Villalgordo del Marquesado

The tractor stops. Its driver, wrapped in a checked scarf despite the May sunshine, leans out to watch a car crawl past. This passes for rush hour in Villalgordo del Marquesado. At 832 metres above sea level, the village sits where the Meseta's wheat ocean finally breaks against the first ripples of the Cuenca hills. The air carries both the dust of Castile and something sharper—pine, thyme, the smell of altitude.

Sixty-six souls call this home. They live scattered across a handful of streets that cling to a ridge, houses aligned as if bracing against the wind that funnels up from the plain. Most visitors arrive by accident, having mistyped "Villalgordo" into their sat-nav and wondered why the journey from Cuenca is taking so long. Those who stay longer than a coffee do so because they understand that Spain's interior isn't always about cathedrals and tapas trails. Sometimes it's about space, silence and the pleasure of being slightly lost.

The Village That Forgot to Shrink

Villalgordo's population graph reads like a slow puncture: 800 in 1950, 400 by 1975, 66 today. Yet the place refuses to contract gracefully. Houses stand shuttered rather than ruined; their stone lintels still bear the carved dates—1893, 1907, 1924—of when families expected their descendants to stay. Walking the single main street feels like trespassing in a museum where the exhibits breathe. An old woman emerges at 11 o'clock precisely to water geraniums in olive-oil cans. A man in overalls mends a gate that opens onto nothing but stubble fields. Nobody hurries.

The church of San Pedro occupies the village's highest point, its modest bell tower visible for miles across the cereal steppe. Inside, the temperature drops ten degrees. Whitewashed walls support a single nave with beams painted the ox-blood red popular in 18th-century Cuenca province. The altar piece, gilded and slightly garish, seems apologetic rather than triumphant. On weekdays you will have to ask at the house opposite for the key; the sacristan, Don Julián, appears within minutes, wiping flour from his hands—he moonlights as the village baker.

Beyond the church the lane narrows to a track that becomes a shepherd's path within 200 metres. This is where Villalgordo ends and the land begins its long exhale toward the horizon. In June the wheat flashes silver-green; by late July it stands the colour of lion fur, ready for combine harvesters that appear like alien craft on the skyline, headlights blazing even at midday to cut through the chaff-filled air.

Walking the Sky's Edge

Serious hikers may scoff, but the village offers one of Spain's purest walking experiences: kilometre after kilometre of sign-free tracks where your only company will be crested larks and the occasional Montagu's harrier quartering the fields. A circular route of 12 km heads east along the Arroyo de la Dehesa, climbs through juniper scrub to an abandoned shepherd's hut at 1,050 m, then drops back across the plateau. The path exists because villagers have used it for generations; nobody thought to way-mark it for tourists. Take water—there is none after the village fountain—and download an offline map because phone signal dies within ten minutes.

Spring arrives late at this altitude. April can still bring frost that blackens early almond blossom, while May explodes in a rush of poppies and wild asparagus. By July the land looks exhausted, colours bleached to parchment and rust. August is for hiding indoors until dusk; even the swifts circle high to avoid the heat rising off the metal roofs. Autumn, when it finally comes in mid-October, is the sweet spot: clear air that lets you see the distant wind turbines near Belmonte, daytime temperatures in the low twenties, nights cold enough to justify the village's single wood-burner shop doing brisk business.

What Passes for Cuisine

Villalgordo has no restaurant, no bar, no shop. Zero. The last grocery closed in 2003 when its proprietor, Doña Filo, retired at 83. Planning therefore matters. Buy provisions in San Clemente (19 km south) where the Supermercado Día stocks local Manchego curado—milder, nuttier than the pre-packed wedges sold in British supermarkets. Add a jar of alcarreña honey, coarse country bread and a bottle of Casa de la Serna tinto from Cuenca province; the winery's entry-level tempranillo costs €12 and slips down easily after a hot walk.

If you are staying in one of the two village houses that accept paying guests, your host will almost certainly offer tiznao, the region's salt-cod and potato stew, smoked gently over oak until the fish flakes into smoky threads. It tastes better than it looks—an important maxim across rural Castile. Another evening you might find confit de cordero, lamb shoulder slow-cooked in pig fat until it surrenders at the touch of a fork. Vegetarians should declare themselves early; otherwise everything arrives garnished with chunks of cured ham that the cook considers seasoning rather than meat.

When the Village Wakes Up

For fifty-one weeks of the year Villalgordo sleeps. Then, during the third weekend of August, its population quadruples. Cars with Madrid number plates squeeze between stone walls, teenagers who speak with city accents are pressed into service carrying the Virgin's platform, and the plaza hosts a paella for 300 cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish. The fiesta programme, mimeographed and pinned to every door, includes a foam party for children, a domino tournament, and mass sung by a priest imported from Cuenca because the diocese no longer assigns a permanent vicar. By Monday lunchtime the visitors have gone, leaving only empty botellón bags fluttering in the almond trees and the lingering smell of gunpowder from a modest firework display that nobody admits to enjoying.

The Practical Bits That Matter

Driving remains the only realistic access. From Madrid-Barajas allow 1 hour 45 minutes via the A-3 toll-road to Tarancón, then country lanes where you will meet more tractors than cars. Fill the tank in San Clemente; Villalgordo has neither petrol station nor cash machine. Accommodation options are limited to two restored village houses booked through rural tourism websites—expect €90–110 per night for a two-bedroom place with beams, thick walls and inevitably a photograph of Don Quixote somewhere on the premises. Phone coverage is patchy: Vodafone and Movistar provide 4G in the main square; other networks drift between 3G and the Stone Age.

Winter access can be entertaining. At 832 m the village catches proper snow most Januarys, and the CM-2106 is not first on the gritting list. Chains sometimes become necessary for the final 8 km. On the plus side, the air turns crystal, the night sky delivers Milky Way views usually reserved for astrophotographers, and the village's handful of residents greet strangers with extra warmth—partly hospitality, partly astonishment that anyone has made the effort.

Come if you want to calibrate your sense of scale. Stand on the ridge at sunset when the plain stretches west until it dissolves into purple haze, and you will understand why Castilians speak of la meseta with something approaching reverence. Stay if you can cope with shops that don't exist, restaurants that never opened, and a silence so complete you will hear your own heart bumping against your ribs. Leave before you start believing that 66 people constitute a crowd.