Villafranca de los Caballeros

The first thing you notice is the horizon. From the A-4 it appears ruler-straight, then the road climbs a gentle 180 metres and the town suddenly levitates above the cereal plain like a stone ship. At 643 metres Villafranca de los Caballeros is hardly the Alps, yet after the pancake-flat approaches from Madrid the air feels thinner, the wind cleaner, and the evening light lingers long enough to turn every white wall a soft peach. Locals insist the altitude knocks two degrees off the summer furnace that scorches the capital an hour away; in January it can also knock off the same two degrees the wrong way, so bring a fleece even for midday.

A grid that remembers the Knights

The town’s name is not tourism-brochure nostalgia. In the 13th century the Order of Santiago parcelled out these high fields to mounted soldiers—caballeros—who taxed passing shepherds in exchange for protection. Their gridded street plan survives: Calle Mayor runs east–west, four parallel lanes tick north, and any wanderer can cross the historic quarter in eight minutes. That compactness is useful because the centre is still lived-in. Grandparents park folding chairs outside the Coop bakery at 11 a.m.; the chemist shuts for two hours because everyone knows illness also pauses for lunch. British visitors expecting a manicured “heritage” experience may be surprised by the scuffed paint and trailing TV aerials, yet the scruffiness is the point—this is a functioning agricultural town, not a film set.

The only obvious monument is the chunky tower of the Iglesia de la Asunción, its stone changing from honey to ochre as clouds pass. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; the nave smells of candle wax and the previous Sunday’s lilies. No audio-guides, no gift shop, just a printed A4 sheet that asks for a one-euro donation towards roof repairs. Drop coins in the box and you may have the place to yourself, apart from the elderly sacristan who will unlock the side chapel to show a Flemish-style Virgen de la Leche that travelled here by mule in 1689.

Water in a dry land

Two kilometres east the asphalt stops and the lagunas begin. These shallow freshwater lagoons—Laguna Grande, Laguna Chica and three smaller siblings—sit in a natural dip created when tectonic plates shrugged. Declared a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve in 1982, they attract 150-odd bird species and a trickle of binocular-toting Britons who have already ticked off Doñana. April brings glossy ibis and Montagu’s harriers; July brings local families wheeling cool-boxes to the artificial beach on Laguna Grande. Entry is free, there are showers, a children’s playground and designated barbecue pits, but shade is precious—turn up after 11 a.m. at your sunburn’s peril. The water is alkaline, so goggles stop the itch, and the bottom drops gently to 1.5 metres, making it safer for cautious swimmers than many Costa rock pools.

Walk the 6-kilometre perimeter path at dusk and the only sounds are lapwings and the occasional tractor humming home. Mobile signal flickers, so download an offline map before you set out; the track is flat but stony—trainers suffice, sandals don’t.

Calories and credit cards

Back in town, gastronomy is less theatre than fuel. The lunchtime menú del día in Bar Central (€12, weekdays only) might start with pisto manchego—Spain’s answer to ratatouille—followed by caldereta de cordero, a mild lamb stew bulked out with potatoes. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and the house salad of lettuce, onion and grated carrot; vegans should ask for “ensalada sin atún” because canned tuna counts as a vegetable here. Cheese appears whatever you order: request Manchego semicurado if you prefer a Cheddar-like bite rather than the eye-watering curado beloved of locals. A 50-cl bottle of chilled clarete, the regional rosé, costs €4 and slips down like a Provence pale-pink until you stand up.

Evenings revolve around the Plaza de España. By 8 p.m. waiters drag metal chairs into rough circles so teenagers can practise English on visitors while grandparents gossip over carajillos—coffee laced with brandy. Cards are dealt at wicker tables; Britain’s contactless revolution has barely arrived, so carry cash. The nearest ATM is inside the Cajamar branch on Calle de la Constitución; it dispenses €50 notes with suspicious enthusiasm—break them at the bakery before the bar refuses your change.

When the plain turns white

Summer fiestas start on 13 September, not August as in most Spanish towns. The Virgen de la Leche is carried down from her chapel 3 km away, accompanied by a brass band that has clearly been practising since winter. Streets fill with hawkers selling caramelised almonds and toy swords; the artificial beach hosts an open-air cinema showing Spanish-dubbed Pixar to toddlers who refuse to sleep. Accommodation within 30 km books out months ahead—if you fancy joining the mayhem, reserve early or expect a 40-minute night drive from Manzanares. Winter visitors get the opposite: empty roads, hotel rooms at €35, and the chance of a dusting of snow that turns the ochre plain into an unlikely Yorkshire dales lookalike. Days are bright but sharp; Iberian greyhounds wear knitted coats and café con leche cools in two minutes.

Getting here, and away again

Public transport exists, just. An ALSA coach leaves Madrid’s Estación Sur at 15:30 and reaches Manzanares at 16:45; a taxi for the final 25 minutes costs €30 if you negotiate in advance. Car hire is simpler: Ryanair and easyJet fly Stansted to Madrid-Barajas in 2 h 15 min; pick up a rental at Terminal 1 and stay on the A-4 south for 110 km. The last 15 km cross the foothills of the Montes de Toledo; watch for migratory storks thermalling overhead. Fuel is cheaper at the Repsol on the CM-412 junction than on the motorway, and the town’s free parking bays (white lines) fill by 11 a.m. on market Thursday—arrive earlier or use the dirt lot behind the polideportivo.

Leave time for the return leg: the A-4 is notorious for Sunday-evening crawl-backs when every Madrileño heads home at once. A slower but emptier option is the N-401 via Toledo, adding 25 minutes but allowing a leg-stretch in Consuegra’s windmills—yes, they are touristy, but after a quiet weekend in Villafranca the coach parties feel almost surreal.

Worth it?

If your Spanish fantasy involves flamenco dresses and Moorish tiles, stay in Seville. Villafranca offers something narrower and, to some, richer: a slice of Castilian life where the bar owner remembers how you take your coffee and the cathedral bell marks time more reliably than any phone. Come for the lagoons if you’re a birder, for the cheese if you’re a foodie, for the altitude-cooled nights if you’ve wilted in Andalucía. Come prepared for early closing, intermittent English and roads that dissolve into dirt. The reward is a town that does not perform for you—it simply lets you watch, briefly, how Spain runs when no one is looking.