Horcajo de Santiago

The church tower of San Bartolomé appears long before the village itself, rising from the plain like a ship's mast on a golden sea. At 762 metres above sea level, Horcajo de Santiago sits exposed to weather that arrives with nothing to slow it down for a hundred kilometres in any direction. This is farming country at its most elemental: wheat, wind, and wide horizons that make the sky feel larger than it has any right to be.

The Lay of the Land

Seventy kilometres south-east of Cuenca, where the CM-220 meets the N-400, the road climbs gently onto the meseta. Suddenly the Mediterranean olive groves give way to cereal fields that stretch to every compass point. Horcajo isn't picturesque in the postcard sense – the houses are practical, rendered white to throw back the summer heat, with roofs pitched just enough to shed winter rain. What it offers instead is completeness: a working Manchego town that hasn't tidied itself up for visitors because, frankly, there aren't many.

The municipality's 3,500 inhabitants live scattered between the village core and a handful of hamlets linked by farm tracks. These tracks, mapped only on the most detailed Spanish military surveys, are what make the area worth exploring. They follow the old drove roads – cañadas – that once moved sheep between summer and winter pasture. Today they're ideal for cycling: dead-straight, almost flat, and surfaced with compacted clay that stays firm even after rain. A circuit east to Huerta de la Obispalía and back is 24 km; allow two hours with the prevailing westerly behind you on the return leg.

What You'll Actually Find

The parish church dominates the irregular plaza mayor, its tower rebuilt in 1892 after lightning split the original Baroque spire. Inside, the nave is unexpectedly wide for a town this size – a reminder that Horcajo once administered lands stretching to the neighbouring province of Toledo. The altarpiece is nineteenth-century Neo-Classical, gilded with bronze powder rather than gold leaf, giving it a muted glow that photography can't capture. Visit at 11:00 on a Sunday and you'll catch the choir loft in use: the organ is small but perfectly in tune, maintained by a retired Madrid conservatoire professor who retired here for the silence.

Behind the church, Calle de la Villa narrows to barely two metres. This is where the medieval wall once ran; you can still see beam slots in the stone where houses were built right into the defences. Number 14 has a Renaissance doorway worth noticing – the granite arch is original, though the 1980s aluminium door rather spoils the effect. No one will mind if you stand and look: locals are used to photographers wandering, though they'll assume you're lost.

Eating on Manchego Time

Horcajo eats early by Spanish standards, which means late by British ones. Lunch service starts at 13:30 and finishes dead on 15:30 when the kitchen closes for siesta. Bar El Pósito, on the corner of the plaza, does a fixed-price menú del día for €12 that includes a carafe of La Mancha wine robust enough to strip paint. The pisto manchego here arrives with a fried egg sliding off the side – think ratatouille but reduced until the vegetables surrender. If you need something familiar, the caldereta de cordero is essentially Irish stew seasoned with smoked paprika; order it with "pan de pueblo", a crusty loaf that costs €1.80 and could double as a doorstop.

Evening eating doesn't begin until 20:30 at the earliest. Most visitors aren't aware that the village has no cash machine – the nearest is eight kilometres away in Huerta de la Obispalía, and it charges €2 per withdrawal. Stock up in Cuenca before you arrive, or you'll be that tourist paying for coffee with a fifty.

Windmills Without the Crowds

Five kilometres north-west, a paved lane climbs onto the Sierra de Horcajo. Here stand six windmills that pre-date Cervantes by two centuries, though only three retain their sails. They were grain mills, not the giant-killing variety, and their stone still bears the grooves where millstones were dressed. The ridge drops away sharply to the south, giving views across the cereal plain that turn amber in late June and silver-green after October rains. British photographers rate this spot higher than crowded Consuegra: you get the same silhouette shots without coaches in the background, and the low sun picks out every furrow. Bring a tripod – the wind can gust to 50 km/h even in May, making hand-held shots blurry.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April and May are the sweet months: temperatures hover around 20 °C, the wheat is green, and the stone curlews that winter in Africa return to nest in the fallow fields. September offers similar weather plus the added drama of harvesters working under floodlights after dark. July and August are brutal: 35 °C by noon, shade scarce, and the village's only hotel – Casa Rural La Torre, six rooms above a bakery – lacks air-conditioning. Winter brings its own problems: nights drop to –5 °C, and while the roads are gritted, the farm tracks turn to gumbo that will coat your hire-car in ochre clay.

The Practical Bits

Driving is straightforward: leave the A-40 at Tarancón, follow the CM-220 through rolling olive country, then turn right at the wind turbine farm – you can't miss them, they're three times taller than Horcajo's historic mills. The journey from Madrid takes 90 minutes on a quiet day, two hours if you catch the truck traffic at Tarancón. Public transport exists but tests patience: one bus daily from Cuenca at 07:15, returning at 14:00, which gives you just enough time for lunch and a circuit of the church before you're stranded.

Sunday lunch is the social event of the week. If you want to eat, telephone ahead – Bar Mirador keeps one table free for regulars, and they won't relinquish it for tourists who wander in at 14:00 expecting service. The same rule applies during fiestas: the weekend nearest 24 August brings San Bartolomé celebrations, when the population doubles with returning families. Accommodation books up six months ahead; if you haven't reserved, plan to stay in Cuenca and drive over for the morning procession.

Horcajo de Santiago doesn't offer Instagram moments or souvenir shops. What it does give is a calibrated sense of scale: human settlement measured against vast sky, food priced for farm wages, and silence so complete you can hear wheat husks scraping against each other in the breeze. Come prepared for that honesty, and the village meets you halfway. Arrive expecting rustic charm, and the wind will whip your expectations clean away.