Casas de Guijarro

Dawn in La Manchuela

The church bell strikes six and the only other sound is a tractor coughing to life somewhere beyond the stone houses. At 740 metres above sea level, Casas de Guijarro’s main street is already warm in May, though the air still carries the metallic chill of night. Swallows dive between telephone wires; no one else stirs. By seven the sun has cleared the cereal horizon and the village’s hundred-odd residents begin to appear—first the baker’s van from Casasimarro, then an elderly man rolling a watering can to his tomatoes, then two cyclists tightening shoes before heading into the empty immensity of wheat and vine.

This is not a place that competes on monuments. The single-aisled parish church, rebuilt after lightning in 1910, squats modestly at the top of the hill; its tower serves more as a weather vane for farmers than as a tourist draw. Whitewashed walls stop at door-height, revealing stone the colour of digestive biscuits; roofs slope to catch what little rain the steppe allows. Visitors expecting souvenir stalls or guided tours will be disappointed. What Casas de Guijarro offers instead is scale: more sky than you thought possible, more silence than most Britons have heard since childhood.

Walking the Grid

Leave the car by the stone cross at the entrance—parking is free, unlimited and usually solitary—and walk east along the sandy track signposted “Ermita 2 km”. Within five minutes the village shrinks to a white dice-throw on a brown-green board. Wheat ears brush your shins; larks rise and fall like sparks. The path is dead straight, one of the Roman-style agrarian grids that slice La Manchuela into neat squares. No waymarks, no stiles, just the occasional green-and-white blaze painted by the local hunting society. Turn around whenever you like: the view is identical in both directions, yet somehow never boring.

Bring binoculars. Great bustards—birds the size of labradors—can appear on the ridge, especially April to June when males inflate white neck-feathers into living powder-wigs. Lesser kestrels hover above culverts; their call, a high “kee-kee-kee”, is the soundtrack to every calm evening. The terrain is flat, so a six-kilometre circuit demands little more than sturdy shoes and a water bottle. Mid-July is another matter: temperatures touch 38 °C by eleven o’clock, turning the landscape into a shimmering yellow furnace. Walk then only if you enjoy solitude strong enough to taste.

Food at the Edge of Town

Back in the village, lunchtime options are limited to Casa Guijarro on Calle Real. The dining room seats twenty; the menu fits on a single laminated sheet. Order the roast kid—cabrito asado—served in thick slices that taste like the mildest Welsh spring lamb. A half-portion feeds two modestly hungry adults and costs €14. House red arrives chilled in a plain glass bottle; the owner, Jesús, jokes it’s “Rioja’s poorer cousin” though several British visitors have compared it to a decent Crianza without the £25 mark-up. Vegetarians can request a vegetable paella, but phone the previous day: supplies come from Casasimarro’s weekly market and he buys only what he knows he’ll sell.

There is no shop. None. If you need milk, bread or insect repellent, drive five minutes west to Casasimarro before you check in. The absence of commerce feels refreshing until you crave a packet of crisps at nine-thirty at night; then it feels like the adult version of being sent to bed without supper. Plan accordingly.

Under the Stars

Darkness falls fast once the sun slips behind the olive yards. Street lighting consists of four sodium lamps on the main drag; the rest of the village glows softly from kitchen windows. Walk a further two hundred paces beyond the last house and you are under some of the clearest skies in mainland Europe. The Milky Way appears not as a vague smudge but as a broad, glittering river; the ISS passes overhead at predictable times, a steady golden bead. August brings the Perseids—up to sixty meteors an hour—and local farmers set out deckchairs and sangria in silent competition with any planetarium.

Bring a jacket even in midsummer. At altitude the temperature can drop fifteen degrees after midnight, and the wind carries the scent of thyme and hot stone. Phone signal is patchy, so download an offline star-map before you leave your rental car. Torch? Essential, but point it downwards—night vision takes twenty minutes to return once spoiled.

When to Come, When to Stay

Casas de Guijarro itself has no hotels. Most visitors base themselves in Casasimarro, five minutes away, where Hotel Casasimarro offers twelve simple rooms from €45 including garage parking. Pool, wi-fi, air-conditioning: the holy trinity for anyone who has tried to sleep through a Manchegan August without moving air. Prefer stone walls to drywall? Casa Rural La Faenza, a converted farmhouse two kilometres south, has beamed ceilings, a salt-water pool and a barbecue terrace that catches the sunset over vines. Mid-week in May you might have the place to yourself; mid-August is fully booked by families from Madrid escaping the capital’s 40 °C furnace.

Fly to Alicante or Valencia—Ryanair and easyJet run daily routes from Stansted, Gatwick and Manchester. The drive north on the A-31 is motorway all the way to Almansa, then twenty minutes of empty country road. Total journey time from tarmac to tractor-spotted silence: under two hours, quicker than reaching some Cornish coves. Do not rely on public transport; the last bus passed through in 1994 and never returned.

The Honest Catch

There are downsides. August nights stay above 25 °C; most village houses lack air-conditioning, relying on thick walls and ceiling fans that merely push warm air around. Mosquitoes rise from irrigation ditches at dusk—repellent is non-negotiable. If it rains, the place can feel bleak: mud the colour of paprika sticks to shoes and the aroma of wet sheep lingers. And while the silence is glorious at noon, by midnight it can tip into eeriness, especially when dogs several farms away start a chain-reaction bark that echoes across the plain.

Yet for walkers, bird-watchers, star-gazers or simply anyone who has had enough of souvenir tat and Bluetooth speakers, Casas de Guijarro delivers a stripped-back Spain that package brochures pretend no longer exists. Come with provisions, realistic expectations and an appetite for lamb you can cut with a spoon. Leave before the church bell tolls twelve and you might meet no one but the baker—and even he will wave as if you already belong.