Graja de Iniesta

At 830 metres the air thins just enough to sharpen the scent of thyme drifting off the surrounding steppe. Graja de Iniesta sits on a shallow ridge, its single traffic light flashing amber to no-one while cereal fields roll away like a pale inland sea. Dawn is the loudest moment: dogs, cockerels and the clatter of the bakery van. By nine the village has slipped back into a hush that makes the church bell feel almost rude.

A Ridge Above the Plain

The road in from the A-40 rises 250 metres in twenty minutes; ears pop and the thermometer drops a degree. What looks flat on the map is actually a chequerboard of dry-farming terraces stitched together by stone walls no higher than a shin. Almond trees mark property lines; in late February they bloom so suddenly that whole slopes appear to have been dusted with icing sugar. Come July the same trees stand like grey skeletons, their leaves sacrificed to keep the kernel alive—an agricultural shrug that sums up the climate.

Winter can bite. Night frost is common from November to March and the CM-312 is briefly closed if snow drifts across the plateau. Summer, on the other hand, is a hair-dryer blast: 35 °C by mid-afternoon, shade worth money. Spring and autumn arrive abruptly and leave just as fast, which is why every village calendar packs its fiestas into May and October while the evenings are still comfortable for standing outside.

The built fabric is stone first, whitewash second. Houses grow straight from the bedrock, their rooflines sagging under centuries of terracotta tile. You will not find the postcard arches or blue-pottery courtyards of Andalucía; Graja was built for grain storage, not for Moorish daydreams. Even the Plaza Mayor is really a widened street, its benches arranged so the elderly can monitor both the only bar and the only chemist without turning their heads.

What Passes for a Sights List

The Iglesia de San Juan Bautista keeps the usual Spanish timetable: open 8–9 a.m. for Mass, then again at 7 p.m. when the heat loosens its grip. Between those hours the heavy door is locked with a key the size of a hand-span. Inside, the single nave smells of beeswax and diesel heater; the retablo is nineteenth-century, gilded with money that could have bought two new ploughs at the time. Ask at the house opposite and someone will fetch the sacristan, but only if you attempt the request in Spanish—English produces a polite smile and a slow head-shake.

Opposite the church, the old grain co-op has been converted into a one-room ethnography museum. Admission is free, opening hours imaginary; knock at the ayuntamiento next door and the secretary will accompany you if she isn’t photocopying tractor forms. Displays include a 1940s mechanical balance still accurate to the decagram and a yoke labelled “Bueyes: no tocar” which every child ignores. Photography is allowed, flash discouraged—the artefacts are already sun-bleached beyond redemption.

A five-minute walk north along the cemetery lane brings you to the eroded remains of a Moorish watchtower. Only the base is original; the upper courses were rebuilt during the Carlist wars using softer local stone that is now peeling away like stale bread. The view, however, repays the scramble: west to the wind turbines of Villalgordo, south to the faint blue ripple of the Sierra de Alcaraz. Aim for the hour before sunset when the plateau turns the colour of burnt sugar and the turbines slow to a stately waltz.

Moving Slowly on Foot or Wheel

Graja is too small for way-marked trails, so walkers simply follow the farm tracks that radiate like spokes. The most useful is the Camino de la Hoya, a gravel lane dropping 120 metres to an abandoned mill beside a seasonal stream. Allow forty minutes down, fifty back up; take water because the return is a calf-burner. In April the verges are loud with skylarks; by late June the same earth is a mosaic of cracked mud and bleached snail shells.

Mountain bikers use the same web of lanes but should expect gates, dogs and the occasional shepherd who will wave you through in return for a cigarette. Gradient is gentle but corrugations are brutal—35 mm tyres minimum. There is no bike shop; the nearest repair stand is in Iniesta, 15 km away, open only weekday mornings.

If you arrive without wheels, ask at Hostal Pepe I. The owner keeps two elderly hybrids originally bought for his offspring and now rented out at €10 a day. Neither has suspension; both have saddles like bricks. Bring your own helmet—Spanish law insists, and the Guardia Civil do pass through on random patrols.

Eating What the Fields Gave Up

The daily menú at Bar Pepe (no relation to the hostal beyond shared grandfather) changes according to what the delivery van brings from Cuenca. Expect gazpacho manchego—not the cold tomato soup of Andalucía but a game-and-paprika broth thickened with flatbread—followed by migas fried in pork fat and a slab of cuajada, sheep’s-milk junket drizzled with local honey. Price is €12 including a quarter-litre of house wine poured from an unlabelled plastic bottle. Vegetarians can negotiate a potato-and-egg tortilla, though the chef will regard you with the suspicion reserved for people who voluntarily surrender flavour.

For self-catering, the mini-supermarket on Calle Real opens 9–1 and 5–8, six days a week. Stock is random: one week they receive three varieties of tinned squid, the next none at all. UHT milk and tinned tomatoes are reliable; fresh fruit arrives on Tuesdays and is usually sold out by Wednesday evening. The butcher’s counter is a single refrigerated drawer; if you want chorizo sliced thick for grilling, ask before 11 a.m. when the electric slicer is still working.

Local almonds appear in October, sold in brown paper bags twisted shut. They are smaller than the Californian imports familiar in British supermarkets, their skin papery and their flavour faintly marzipan. Combined with the mountain honey—mild, almost citrus—they make an edible souvenir that will pass through UK customs without a second glance.

Beds, Bills and Bother

Hostal Pepe I offers sixteen rooms above the petrol station. Doubles are €45 year-round, singles €30; bathrooms have been updated but the plumbing still complains if more than one person showers before 8 a.m. Wi-Fi reaches the rooms directly above the router; everyone else congregates in the corridor outside number seven. British guests consistently praise the price and the spotless sheets; they also warn that reception staff speak no English. A phrase-book Spanish of “¿Hay habitación?” suffices—credit cards, however, do not. Cash only, preferably in twenties, because the till float is kept in a cigar box.

The nearest alternative is in Iniesta, a fifteen-minute drive along the CM-312. If the hostal is full, the owner will phone the Casa del Cura, a converted priest’s house with four ensuite rooms and a pool that is ice-cold until June. Expect to pay €70 including breakfast; they will hold the room until 7 p.m. but not a minute longer—kitchen staff leave early and the key goes home with the manager.

When to Arrive, When to Leave

April and late-September offer the kindest light and temperatures that rarely top 25 °C. During these months the village’s handful of British property owners emerge to repaint shutters and the bar extends its terrace onto the pavement. May brings the fiesta of San Isidro: a procession, a brass band that has not tuned since 1987, and a communal paella cooked in a pan two metres wide. Outsiders are welcome to buy a €5 ticket; eating starts at 3 p.m. sharp and the rice is usually gone by 3:20.

August is the inverse. By 11 a.m. the streets are empty, windows shuttered against the white glare. The bar closes at 4 p.m. because the chef refuses to work in a kitchen hotter than a bread oven. If you must come in midsummer, plan like the locals: walk at dawn, sleep after lunch, re-emerge at 9 p.m. when the thermometer finally drops below 30 and the village re-opens for business.

Winter is quiet to the point of hibernation. Hostal Pepe I reduces its rates to €35 but shuts the top floor to save heating. Snow is rare enough to be photogenic when it lands, yet the CM-312 is gritted promptly—Castilla-La Mancha knows that even 3 cm of snow will panic the Madrid-bound lorries and prefers to keep the artery moving.

Parting Glance

Graja de Iniesta will never compete with Cuenca’s hanging houses or Almagro’s theatre festival. It offers instead a calibration point for travellers who have forgotten what Spain feels like when tourism is an afterthought. Spend a night, walk the ridge at sunset, drink the house wine that costs less than bottled water, and you will understand why half the village bears the surname Pepe: when nobody leaves, even the jokes stay in the family. Arrive with modest expectations, a pocketful of coins and at least A-level Spanish, and the plateau will repay you with a silence so complete you can hear your own pulse above the wind.