Villarejo-Periesteban

At 900 metres above sea level, Villarejo Periesteban sits where Castilla-La Mancha's wheat fields finally meet resistance. The village's double-barrelled name tells its own story—two hamlets that merged centuries ago, though the join remains visible in the street layout. From the church tower, the land drops away in every direction, revealing a horizon so straight it could have been drawn with a ruler.

The altitude makes a difference. Summer mornings arrive cooler than down on the plains, and winter brings proper snow most years. The air carries a clarity that photographers prize, especially during the golden hour when the white-washed houses glow against ochre soil. It's the kind of light that makes amateur photographers think they've discovered something special, though local shepherds have been watching it for generations.

Walking Through Two Villages That Became One

The streets form a rough figure-eight, the ghost of that original dual settlement. Start at the church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción—its tower visible from kilometres away—and you'll find the pavement narrows to single-file within minutes. Traditional houses press close, their wooden doors painted deep blues and greens, iron grilles guarding shadowy interiors. Thick walls keep interiors bearable during July's 35-degree heat, while small courtyards catch whatever breeze climbs the hillside.

There's no prescribed route. The village is small enough to wander aimlessly, though three streets deserve attention. Calle Real holds the oldest houses, some dating to the 18th century, with stone thresholds worn smooth by centuries of boots. Calle Nueva isn't particularly new—it got its name in 1923 when someone finally paved it. Calle del Pozo leads past the old well, now covered but still marked by a stone circle where women once gathered to exchange gossip while drawing water.

The church interior rewards a pause. Unlike cathedral towns with their elaborate baroque, rural Castilian churches favour simplicity. Stone pillars, whitewashed walls, a wooden ceiling that creaks ominously during storms. The altarpiece survived the Civil War by being painted over—locals claimed it was "just wood" when Republican forces searched for religious artefacts to burn.

What the Fields Remember

Walking tracks radiate from the village like spokes, following ancient rights of way between cereal fields. These aren't manicured footpaths—expect dusty tracks that turn to mud after rain, stiles made from whatever wood was handy, the occasional loose dog that's more curious than dangerous. The reward is solitude: walk twenty minutes and the only sounds are wheat rustling and larks ascending.

Spring brings the best walking. From March through May, green shoots break the brown monotony, and temperatures hover around 20 degrees—perfect for the 8-kilometre circuit to the abandoned hamlet of Los Alares. Nobody's lived there since 1963, when the last family finally admitted the well had run dry. Stone walls still stand, though roofs collapsed decades ago. Wild asparagus grows through the old threshing floor; in April, locals arrive with bags to harvest it.

Summer walking requires early starts. By 10am the sun's already punitive, and shade exists only where poplars grow along dry riverbeds. Better to cycle instead—the road to Horcajo de Santiago runs mostly downhill for 12 kilometres, meaning you can coast home after lunch. The village shop rents basic mountain bikes for €15 per day, though don't expect suspension or working gears.

Eating What the Land Provides

Food here isn't performance—it's survival cooking refined over centuries. The village bar serves migas on Saturday mornings: breadcrumbs fried with garlic and chorizo, topped with grapes that burst sweet against the salty pork. It's £3.50 with a coffee, served by María who's been working the same room since 1987. She remembers when British visitors were rare enough to warrant questions about the Queen.

The restaurant—really just the bar's back room—opens weekend evenings and serves whatever Antonio feels like cooking. Might be cocido, the chickpea stew that feeds a family for days. Could be perdiz estofada, partridge stewed with wine from neighbouring Villanueva. Vegetarians face limited options: tortilla (always) or fried cheese with tomato sauce (sometimes). Book ahead—he cooks for whoever's coming, and when the partridge runs out, that's it.

Local specialities appear seasonally. October brings game: rabbit, hare, the occasional wild boar that someone's shot and needs help eating. January means morteruelo, a pâté of pork liver and game so dense it slices like cake. The village shop stocks it in jars, though Maria's version—made from her grandmother's recipe—tastes better. She'll sell you some if you ask nicely, wrapped in foil with instructions to eat within three days.

When the Village Remembers It's a Village

August transforms everything. The fiesta draws descendants who left for Madrid, Barcelona, even London decades ago. The population swells from 383 to over a thousand. Suddenly there are traffic jams—three cars waiting to park qualifies—and the bakery runs out of bread by 9am. British visitors often find this the worst time to visit: accommodation triples in price, the one restaurant requires bookings a week ahead, and Saturday night's disco (held in the sports hall, entrance €5) continues until dawn.

The fiesta proper lasts four days, centred on the Assumption feast. Morning processions follow brass bands through streets decorated with paper flowers. Afternoons mean bull-running—not Pamplona's dangerous spectacle, but village calves released in a makeshift ring while teenagers show off. Evenings bring paella cooked in pans three metres wide, everyone eating from paper plates while sitting on walls. The British tendency to queue causes confusion; food appears when it's ready, and hovering near the serving table marks you as greedy rather than efficient.

September offers better balance. The harvest finishes, days remain warm, nights turn cool. Locals have energy to talk instead of merely surviving summer. It's when you learn the village secrets: which house served as a Republican printing press during the Civil War, why the church bell rings twice at 7pm (once for the Angelus, once because the bell-ringer likes the echo), how to tell which families are feuding by counting the empty houses between their properties.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving

The village sits 110 kilometres south-east of Madrid. Driving takes 90 minutes via the A-3 and CM-412, though the last 20 kilometres wind through proper mountain roads—steep enough to make rental cars struggle in second gear. Public transport exists but requires dedication: three buses daily from Cuenca, with a change at San Clemente. The 8am departure gets you there by 10:30, but miss the 4pm return and you're staying overnight whether planned or not.

Accommodation means two options. Casa Rural La Torre offers three rooms in a converted 19th-century house—stone walls, beamed ceilings, Wi-Fi that works when storms aren't interfering with the mountain transmitter. €60 per night including breakfast: coffee, toast, and homemade jam that's either peach or plum depending on what fruited heavily that summer. Alternatively, ask at the bar—someone's cousin has a room, someone's aunt rents her son's old bedroom. Expect clean sheets, shared bathroom, total immersion in village life for €25.

Winter visits bring their own rewards. Snow falls regularly above 900 metres, transforming brown fields into something approaching a Christmas card—though the British habit of finding this "picturesque" puzzles locals who must dig out their cars and feed stock through blizzards. The village hotel (really just three rooms above the pharmacy) stays open year-round, heated by a wood-burning stove that the owner feeds religiously at 6am. Prices drop by half. The walking becomes serious—proper boots required, possibly crampons—and the bar fills with farmers grateful for company during weather that keeps even tractors idle.

Leave before you understand too much. Three days reveals Villarejo Periesteban's rhythms: when the bakery delivers fresh bread, which old men sit outside the pharmacy arguing about football, why the church bell rings at odd hours. Stay longer and you start noticing what's missing: no young people, no jobs beyond farming and the municipal payroll, no future that doesn't involve Madrid or London. The village survives through stubbornness and subsidies, growing enough wheat and barley to maintain the fiction of agricultural viability while EU payments keep services running.

It's enough. For a weekend, perhaps a week, Villarejo Periesteban offers what Britain's countryside increasingly can't: authenticity without performance, beauty without admission charges, silence broken only by church bells and dogs. Come for the walking, stay for the migas, leave before the melancholy creeps in—the knowledge that you're witnessing not a way of life, but its slow, dignified ending.