Buenache de Alarcón

The church bell strikes noon, yet only a single tractor answers back. At 817 metres above sea level, Buenache de Alarcón sits high enough for the air to carry diesel and thyme in equal measure. From the mirador beside the cemetery you can watch weather systems slide across the cereal plain until they bump into the first creases of the Cuenca hills. It is the sort of view that makes you check your phone battery—there is no bus back if the maps app dies.

A grid for 1,500, inhabited by 447

Plaza de la Constitución measures forty strides across; someone has counted. Stone benches face the 16th-century arched portico of San Pedro Apóstol, its tower patched with brick after the 1916 lightning strike. The church is kept locked for most of the week; wander across to the house with the green railings, ring the bell marked "Luis", and he will fetch the key for a euro. Inside, the single-nave interior smells of beeswax and mouse traps. A retablo by Juan de Borgoña’s workshop survives only because the village was too poor to replace it during the neoclassical craze.

Every other street peels off the square like spokes. Calle Real still has the metal rings where mules were tethered during the Thursday market that fizzled out in 1982. Number 14 displays a Victorian letter box—proof that even here British iron foundries once looked for export orders. Peer through the crack in the door and you’ll see a courtyard planted with geraniums and a single lemon tree that spends winter wrapped in bubble wrap.

Walking tracks that follow sheep, not hashtags

Head north on the dirt road signposted "Ermita Vieja" and within ten minutes the hamlet is reduced to a smudge of terracotta roofs. The path contours round a pine-clad ridge at 900 m, just high enough for Spanish bluebells to survive May snow flurries. A circular loop of 7 km brings you to the abandoned shepherd’s hut of El Palomar; griffon vultures use the lintel as a perch, so look up before sitting on the stone bench for lunch. Spring brings poppies, but also ticks—pack repellent.

Summer walkers should start at dawn; by 11 a.m. the thermostat outside the pharmacy usually shows 34 °C and the Guardia Civil have been known to turn hikers back for their own safety. Winter is sharper than most of Castilla-La Mancha: expect –5 °C at night and the occasional powdering of snow that turns to ice and keeps the school bus in the garage. The ayuntamiento lends crampons for free—ask at the tiny tourist office that opens Saturday mornings only.

Tuesday is the new Sunday

The village obeys an older clock. Bread arrives from the nearest bakery at 08:30; by 09:00 the bar on Calle Nueva is full of farmers debating barley prices. Order a café con leche and you are automatically handed a churro—no one bothers to ask. By 11:00 the square empties; by 14:00 even the dogs have retreated indoors for siesta. Tuesday is still the traditional descanso: the food shop pulls down its shutters after breakfast, so fill the hire-car boot in Motilla del Palancar (12 km) before you check in.

Evenings belong to the mesón. Mesón de Paco grills lamb chops over holm-oak embers and will serve chips instead of the usual greasy roast potatoes if you whisper "para los niños". A plate of three chops costs €9; house wine from Valdepeñas is €1.50 a glass and tastes like alcoholic Ribena—dangerously drinkable. The chalked board lists gachas manchegas, a paprika-thickened porridge that divides opinion: some call it comfort food, others find it reminiscent of school glue. Ask for a taster before committing.

A fiesta timetable scrawled on cardboard

Festivities are announced by hand-written A4 sheets taped to the church door. The main fiesta honouring the Virgen de Agosto falls on the second weekend of August; expect a foam party in the polideportivo, a paella for 200 cooked in a tractor disc, and a brass band that finishes every set with a Valencian pasodoble. Fireworks echo off the surrounding cliffs like artillery—earplugs recommended if you stay in the medieval heart.

Holy Week is low-key but photographic: the women of the Cofradía del Santísimo wear black lace veils that predate Vatican II, and the procession squeezes through lanes barely three metres wide. Visitors are welcome to carry a candle; bring coins for the collection plate—proceedings fund roof repairs.

When to come, how to leave

Spring and early autumn give you technicolour wheat and temperatures fit for walking. April mornings can start at 3 °C and reach 22 °C by midday—pack layers. August is furnace-hot but nights drop to 19 °C; sleep is possible without air-con if you leave the shutters ajar and accept the 04:00 garbage lorry.

There is no railway. From Cuenca’s AVE station it is 70 km of well-surfaced N-road followed by 12 km of single-lane tarmac that curls through almond groves. Allow an hour, plus time to overtake the weekly articulated lorry that delivers animal feed. Car hire desks at Cuenca close at 20:00; miss that and you are spending the night in the city. Buses exist—one morning service to Cuenca, one afternoon service back—but they are timed for pensioners’ medical appointments, not tourism.

Bring cash, download maps, lower the volume

ATMs are extinct here; the last one disappeared when the bank branch closed in 2019. Take out enough euros in Cuenca or Albaceta for fuel, food and the church key. Vodafone and EE drop to 3G among the stone walls; Movistar works best, but save an offline map anyway. Above all, dial down expectations of entertainment. Buenache rewards those content to sit on a bench, listen to swallows, and watch the plateau change colour as the sun sinks. Stay longer than a night and the barman will learn how you take your coffee; stay a week and the shepherd will wave you into the fold. Leave before that happens and you will understand why half the houses are still occupied by the same family names that appear on the 18th-century headstones.