Olivares de Júcar

The morning mist lifts slowly over Olivares de Júcar, revealing olive trees that stretch to the horizon like soldiers standing guard. At 850 metres above sea level, this Castilian village watches over La Mancha's endless plains from its commanding position, where the air carries the sharp scent of wild thyme and the silence is broken only by church bells and the occasional tractor.

The Spanish Midlands Most Britons Never See

Most visitors race past Cuenca on their way to Valencia's beaches, missing the turn-off that leads to this agricultural settlement of 294 permanent residents. The village sits 60 kilometres south-east of Cuenca city, reached via the CM-210 and CM-2117—roads so quiet you'll wonder if you've taken a wrong turn. The journey takes just under an hour, but feels longer when every bend reveals the same hypnotic pattern: wheat fields, olive groves, scattered farmhouses, repeat.

The altitude makes a difference. Summer mornings start fresh, even in July, though temperatures hit 35°C by midday. Winter brings proper cold—often below freezing from December through February—with sharp winds that sweep unobstructed across the meseta. Spring arrives late but spectacularly, transforming the dun-coloured landscape into a patchwork of emerald wheat and yellow wildflowers. Autumn, meanwhile, paints everything in shades of gold and burnt umber, the olive harvest bringing temporary life to otherwise empty roads.

What Passes for Sights Here

The Church of San Pedro Apóstol dominates the main square, its modest stone façade belying its role as social anchor since the 16th century. Inside, simple wooden pews face an altar that's seen better days—the kind of honest wear that comes from centuries of use rather than tourist traffic. Around the plaza, houses display the architectural pragmatism of rural Spain: thick stone walls, tiny windows, and wooden doors that open onto interior courtyards where chickens sometimes wander.

Walk five minutes in any direction and you're among the olive groves that give the village its name. Some trees predate the Spanish Civil War, their gnarled trunks telling stories of drought, frost, and survival that no guidebook mentions. The Júcar River lies four kilometres south—not visible from town but shaping everything here, from the area's microclimate to its agricultural heritage. Reaching it requires determination: either a hot walk along unshaded farm tracks or a bumpy drive down an unsignposted track that even Google Maps struggles to locate.

The Rhythm of Rural Life

Olivares doesn't do attractions. It does routines. Old men gather at Bar California (the only functioning bar during most of the year) for mid-morning brandy and dominoes. Women sweep doorways with straw brooms, maintaining the Spanish tradition of keeping the outside cleaner than inside. At dusk, shepherds guide flocks along the main road, modern cars waiting patiently for sheep to pass as they have for generations.

The village's two shops operate on mysterious schedules, opening when the owners feel like it rather than according to any posted hours. One doubles as the bread delivery point—place your order before 10 am, collect after noon. The other sells tinned goods, washing powder, and local olive oil in unlabelled bottles that taste nothing like the £8 supermarket versions back home.

August transforms everything. The population triples as former residents return from Madrid, Barcelona, and Valencia for the fiesta patronale. Suddenly there's traffic, queues at the bakery, and music drifting across the square until dawn. For three days, the village feels almost cosmopolitan—then empties overnight, leaving autumn silence and the elderly to prepare for another winter.

Walking and Eating (or Not)

The countryside delivers what the village lacks in amenities. Marked footpaths don't exist, but the web of farm tracks connecting Olivares to neighbouring villages offers hours of easy walking through landscapes unchanged since Don Quixote's time. Head south towards the Júcar for the most dramatic scenery, where limestone cliffs drop to the river and eagles circle overhead. Allow three hours for the round trip, carrying more water than you think necessary—even in October, dehydration comes fast at this altitude.

Food presents challenges. The village restaurant closed permanently during the pandemic, leaving Bar California as the sole option for a basic sandwich and beer. Proper meals require transport. Motilla del Palancar, 12 kilometres north, offers Casa Paco—a no-frills restaurant serving proper manchego cooking at prices that seem misprinted: three courses with wine rarely exceeds €12. Try the pisto manchego (Spain's superior answer to ratatouille) followed by gachas, a sweet porridge that sustained shepherds through centuries of harsh winters.

The local speciality is morteruelo, a pâté of game meats that tastes better than it sounds. Each family guards their recipe jealously—you'll need local friends to taste the real thing. The olive oil, sold from garages and kitchen doorways, costs €4 per litre and ruins you for anything available in British supermarkets.

When to Come and What to Expect

Spring brings the landscape to life but also the region's characteristic winds. April days start at 8°C, reaching 20°C by afternoon—pack layers and expect dust in your teeth. May offers the best combination: warm days, cool nights, and wildflowers carpeting every roadside verge.

Autumn provides the most reliable weather, with September temperatures hovering around 25°C and clear skies that stretch visibility to impossible distances. October sees the olive harvest begin—locals welcome help, though it's backbreaking work that pays poorly. November turns sombre, when the first frosts arrive and the village contracts into winter hibernation.

Summer visits demand strategy. Sightseeing happens before 11 am or after 6 pm; the intervening hours require shade, siestas, and plenty of water. Evenings stretch deliciously long—dinner at 10 pm feels perfectly reasonable when sunset comes after 9:30. Winter brings crystalline light and empty landscapes, but also the very real possibility of being snowed in for days.

The nearest accommodation lies eight kilometres away in Villar del Humo—a rural guesthouse charging €45 per night for rooms with views across the canyon. Camping isn't officially permitted, though nobody seems to mind responsible wild campers who arrive on foot and leave no trace.

Olivares de Júcar won't change your life. It might, however, recalibrate your sense of scale—where horizons stretch forever, villages survive on stubbornness, and the simple act of watching light change across olive groves feels like time well spent. Just remember to fill your petrol tank before arriving. The nearest station is 25 kilometres away, and nobody delivers.