Fuensanta

The church tower rises first, visible from five kilometres out across wheat stubble that stretches like a yellow sea. Locals call it "El Faro"—the lighthouse—because at 732 metres it catches dawn light long before the rest of Castilla-La Mancha wakes up. That beacon is how you know Fuensanta is more than a smudge on the map; it is a village that sits just high enough to matter.

A Village That Measures Altitude in Silence

Three hundred and sixty-six people live here permanently. The number is precise because every birth still gets announced on the ayuntamiento door, and every departure is noted when the padron is updated each January. At this height the air thins just enough to soften the summer furnace that scorches the plain below; nights stay three or four degrees cooler than in Albacete city, 55 km to the south-east. In July that difference feels like mercy.

The altitude also explains the wind. It arrives unannounced, rattling the poplars along the dry River Júcar bed and filling the ears with a constant low hum. Bring a jacket even in August; by 10 pm the breeze can slice through cotton. Winter is sharper than most outsiders expect—snow falls two or three times between December and March—and the single access lane from the CM-412 is closed if ice glazes the bends. Plan accordingly: the nearest supermarket that opens on Sundays is 18 km away in La Roda, and the village cash machine vanished when the last bank branch pulled out in 2019.

Stone, Lime and the Smell of Bread at Dawn

No one would call Fuensanta pretty in the postcard sense. Houses are low, whitewash flakes in hexagonal patches, and television aerials still sprout like winter twigs from every roof. Yet the harmony is real: every façade is the colour of local limestone, doorways sit exactly one metre above street level to catch the cooler air, and the forge-made window grilles repeat the same eighteenth-century pattern of interlaced leaves. Walk the single north–south street at 7 am and three things dominate: the slap of dough being worked in the bakery behind the church, the chemical tang of bleach where the street-cleaner has already sluiced yesterday’s dust, and the metallic coo of collared doves that nest inside the tower.

The bakery is the unofficial tourist office. Ask for medio kilo of candeal, the crusty wheat loaf that keeps for four days, and the owner will draw a mud-map on a paper bag: the river pool deep enough for a swim, the track where bee-eaters nest in May, the bar that opens only when the owner feels like it (ring the bell twice). The loaf costs €2.40; the information is free.

Cycling In, Walking Out

Most independent visitors arrive by bicycle, freewheeling down the CV-225 from La Roda after taking the early morning ALSA coach from Albacete. The lane is almost flat, passes five disused wheat mills, and delivers you to the plaza in nineteen minutes without a single lorry for company. Lock the bike to the railing by the fountain—no one owns a second lock, so theft is considered bad manners rather than crime.

From the plaza three footpaths radiate into the steppe. The most useful heads 4 km south to the Recodo Bello, a loop in the river where poplars give shade and kingfishers flash turquoise at eye level. Take the candeal, a tetra-brick of local red wine (€1.85 in the grocery), and enough water: the return is uphill and there is no kiosk, no tap, and almost no mobile signal. In September the path smells of crushed fennel; in March the same earth reeks of wild onion. Both seasons are ideal for walking—temperatures hover round 18 °C, and the wind keeps the flies away.

Food Without Fanfare

There is no restaurant, only a bar that doubles as the village social security office on Thursday mornings. The menu is written on a chalkboard that leans against the TV: pisto manchego with fried egg (€7), gazpacho manchego—not the cold soup but a game stew thickened with flatbread—(€9), and queso manchego curado, aged six months, that arrives wrapped in wax paper straight from the dairy at Villarrobledo. Vegetarians cope, barely; vegans should pack lunch. House wine comes from a cooperative in La Roda, is served in 100 ml glass jars, and costs €1.20. Last orders are taken at 21:30 sharp because the cook needs to catch the nightly news.

If you are self-catering, the grocery stocks tinned white beans, locally cured chorizo that keeps without fridge for a week, and those almond-flour biscuits called tiznao—sweet, crumbly, unlikely to survive the walk back to the river. Close the door gently; the owner monitors every slam via a bell above her flat upstairs and will remind you, politely, that this is also her home.

When the Village Doubles in Size

The fiesta patronal begins on 8 September. Emigrants return from Barcelona, Valencia, even London; the population swells past one thousand for exactly four days. A sound system appears in the plaza, the church is floodlit, and lamb caldereta is served from steel drums at midnight. Visitors are welcome, but every bed within 25 km is booked months ahead. If you want silence, arrive the week after: the streets are littered with coloured streamers, the bakery extends its hours to clear leftover bread, and the village feels hung-over but grateful.

Leaving Without a Souvenir

There is no craft shop, no fridge-magnet stall, no guided tasting of olive oil. What you can take away costs nothing: the smell of damp lime after the street-sprinkler passes, the sight of the lighthouse tower glowing rose at sunrise, the knowledge that Spain still contains places where the loudest noise is grain being poured into a trailer. Catch the 13:55 bus from La Roda back to Albacete; the driver will stow your bike in the hold for an extra euro. As the plains flatten behind the window, Fuensanta’s tower stays visible longer than seems reasonable—proof that a village does not need to be beautiful to be remembered.