Las Pedroñeras

The morning lorry from Valencia arrives at 09:37 and unloads 1,200 kilos of purple garlic onto the pavement outside the cooperative. No one looks up. In Las Pedroneras the sight is as ordinary as a postman in Tunbridge Wells. What is less ordinary is the altitude: the village sits 745 m above the surrounding plain, high enough for the air to feel thin and for night-time temperatures in March to dip below zero. Bring a fleece, even when the thermometer in Cuenca, 70 km away, claims 22 °C.

A main street that smells of damp soil and diesel

Calle Generalísimo Franco – still called that on the local maps – runs for 800 m between two stone lions and a roundabout with a three-metre fibreglass garlic bulb. The houses are low, whitewashed and set back behind wrought-iron rails painted municipal green. Nothing is taller than the parish church tower, which means the sky occupies three-quarters of every view. The smell changes with the wind: diesel from the tractors, thyme from the surrounding steppe, and, after rain, the metallic scent of clay that the locals call “tierra brava”.

Shops open at 07:00, close at 14:00, and stay shut until 17:30. Forget the idea of a “quick sandwich”; the bar that does filled baguettes locks the door like everywhere else. Plan lunch before two o’clock or be prepared to wait until the kitchens fire up again at 20:30. The only exception is the small Dia supermarket on the edge of town, useful for emergency biscuits and semi-skimmed milk that tastes of UHT no matter how long you shake the carton.

Purple garlic with a passport

Las Pedroneras produces 40 % of Spain’s purple garlic and has the EU’s Indicación Geográfica Protegida to prove it. The Museo del Ajo, two rooms behind the tourist office, explains why the cloves grow sharper at altitude: colder nights stress the plant, concentrating the alliin. Entrance is free, though the curator will press a donation box into your hand and tell you, in rapid Castilian, that British chefs never buy the right variety. She is probably right: most UK supermarkets stock Chinese bulbs that cost half the price and sprout green shoots within a week.

From late June the drying fields on the western approach look like red-tiled courtyards. Ristras – plaits of 100 bulbs – hang from wooden racks and turn the colour of Burgundy as they cure. Stop and photograph them and someone will appear from a shed to sell you a plait for €6. They weigh 2 kg, last a year, and customs at Stansted will wave you through if you declare them as “garlic for personal use”. Just don’t forget to pack the suitcase in the boot first; the smell seeps through canvas and has ruined many a duty-free cigarette.

Where to eat without ending up in a food coma

Regional cooking here is built for people who spend eight hours behind a plough. Portions are large, salt is liberal, and the default answer to “How many cloves?” is “All of them.” Start with sopa de ajo, a paprika-red broth with poached egg and shards of yesterday’s bread; it tastes lighter than it sounds and costs €3.50 at Bar Central on the plaza. Follow with ternasco de cordero – milk-fed lamb roasted in a wood-fired oven – but ask for two forks; half a kilo arrives whether you want it or not. Vegetarians get a raw deal: the single menu sin carne is scrambled eggs with garlic shoots, served with the same reverence as a Michelin star plate.

Wine is local and cheap. A glass of Manchegan tempranillo sets you back €1.80 and tastes of black cherry and aluminium. Resist the temptation to switch to beer; the village only stocks one lager, and it comes in 330 ml bottles that warm up before you reach the bottom.

Flat roads, sharp wind

The landscape around Las Pedroneras is table-top flat, broken only by the occasional limestone outcrop and ranks of pylons marching towards Valencia. Cyclists love it: the CM-412 ring road has a metre-wide shoulder and drivers move over. Download the 42 km circuit to El Pedernoso and back; you’ll pass three villages, two ruined farmhouses and one petrol station that sells cola for 80 c a can. Walkers should wait for April or October; summer heat tops 38 °C and there is no shade. In winter the steppe wind cuts through Goretex and can drop the chill to –5 °C overnight. The ayuntamiento has printed a leaflet of short loops (3–8 km) but do not expect waymarks; navigation is by telegraph pole and faith.

A room for the night – but only just

Hostal-Restaurante El Bomba owns the monopoly on beds. Eight rooms above the dining room, tiled floors, television the size of a postage stamp, bathroom with a curtain-less shower. It is clean, quiet and costs €55 for a double including breakfast (powdered chocolate, churros from a packet, coffee that could remove paint). August fills with Spanish cousins visiting cousins; book a month ahead or you will be driving 25 km to San Clemente at midnight. The alternative is Hospedería El Jardín de la Abadía in El Provencio, an 18-minute drive across wheat fields. The convent-turned-hotel has thicker walls, a pool and rates from €90, but you lose the dawn chorus of tractors and the smell of garlic drifting through an open window.

When to come – and when to stay away

Late April brings wild thyme and temperatures in the low twenties; the village is half asleep and hotel rooms are €10 cheaper. Mid-July is harvest season: photogenic but noisy, and every pavement is blocked by wooden crates. August is unbearably hot; even the dogs lie in the gutter and refuse to move. November sees the Fiesta de la Matanza – whole-day pig killings, blood pudding stirred in tin baths, free samples of fresh morcilla. British visitors are welcomed, stared at, and plied with anisette. If you do not eat pork, stay away; refusing the offer is viewed as a diplomatic incident.

Leave before siesta ends and you will meet the lorry again, heading back to Valencia with 1,200 empty crates. The driver will hoot, the stone lions will still be there, and the garlic monument will catch the late sun like an oversized football. Las Pedroneras will not change your life, but you will never look at a supermarket bulb in quite the same way.