Yunclillos

The bell tower strikes noon, and the only other sound is a tractor grinding through wheat stubble half a kilometre away. In Yunclillos, population 950, this counts as the lunch-time rush.

Five hundred and seventeen metres above sea level on the flat, wind-scoured tableland known as La Sagra, the village has no dramatic gorge, no Moorish castle, no Instagram-famous plaza. What it does have is a functioning grain co-operative, a butcher who still makes his own chorizos, and an almost perfect silence broken only by the combine harvesters that arrive each June. For travellers who measure value in decibels saved, that is recommendation enough.

A map of white walls and shadowless streets

Yunclillos sits halfway between Toledo and Madrid, 28 km from the former and 72 km from the latter. The approach road turns off the A-42, crosses a railway freight line and then runs dead-straight between ochre fields until the church tower appears like a ship’s mast on a sea of wheat. The urban plan is simple: two main streets, four cross lanes, a rectangle of white houses with dark stone skirtings and doors big enough to admit a mule. There is no old quarter or new quarter—just the village, gradually thinning into allotments and pigeon lofts.

The 16th-century parish church of San Pedro Apóstol commands the only slight rise in the ground. Its bell turret doubled as a lookout during the Civil War; locals still point out the chip in the masonry made by a stray bullet in 1938. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and grain dust; outside, swallows nest in the corbels and use the tower as a waypoint before heading south to Morocco. Entry is free, though the door is locked outside service times—ask in the bakery opposite and someone’s cousin will produce a key within five minutes.

What to do when nothing is the attraction

There are no ticketed sights. Instead, the programme is: walk to the end of town (four minutes), turn round, notice how the whitewash glows different shades according to the hour, and repeat. Between circuits you can sit on the single bench in Plaza de España and watch the retired men play mus, a Basque card game imported by migrant labourers in the 1960s. Stakes are ten centimos a hand; visitors are invited to join, but expect gentle derision if you mis-count.

Cycling is more rewarding than it sounds. A grid of farm tracks fans out for kilometres, surfaced with compacted clay that is rideable on 32 mm tyres. Head north and you reach an abandoned Roman quarry in 20 minutes; southwards, the land drops a barely perceptible thirty metres and you can freewheel through olives to the hamlet of El Campillo, whose bar opens only on Saturdays. Take two bottles of water—there is no shade, and the July sun reflects off the pale earth like a griddle. A basic hybrid bike can be borrowed from Casa Rural El Remanso for €15 a day; they will also lend a puncture kit because thistles are ruthless.

Eating: timetable and reality check

Expectations should be calibrated downwards. Yunclillos has one restaurant, Mesón La Sagra, open Friday evening, Saturday lunch and Sunday lunch only. The menu is printed on a single sheet and changes with the agricultural calendar: partridge stew in October, migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and grapes—during the November pig slaughter, roast Segureño lamb at Easter. A three-course lunch with wine costs €18; dinner €22. If you arrive mid-week, phone ahead—if no one answers, drive 12 km to Añover de Tajo where Bar Emilio keeps more conventional hours.

Self-catering is simpler. The tiny grocery on Calle Real stocks tinned beans, local Manchego at €14 a kilo and vacuum-packed chorizo that beats anything sold in British supermarkets. Toledo’s Carrefour is 25 minutes away—stock up before you check in. Most rental cottages have brick barbecues; buy a sack of vine cuttings (€3 from the co-op) for authentic smoke. Breakfast on the terrace in October can be T-shirt warm at 8 a.m.; by 9 the temperature has dropped ten degrees—keep a jumper handy.

Where to sleep: cottages, not hotels

There are no hotels, only casas rurales. The pick is El Remanso, a 150-year-old farmhouse restored without knocking walls through to create “open-plan living”. Bedrooms have ceiling fans, shutters thick enough to blackout siesta, and Wi-Fi that falters whenever the irrigation pump next door starts. Pool size is 6 × 3 m—fine for cooling legs after a ride, not for lengths. Low-season mid-week rate is €90 a night for the whole house (sleeps six), jumping to €160 at Easter and the December long weekend. Minimum stay two nights, refundable only if the booking is cancelled seven days ahead—travel insurance is worth it.

Budget alternative: Hostal Don Lucas in the neighbouring village of Numancia de la Sagra, 7 km away. Rooms are €35, clean, and open onto a courtyard where trucks idle at dawn—bring ear-plugs. The hostal has no restaurant, but the attached bar serves coffee and tostadas from 6 a.m., useful if you have an early flight from Madrid.

Weather and when to bother turning up

April and May are the comfortable months: daytime 22 °C, nights cool enough for a jacket, wheat luminous green. September repeats the trick, with added threshing dust. July and August are fierce—35 °C by 11 a.m., and the village pool is reserved for residents. Winter is surprisingly sharp; at 517 m the meseta radiates heat away overnight and frost can linger until 10 a.m. The cottages have wood-burners—buy a bag of olive logs (€4) rather than relying on the electric heater, which costs a fortune on the meter.

Fiestas tilt the balance. The fiesta patronal around 15 August fills the streets with temporary bars and a foam disco that keeps the plaza awake until 4 a.m.—fun if you came for noise, otherwise avoid. San Antón on 17 January is more low-key: dogs, donkeys and the odd tractor receive a priest’s blessing outside the church, followed by free chocolate and churros. Photographers like the mix of animals and low winter light; everyone else should check weather warnings—sleet is not unknown.

Getting here, and away again

Madrid-Barajas is the only practical airport. Hire a car in Terminal 1—pre-book or face €80 a day walk-up rates—and take the A-42 southwest. The toll-free motorway empties after Getafe; you’ll be doing 120 km/h past sunflower fields within twenty minutes. Leave at junction 68, follow the CM-401 for 9 km, then watch for the brown sign that points left towards Yunclillos. Total driving time: 75 minutes, unless Friday evening traffic out of Madrid adds half an hour.

Public transport is fiction. The nearest railway station is in Illescas, 18 km off, with two trains a day to Toledo and back. Buses are school-only. Taxis from Illescas cost €30—book in advance because drivers live in the next town. In short, no car, no Yunclillos.

The bottom line

Yunclillos will not change your life. It offers a pause, not a revelation: a place to read the whole of Saturday’s Guardian without feeling you ought to be sightseeing. Come for the hush, the horizon, the taste of cheese that has never seen a refrigerator. Leave before you start resenting the fact that the bakery shuts at 1 p.m. sharp, even if you still need milk. That is how the village keeps its bargain with time—and why, for some, a single night is enough while others re-book the same fortnight every year before they’ve unpacked their suitcase at home.