Alatoz

The thermometer on the village pharmacy reads 28 °C at three in the afternoon, yet the air on your forearms feels almost cool. At 860 m above the cereal plains of La Manchuela, Alatoz trades the furnace-blast heat of lower La Mancha for a breeze that smells of thyme and dry earth. It is the first surprise the village offers, and it costs nothing.

A town that still runs on tractor time

Alatoz counts 491 inhabitants, one tight bar-café on Plaza de la Constitución, and a weekly delivery van that doubles as the mobile bank. The church bell strikes the quarters; cockerels answer back. Narrow lanes paved with polished cobbles climb between whitewashed houses whose wooden doors are just tall enough for a laden mule. Nothing here was built for tour coaches, which may explain why you will rarely see one.

Walk one street above the main road and the only traffic is an old Seat 600 creeping downhill in first gear, its driver waving at every doorway. By 22:00 the square is returned to the swifts. Visitors looking for flamenco shows or Irish pubs are advised to drive 45 minutes to Albacete; those who measure a holiday in decibels spared will feel the night settle like a blanket.

What you see when you stop clock-watching

The Iglesia Parroquial de San Pedro Apóstol is not cathedral-sized, but its bulk dominates every skyline shot. Step inside and the temperature drops another five degrees; the stone floor bears the shallow graves of local notables whose surnames still label the surrounding almond groves. Restoration work in 2019 revealed 16th-century fresco fragments above the altar—look for the faded ochre stars before the lights click off on their timer.

Below the tower, the town’s two parallel streets funnel you towards viewpoints that end abruptly at agricultural nothing. Take the signed footpath starting behind the church; five minutes later you are level with stork nests built on ruined electricity pylons. The panorama south rolls away in wheat chessboards that fade from emerald to gold between late May and July. A discreet metal panel names every peak on the horizon—on clear days you can tick off the Sierra de Alcaraz 40 km distant.

Trails that ask for trainers, not crampons

OS-style maps do not exist here; instead, villagers instruct by landmark. “Follow the concrete water trough until the holm oak, then bear left towards the red plough.” The resulting network of farm tracks forms two easy circuits. The shorter (5 km, 90 min) loops through vineyards belonging to the local Cooperativa San Dionisio: pick up a plastic 5-litre flagon for €7 if you remember to return the container. The longer route (11 km, 3 h) climbs to the ridge of the Cerro de la Cruz at 1,050 m, where buzzards ride the thermals and stone shepherd huts offer just enough shade for a sandwich.

After heavy rain the clay sticks like brick mortar; in July and August start early. Winter walkers may find the same paths dusted with snow—beautiful, but park sensibly because the last uphill stretch is not gritted.

Eating: what grows within donkey distance

The bar on the plaza opens at 07:00 for farmers and keeps roughly the same hours as the sun. A coffee still costs €1.20; tostada with crushed tomato and a drizzle of local cooperative oil adds €2. Ask for pisto manchego and you receive a wedge of baked ratatouille topped by a fried egg—comfort food for vegetarians tired of omelettes. Meat eaters should watch for tiznao, salt cod whisked with garlic and paprika, served only on Fridays when the travelling fish van visits.

Weekend specials revolve around whatever game the mayor’s cousin has shot: wild boar stew in autumn, partridge in escabeche after the January hunt. House wine arrives in a plain glass bottle sealed with cling film; it started life in the stainless-steel tank you passed on the walking loop. Expect to pay €12–14 for three courses, including half a litre of wine, but bring cash—card machines are considered an urban affectation.

Beds, keys, and where to leave the car

Accommodation stock is four rural houses and a single three-room guesthouse. Casas Rurales Maribel Alcalá (two-bedroom, from €70 mid-week) hides a roof terrace with sun-loungers rescued from a defunct Alicante hotel; book through the regional tourism board site or WhatsApp Maribel directly. Felipe’s terraced townhouse on Calle San José offers smarter interiors and designated parking—vital because the historic core is residents-only. Weekend availability disappears the moment Madrid schools break up; reserve at least a month ahead for April–May and September–October.

Check-in must be arranged in advance: nobody hangs around reception because there isn’t one. Your host will meet you on the plaza, help drag suitcases up the slope, and explain the rubbish timetable (plastic goes out Tuesday before 21:00, organic Thursday). Failure to comply risks a €60 fine and a lecture from the vecino opposite.

Getting here without the drama

Fly London-Stansted to Alicante with Ryanair or EasyJet (from £38 return outside peak). Collect a hire car—an economy hatchback suffices—and head north-west on the A-31 for 90 minutes; turn right at the sign for “La Manchuela” and follow the CM-412 for 18 km until Alatoz appears on a crest. Petrol is cheaper at the supermarket pumps outside Villena than on the motorway. Total driving time from Alicante airport: 2 h 15 m.

Public transport is technically possible but punitive: three daily buses link Albacete to nearby Munera; from there a dial-a-ride taxi covers the final 12 km for €18 if you book the previous afternoon. Unless you enjoy logistical Sudoku, hire the car.

When to come, and when to stay away

April brings almond blossom and daytime highs of 20 °C; nights drop to 7 °C, so pack a fleece. September softens the light for photographers and coincides with the grape harvest fiesta—free stomping for anyone who brings their own plastic basin. July and August are warm but rarely oppressive thanks to the altitude; afternoons are siesta-quiet and the village pool (entry €2) becomes social central. January can be crisp and bright, yet sudden snow blocks the access road for half a day; carry snow chains or you will be popular with local farmers whose tractors double as the emergency services.

Avoid 15 August unless you relish marching brass bands that rehearse outside your window until 03:00. Easter week is devout rather than debauched, but every procession pauses beneath your balcony to play a mournful saeta. Light sleepers should book on the edge of town.

Parting shot

Alatoz will not change your life, and it has no intention of trying. It offers instead a yardstick for how little you actually need for a contented few days: a pair of walking shoes, a phrasebook, and the ability to nod appreciatively when the bar owner insists the wine in the unlabelled bottle is better than anything Rioja ever bottled. If that sounds like too much effort, leave the village on the CM-412 and the motorway will whisk you back to the familiar noise. The rest of us will be up on the ridge, listening to the wind comb through the barley.