Villaescusa de Haro

The mobile signal dies somewhere between kilometre 78 and 79 on the CM-412, and the only thing on the radio is Spanish folk music. At 820 metres above sea level, Villaescusa de Haro appears suddenly—a cluster of whitewashed cubes and a church tower that has been announcing the hours since 1742. No billboards, no tourist office, no multilingual menus. Just wheat, wind, and the faint smell of sheep.

A Horizontal Landscape That Changes Its Mind

This is pure cereal country: flat plateaux broken only by stone walls and the occasional poplar windbreak. The horizon sits so wide that clouds cast shadows the size of counties. In April the fields glow emerald; by July they have bleached to biscuit gold; October brings ochre stubble and dust devils. The village itself rides a low ridge, which explains why the 16th-century parish looks taller than it really is—there is nothing else to compete with.

Walk two kilometres south-west on the farm track sign-posted “Ermita” and the land drops 120 metres into the dry valley of the Río Cabriel. From the lip you can see Belmonte’s castle 12 kilometres away, but not a single roof of Villaescusa. It is a landscape built for looking outward, not for being looked at.

What Passes for Sights

Forget ticket booths. The church of La Asunción is kept locked; ring 684 31 21 34 the day before and Don Julián will shuffle over with a key the size of a banana. Inside, the single nave smells of candle wax and damp stone; the retablo is plain, almost Protestant, painted muddy reds and bottle greens. Light enters through a high oculus at 11 a.m.—Hillier’s 1958 canvas captured exactly this moment, the reason the Tate bought the picture.

The rest of the “heritage” is domestic: studded timber doors, iron knockers shaped like commas, ochre stripes where owners have repainted only as high as they can reach. Peer over any low wall and you will see a bodega hatch—steps disappearing into hand-cut caves where families once made the bulk wine sold in Cuenca. Most are boarded up now, but if the owner is watering geraniums he will probably lift the trapdoor so you can sniff the cool earth and lingering tannin.

Eating Without a Menu

There are two bars. At Bar La Plaza order a caña and you will be asked “¿Jamón o queso?”—those are the tapas options, full stop. The ham comes from Pedroches, the cheese is a four-month cured manchego sharper than anything exported to Waitrose. Mid-morning is the best time; the place doubles as the villagers’ office, so you can eavesdrop on debates about rainfall and tractor parts.

For anything hotter, you need to phone ahead. Casa Paco will cook caldo de pastor (lamb broth) or pisto manchego with a fried egg on top, but only at weekends and only if Paco’s sister feels like it. Expect to pay €12 for three courses including wine that arrives in a rinsed-out syrup bottle. Vegetarians do better in Belmonte, six kilometres east.

Bring cash. The nearest ATM is outside the Repsol station on the N-420; the machine charges €1.75 and has been known to run dry before fiesta days.

Walking Where the Wheat Talks

There are no way-marked trails, which is precisely the point. A lattice of farm tracks links Villaescusa with Villarejo de la Peñuela (population 41) and Aramayona (abandoned). Distances look trivial on the map—five kilometres, seven kilometres—but the mesa wind can add twenty minutes to every hour. Spring brings crested larks and the smell of fennel; in September the air is thick with chaff and the combines grumble until dusk.

If you want shade, follow the sign to “El Soto” plantation, a square kilometre of ash and elm planted after the Civil War to stop erosion. A rough loop of 4 km starts behind the cemetery; mid-way you will find a stone trough fed by a spring that never dries. Drinkable, say locals; Brits with delicate stomachs might prefer to sterilise.

When the Village Remembers It’s a Village

Fiestas begin on 15 August with a procession, a brass band imported from Motilla, and a communal paella cooked in a pan two metres wide. The population quadruples; cousins sleep in caravans and the plaza smells of diesel generators and orange-blossom cologne. Book accommodation early—there are three rental houses and one room above the bakery. Or don’t book at all and simply join the improvised camping in the sports field; someone will lend you a hosepipe for a shower.

Holy Week is quieter—thirty penitents in purple robes, one drum, and the statue of María Santísima carried at shoulder height through streets too narrow for the bearers to march in step. The event starts at 21:00 sharp; if you arrive late the only light will be the swinging lantern at the back of the queue.

Getting There, Staying Sane

From Madrid take the A-3 to Tarancón, then the N-420 towards Requena. After the wind-farm ridge turn left on the CM-412; Villaescusa appears 19 kilometres later. The tarmac is immaculate, the petrol stations aren’t—fill up in Tarancón. Public transport is theoretical: one bus leaves Cuenca at 06:45 and returns at 17:30, which gives you ten hours to stare at the horizon. Hire cars start at €28 a day from Cuenca rail station; signal drops out for stretches, so download offline maps.

Winter nights drop to –5 °C; summer midday tops 38 °C. April and late-September hover around a civilised 22 °C, ideal for walking, but bring a fleece—the altitude makes shadows cold. If you come in July, plan like a farmer: out at dawn, siesta until five, back out until the sky turns mauve.

The Honest Verdict

Villaescusa de Haro will never make a “Top Ten” list, and that is its charm. It offers silence, cheap wine, and the mild exhilaration of being the only foreign number plate in town. Come if you want to practise Spanish, taste cheese that hasn’t seen plastic, and remember what horizons look like when no one sticks a wind turbine in the middle of them. Don’t come if you need flat whites, boutique soaps, or somewhere to post about in real time. The clock on the tower still keeps the hours; the rest is up to you.