime-washed walls – the effect is pure Spanish theatre, admission free.

The real gallery is the streets themselves. House numbers jump about because they were allocated chronologically as each dwelling was finished. Number 14 sits beside 87; 42 vanished decades ago when its roof collapsed in a storm and the debris was simply swept into the courtyard. Look for the ceramic tiles beside certain doors showing a hand pouring water into a basin – these mark the homes of the aguadores, the water-carriers who once hauled barrels up from the well by the cemetery before the mains arrived in 1978.

Ten minutes west of the plaza the tarmac gives way to a farm track. Follow it another five and the village shrinks to a white wafer on the skyline while you stand in a bowl of sky. To the north the land ripples very slightly where the Iberian mountain system begins its march towards Valencia; every other direction is flat until the curve of the earth intervenes. Skylarks rise and fall like sparks. Bring water – there is no bar, no bench, no interpretation board, just the wind combing the wheat.

Eating (and Stocking Up)

The bakery opens at seven, sells out of bizcochos by nine. These anise-scented buns taste like hot cross buns without the spice; locals dunk them in black coffee while standing at the counter. The owner, Mari-Carmen, will wrap yesterday's bread in newspaper and charge twenty cents a loaf – perfect for picnic sandwiches.

For anything more elaborate you need to have planned ahead. The village Coviran is the size of a London corner shop squeezed into a single railway carriage; shelves carry tinned tuna, UHT milk, tetrabrik wine and little else. Serious provisions require a 25-kilometre run to Mota del Cuervo where a Mercadona sits beside the A-3. If self-catering, stock up before you arrive; if not, reserve dinner at the only bar (Mesón la Plaza) before midday – they buy meat once and when it's gone, menus simply stop.

What you can buy on the spot is cheese. The queso manchego curado sold from the fridge behind the counter is made twelve kilometres away with milk from a flock of 300 manchega sheep. A half-kilo wedge costs €8, tastes gently nutty, and will perfume the car for the remainder of your journey. Pair it with the local honey – rosemary blossom, sold in un-labelled jam jars on the bakery counter – and a bottle of cencibel from the co-op in Villanueva de la Jara; total outlay under €20, picnic of the year guaranteed.

Why You Might Leave Disappointed

Hontanaya does not do entertainment. There is no museum, no interpretive centre, no Saturday craft market. The single cash machine vanished when the bank branch closed in 2013; if the bar's card reader is down (storms knock out the mast weekly) you will need euro notes. Mobile coverage is patchy inside stone houses – WhatsApp addicts should position themselves in the plaza's north-east corner where line-of-sight to the Cuenca mast is unobstructed.

Summer brings furnace heat. By 14:00 the tar softens; by 16:00 the air shimmers. Walking the surrounding tracks is possible only at dawn or dusk, and even then the landscape offers zero shade. Conversely, winter can be brutal: at 800 m the meseta collects Siberian winds that whistle across the plain, driving temperature down to –8 °C. Snow is rare but frost is not; if visiting between December and February pack the same layers you'd take to the Brecon Beacons.

When the Village Decides to Celebrate

Visit during the August fiestas and the quiet spell breaks. The population triples as ex-Emigrants return from Madrid, Barcelona, even Munich. Brass bands parade at 03:00, fireworks ricochet between the walls, and the plaza hosts a makeshift bar under fairy-lights where tinto de verano flows until the crates run dry. It's fun, but beds within a 40-kilometre radius disappear months in advance. Book early or time your escape for the final weekend when locals are too exhausted to keep the noise past midnight.

Easter is calmer: one procession on Maundy Thursday, candles in paper bags lining the streets, women wearing the traditional black lace mantilla. Even if religious pageantry leaves you cold, the sight of the whole village walking in silence behind a silver-cross bearer while the wind rattles the poplar trees is haunting enough to slow your own stride.

Getting Here, Leaving Again

Fly Stansted to Madrid, collect a hire car, head south-east on the A-3 for 140 km, peel off at Motilla del Palancar, follow the N-320 then the CU-V-901 for another 38 km. Total journey time from terminal to plaza: two hours fifteen, assuming you don't stop for the windmill ridge at Mota del Cuervo (you will – everyone does). There is no bus, no railway spur, no Uber. Taxis from Cuenca cost €90 and the driver will expect a coffee break halfway.

Leave early for the return flight; morning fog can close the motorway without warning. As you pull away the church bell will probably be striking again, the storks still circling, the plain opening behind you like a book slammed shut. Hontanaya doesn't mind visitors, but it refuses to hurry for them – and in an age of timed entry slots and queue-jump passes, that obstinate rhythm may be the rarest sight of all.