El Herrumblar

The only traffic jam in El Herrumblar happens at nine o’clock on a July morning when a tractor, two dogs and a man carrying a ladder all reach the single zebra crossing at once. The dogs win. Everyone else waits, because nobody here is in a hurry—not the farmer who’s just sold his barley, nor the baker sliding wood-fired loaves onto the counter, and certainly not the elderly señora who takes a full minute to negotiate the two-metre passage from doorway to shade.

At 750 m above sea level, the village sits on a subtle ridge between the meseta’s endless cereal plains and the first wrinkles of the Serranía de Cuenca. The altitude knocks the edge off summer heat—nights drop to 17 °C even in August—and sharpens winter mornings until your lungs feel scrubbed. It is, by default, the kind of place Spaniards describe as “pueblo” without further qualification: one bakery, one doctor who appears twice a week, one bar that doubles as the local stock exchange.

Iron in the soil, wine in the blood

The name Herrumblar comes from the old forges that once worked local iron, but the last smithy closed before today’s grandparents were born. What remains is a village built from what lay closest to hand: ochre clay, limestone and railway sleepers sawn into door beams. Houses are thick-walled, whitewashed annually, and still fitted with the original wooden shutters painted a bruised indigo that photographs insist on calling “typical”. Many retain interior courtyards where clay wine jars the height of a twelve-year-old stand in permanent shade; the jars are no longer used for fermentation, yet no one has figured out how to move them without a crane.

Walk the grid of five streets and you’ll notice the church tower before you see the church itself. It rises like a stone exclamation mark, plain and unbuttressed, finished in 1789 when funds ran out halfway through the planned belfry. The resulting truncated silhouette is now the village compass point: give anyone directions and they start with “desde la torre…” Inside, the single nave smells of beeswax and the ceiling is painted a Marian blue that has faded to pigeon-grey. Sunday mass is at eleven; if you slip in late, the priest will pause politely until you find a pew.

Vines, grain and the long view

Beyond the last houses the land opens into a checkerboard of vineyards, wheat stubble and olive groves that shimmer like brushed steel under the wind. This is DO Manchuela country, a wine zone that never acquired Rioja’s marketing budget yet turns out reliable reds from bobal and tempranillo. The nearest bodega, Bodegas Valsan, sits ten minutes away in Villanueva de la Jara; ring a day ahead and someone’s cousin will give you a tasting that costs €6 and ends with a bottle pressed into your hand “for the road”.

If you prefer your grapes still on the stem, ask at the bar for “la senda de las vides”, a 6 km loop that leaves the village past the cemetery and follows stone terraces planted in the 1950s. The path is signed with faded ceramic tiles depicting grape shears; half have fallen off, so download the GPX track before you set out. In late September the track is sticky with crushed fruit and the air smells like jam boiling over.

Spring brings a different palette: green wheat ripples like the sea, poppies splatter verges scarlet, and larks rise so high you lose them in the haze. Walkers can stitch together farm tracks into anything from 4 km to 20 km without ever crossing a main road; the only hazard is losing mobile signal and discovering the map on your phone has turned into a blank grey square. Carry water—there are no fountains once you leave the village—and remember that shade is theoretical: the nearest oak is usually in the next province.

What you’ll eat, and when

Restaurant choice is straightforward. There isn’t one. Instead, the bar serves menu del día (weekdays only, €11) that might be gazpacho manchego—a game-and-noodle stew nothing like Andalusian gazpacho—followed by lamb shoulder that collapses at the sight of a fork. If you want dinner after nine, phone by four so they know to keep the grill lit. Saturdays see morteruelo, a pâté of hare, pork liver and spices thick enough to mortar bricks, served with stale bread to spread it on; tradition insists you wash it down with doble (a half-litre goblet) of strong ale that arrives at room temperature and puts hair on your chest whether you request it or not.

During fiestas the population quadruples. The main week is 15 August, when the plaza hosts nightly verbenas that start with children dancing to 1980s Euro-pop and finish with their grandparents waltzing at three in the morning. A travelling funfair sets up opposite the church: two rides, one ghost train that smells of diesel, and a waffle stand that does a brisk trade in spite of 30-degree heat. On the final day everyone troops to the communal barbecue pit on the edge of town; admission is €10 and buys you a paper plate piled with chorizo, morcilla and longaniza that has never seen the inside of a factory.

Getting there, staying over, leaving again

Cuenca’s daily bus used to stop at the petrol station on the N-420, but the route was axed in 2022. Without a car you’re stranded, so hire one at the airport. From Madrid take the A-3 to Tarancón, then the CM-412; the last 12 km snake through low hills where you’ll meet more goats than vehicles. Total driving time from Barajas is 1 h 45 min, unless a lorry of melons overturns at Belmonte—in which case bring a book.

Accommodation is limited to Hostal San Julián, six rooms above the baker’s, each with a small balcony overlooking the wheat silo. Doubles are €45 including breakfast (coffee, churros and a glass of wine if you look hung-over). Rooms have air-con, but the owner switches the unit off at midnight to save the planet and your lungs; open both shutters and you’ll get a breeze that smells of thyme and diesel. Book by phone—online platforms list the property but the connection drops every other syllable.

Checkout is noon, though no one will hurry you. The village rhythm reasserts itself quickly: shutters roll down for siesta, dogs reclaim the street centre-line, and the tractor reappears for the afternoon run to the cooperative. By two o’clock the only sound is the grain dryer humming like a distant jet. Stay another night and you’ll start measuring time by church bells and by how far the sun has travelled across the threshing yard. Leave, and the N-420 dumps you back onto the motorway before you’ve finished adjusting to traffic that actually moves. Somewhere around kilometre 132 the smell of diesel fades, replaced by hot tarmac and the realisation that El Herrumblar has already shrunk in the rear-view mirror to a single blue shutter and a tower that looks, from this distance, complete.