Villalgordo del Júcar

A village that turned its back on the plateau

Villalgordo del Júcar doesn’t perch, balance or cling. It simply drops. One moment you are on the flat, wheat-coloured mesa of La Mancha; the next the road tips over the lip of a limestone gorge and the village spills down the slope like something that started at the top and thought better of it. The houses are the colour of dry earth from the front, dazzling white from the side, and hollowed-out rock at the back. Half the population—barely 1,100 souls—still live inside caves whittled by hand in the seventeenth century, and the council keeps adding new utility trenches rather than new streets. It feels less like a destination than a solution: when the plateau got crowded, people simply moved into the cliff.

River, rock and the smell of wet almond

The Júcar is only 30 m across at this point, but the gorge is 120 m deep. That single geographical fact has dictated every life choice here. The river provides the only reliable water for 40 km, so the bottom third of the village is all allotments—tiny green squares of artichokes and tomatoes wedged between cave walls. At dusk the smell carries uphill: wet earth, bruised almond blossom and woodsmoke from stoves burning last year’s prunings. British visitors expecting the dusty emptiness of central Castile often blink at the sudden vegetation; it’s closer to Andalucía in micro-climate, two degrees warmer in winter and mercifully breezy in July.

Access is honest, not punishing. From the upper ring-road (plenty of space for a UK-sized hire car) a paved lane switchbacks down in ten minutes. The gradient hits 14 % in places; walking shoes with grip are advisable, especially after the sprinklers have been on. Locals treat the slope as a gym: pensioners power upward carrying two full shopping bags in each hand, overtaking day-trippers who stop to pant in the shade of the church.

Inside the cliff, museum tickets cost two euros

The Cueva-Museo is simply somebody’s house whose occupants moved upstairs in 1998 and left the ground floor exactly as it was. You’ll find a 1930s pedal sewing machine, a radio that still picks up Radio Albacete, and a kitchen chimney blackened by seventy years of lamb stews. Entry is €2, and the caretaker—usually the owner’s cousin—will switch the lights on as you enter each room and off as you leave. Mid-week you may have the place to yourself; on Saturday mornings Spanish families queue, so arrive before 11:00.

Above the cave line the streets flatten out. The Iglesia de la Asunción (open 09:00–11:00, free) is austerely Castilian: thick walls, one bell, no transept. Inside, a nineteenth-century British cannonball sits on the font—no one can explain how it got there, but children are invited to lift it if they can. A five-minute stroll east brings you to the Mirador del Cóncavo, a concrete balcony bolted to the gorge lip. Sunset here is half an hour later than on the plateau because the cliff blocks the angle; photographers arrive with tripods and cans of beer, and nobody minds if you stay until the swifts stop screaming.

Food that apologises to no one

There are two proper bars and one restaurant, all on the same 50 m of alley. Rincón de Tello does the cooking: lamb chops from Segura de la Sierra, grilled over vine cuttings until the fat pops and the ribs curl like wood shavings. Ask for “hecho al punto inglés” and they will leave a blush of pink in the centre rather than the local default of charcoal. A half-ración is still four ribs; prices hover round €14. Starters worth the calories are migas ruleras—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, grapes and bits of bacon—washed down with house red from Almansa, smooth enough to drink without food and usually under €14 a bottle if you buy one to take away.

Vegetarians get ajoarriero, a paprika-heavy potato stew originally devised to stretch salted cod, here served without the fish. Pudding is bizcocho de almendra, a moist almond cake that travels well; buy a slab for the car journey. Plastic is treated with suspicion—bring cash. The village ATM often runs dry by Sunday evening; top up in Casas-Ibáñez, ten minutes up the CM-412, before you descend.

Walking without way-marks

Villalgordo is a base for strolling, not striding. A farm track leaves the river bridge, follows the water for 3 km, then peters out among peach orchards. Turn round when the path turns to dust. Serious hikers can link up with the PR-CU 23 footpath on the opposite bank, a 14 km loop through carrascales (holm-oak scrub) to the abandoned hamlet of El Pozo and back. The tourist office—one desk inside the town hall—will lend a photocopied map if you leave a €10 deposit. Take water; there is no bar until you recross the bridge.

Cyclists find the same gentle terrain. A 25 km circuit south through Almansa vineyards is almost dead flat; the only climb is the return to Villalgordo, 120 m up the gorge. Road bikes cope fine; mountain bikes are overkill unless you fancy the tractor tracks on the plateau.

When to come, when to stay away

April and late-September offer 23 °C afternoons and cool bedrooms carved into rock. In July the plateau bakes at 38 °C but the gorge traps humidity; cave interiors stay a constant 20 °C, ideal for sleeping but sticky for siesta-reading outside. August fiestas (12–15) fill every guest room with returning emigrants; expect drums until 03:00 and a queue for the single bakery. January brings sharp frosts and empty lanes—beautiful if you want silence, useless if you want lunch, because both bars close on random weekdays.

Accommodation is self-catering cottages hacked out of adjoining caves. Cueva La Muralla sleeps four, has Wi-Fi that actually reaches the bedrooms, and costs €90 a night with a two-night minimum. Bring slippers; rock floors are cold at 07:00. There is no hotel; the nearest pool belongs to the municipal camping site 2 km upstream, open June–August and free if you buy a drink at the attached kiosk.

The practical bits, honestly stated

Fly Stansted to Alicante with Ryanair or easyJet (2 h 30 m), collect a hire car, head northwest on the A-31 for 90 minutes. The last 12 km are single-carriageway but in good repair; sat-nav will try to send you down a farm track—ignore anything labelled “camino rural”. Park on the upper ring-road; the lower lanes are 2.2 m wide and reverse-gear awkward. Monday is shutdown day: bars, museum, bakery all dark. Tuesday to Sunday everything opens, though the bakery shuts for siesta 14:00–17:00, so buy breakfast bread the night before. English is patchy; a greeting in Spanish oil the wheels, and pointing at the menu works fine.

A closing note without fireworks

Villalgordo del Júcar will not change your life. It offers no zip-wires, no gift shop, no sunset boat cruise. What it does offer is the chance to sleep inside a cliff, eat lamb that was grazing yesterday, and walk out at dawn to a gorge that smells of river mint and tractor diesel. If that sounds like enough, come. If you need more, stay on the plateau and keep driving.