Villatoya

The church bell strikes two, yet the bar on Plaza de la Constitución is already shuttered. A tractor rattles past, the driver raising two fingers from the steering wheel in silent greeting. Nothing else moves. This is Villatoya at lunch-time in early May—air sharp enough to need a fleece, sky so clear you can count the planks of cedar cladding the bell-tower thirty metres up.

Eighty kilometres north-east of Albacete, the village sits on a shallow ridge 760 m above sea level. That extra altitude knocks the edge off Castilla-La Mancha’s summer furnace: July may touch 34 °C down on the plain, but up here a dry breeze keeps nights tolerable. In January the mercury can dip to –3 °C; frost silver-plates the almond trees and wood-smoke drifts along streets barely two metres wide. Winter visitors should pack layers and check the forecast—snow is rare but not impossible, and the final 12 km of country road from the N-322 is neither gritted nor guarded by barrier.

A Grid for Wandering, Not for Tick-Lists

No one arrives expecting a World-Heritage binge. Villatoya’s year-round population hovers around 110; the entire historic core can be walked in twenty minutes, thirty if you pause to read the hand-painted ceramic tiles that give each fountain its name. Houses are single-storey stone, roofs of Arabic tile weathered to terracotta rust. Timber doors—some original 19th-century, most rebuilt after the 1915 storm—are painted the colours of deep-water: bottle green, ox-blood, indigo. There is no ticket office, no audioguide, no craft market. The reward is proportional to the effort you invest in looking.

Start at the 16th-century parish church of San Pedro Apóstol. Its tower acts as a inland lighthouse for the surrounding wheat belt; climb the exterior spiral (key from the house opposite, €1 coin in the honesty box) and the view rolls out—olive groves to the south, the pale limestone gorge of the Cabriel twenty kilometres north. Inside, the single nave still bears scorch marks from Republican troops who used the building as a field kitchen in 1938. Guides are non-existent, but the caretaker, Felipe, will point out the charred beam if you ask; his English stretches to “civil war—boom,” but enthusiasm needs no translation.

From the church doorway every street tilts gently downhill. Follow Calle de la Cruz past the lime-washed former school—graffiti dates from 1957, the year electricity arrived—and you reach the public laundry basin, fed by a spring that never drops below 14 °C. Local women still scrub tablecloths here on Monday mornings; photographers should keep a polite distance and, ideally, learn “con permiso” before raising the lens.

Tracks for Boots, Tyres and Binoculars

A spider’s web of agricultural lanes radiates into the La Manchuela countryside. None qualify as serious mountain hiking—the highest summit within 15 km barely tops 1,100 m—but the terrain is perfect for six-kilometre loops before breakfast. Head east on the signed track to Fuente de la Orden and you’ll share the path only with crested larks and the occasional greyhound out for a rabbit chase. Spring migrants pass through in late April: bee-eaters flash turquoise above the vineyards, and lesser kestrels nest in the church tower. Take binoculars, water and a wind-shirt; the breeze averages 15 mph even on calm days, thanks to the Venturi effect between the Júcar and Cabriel valleys.

Mountain-bikers can string together fifty kilometres of almost traffic-free pistes linking Villatoya with neighbouring Alcalá del Júcar and Casas-Ibáñez. Surface is compacted clay—rideable year-round except the forty-eight hours after a storm, when it turns to axle-deep glue. Pack a spare tube; the nearest bike shop is back in Albacete.

Eating (and Not Eating) Locally

Food culture here is domestic, not commercial. The single bar opens at 07:30 for café con leche and churros on market day (Friday), then closes when the last customer leaves—often by 11:00. There is no restaurant, no Michelin wish-list, no tapas trail. Self-catering is the default, which is why most visitors book one of the four country cottages dotted round the perimeter. Supplies come from the weekly mobile fish van (Tuesday, 10:30 sharp) or the 20-minute drive to Alcalá’s supermarkets. If you must eat out, Mesón del Castillo in Alcalá grills local trout over holm-oak embers; a whole 300 g fish with almonds costs €14, house wine from DO Manchuela another €2.50 a glass.

Shop before 14:00 or accept that the village is closed until 17:00—siesta is non-negotiable and the nearest 24-hour filling station is 35 km away on the Cuenca road. Bread can be ordered the night before from the bakery in neighbouring Víllora; leave €1 under the doormat and your baguette will be hanging on the door-handle by 08:00.

When the Calendar, Not the Clock, Decides

Visit in the third week of August and you’ll think you’ve arrived in a different settlement. The population quadruples as descendants return for the fiesta of San Roque. A sound system appears overnight in the square, paella pans wide enough to bathe a toddler simmer over wood fires, and teenage cousins parade in matching peñas T-shirts until the small hours. It’s loud, boozy, inclusive—and over in four days. By the 25th the rubbish trucks have gone, the folding chairs are stacked, and Villatoya reverts to whisper mode.

Spring, particularly late April to mid-May, offers a gentler spectacle: almond blossom has faded but the wheat is still emerald, temperatures hover around 22 °C, and you’ll share the lanes only with farmers on antiquated John Deeres. September gives a second sweet spot—grape harvest, star-filled nights above 15 °C, and accommodation prices 30 % lower than August.

Getting There, Getting Out

Public transport exists in theory: one Alsa bus leaves Albacete at 14:15, reaches Villatoya at 16:00, and returns at 06:50 next morning. Miss it and the next option is Wednesday. Car hire is therefore essential. From Alicante airport take the A-31 inland, switch to the N-322 at Almansa, then peel off on the CM-321. Total driving time is 1 h 45 m, the last 12 km twisting through ravines where Spanish motorists treat the centre line as optional. Petrolheads love it; nervous passengers should aim to arrive before dusk.

Leave the same way you came, or continue north to Cuenca’s hanging houses (45 min) and Madrid beyond. Villatoya won’t detain you long, but it lingers: the smell of wet stone after the church hose-down, the sight of a lone stork circling thermals above ochre fields, the realisation that somewhere in Spain the afternoon still belongs to the people who live there, not the people who pass through.