Villanueva de la Jara

The 750-metre ridge on which Villanueva de la Jara sits is high enough to knock the edge off La Mancha’s summer furnace, yet low enough to keep winter roads open. That small climatic mercy explains why the town’s 2,287 residents still centre their week on Friday’s produce market rather than on coach parties. At midday the church bell strikes twelve, the butchers down tools, and the aroma of grilled mushrooms drifts across Plaza Mayor—cultivated setas, not wild ones, grown in the low white warehouses on the western approach. It is a sound-and-smell combination that tells you, without guidebook rhetoric, exactly where you are.

A Basilica Bigger Than Its Boots

The Renaissance tower of the Asunción church rises 52 metres, disproportionate to the surrounding slate roofs. Step inside and the three-aisle plan feels almost cathedral-grade: Flemish tapestries, a gilded baroque high altar, and a 16th-century organ that still booms out for feast days. English visitors often mutter “bit grand for a place this size,” yet the building makes sense once you learn that Villanueva commanded a sizeable wool tax in Habsburg times. Pick up the free leaflet at the north door—Spanish only, but the caretaker will unlock the sacristy if you ask. Opening hours shrink outside summer mass times; arrive before 11:00 or you may find the doors barred.

Round the corner the Convento de las Clarisas keeps its grille shut to casual callers, yet the nuns sell almond biscuits and little jars of quince jelly from a side hatch. Prices are written on a paper slip: €8 for 200 g of biscuits, exact coins only. The transaction happens in theatrical darkness—your money goes on a lazy Susan that revolves into the cloister, sweets come back the same way. No photographs, no chat, but the biscuits are crisp, mildly orange-scented and travel well back to the UK if they survive the drive.

Walking Through Cereal and Vine

Head east on the signed PR-CU-71 footpath and within fifteen minutes the streets give way to a chessboard of wheat stubble and bobillo (small-plot) vineyards. The loop is 9 km, flat except for a final 120 m climb through umbrella pines, and takes two-and-a-half hours at English rambling pace. Spring brings calandra larks and the occasional hoopoe; September smells of crushed Airén grapes. There is no café en route, so fill water bottles in town—fountains on Calle San Roque are potable.

Mountain bikers can stitch together farm tracks toward El Provencio (11 km), where the civil-war trench line is still visible if you like your history bleak. The tourist office, squeezed into the town hall’s ground floor, will lend a laminated map against a €10 deposit. GPS helps: way-marking is sporadic and the plains play tricks with distance.

What to Eat Without the Tourist Mark-Up

Lunch is serious business and heavy. Gazpacho manchego—nothing to do with Andalusian tomato soup—is a stew of game birds on flatbread; caldereta de cordero is even richer. If that feels like nap time in a bowl, order pisto manchego (Spanish ratatouille) topped with a fried egg; it appears on every menu and costs around €9. Mushrooms star in season: setas al ajillo, sizzled with garlic and chilli, arrive in a mini copper pan for €7. Pair them with the local rosado from DO Manchuela; it drinks more like a light Pinot than the usual holiday plonk, and bars chill it properly.

Evenings fade quietly. Brits expecting tapas crawl will be disappointed—most pubs are simply front rooms with a television and two draught taps. Order a caña (small beer) and you will usually get a free pinchito: perhaps a cube of Manchego or a sliver of morcilla. Conversation is the entertainment; English is patchy, so “¿Qué tal la cosecha?” (how’s the harvest?) breaks ice faster than perfect grammar.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

Villanueva de la Jara lost its railway during the 1980s cuts; the nearest fast line is Cuenca’s AVE station, 55 minutes away by car. From London, fly to Madrid, collect a hire car at Barajas and head east on the A-3 and CM-310: 165 km, toll-free, 95 minutes if you avoid the capital’s rush hour. Valencia airport is equidistant and usually quieter for rentals. Buses do run from Madrid’s Estación Sur, but the 07:30 departure with a change at Tarancón turns a simple journey into a six-hour odyssey—fine for backpackers, punishing for a long weekend.

Accommodation is limited to half a dozen small guest-houses. Casa de la Cristo I, a converted 18th-century cottage on a cobbled lane, has beamed ceilings, decent Wi-Fi and a roof terrace that catches the sunset over wheat fields. Double rooms start at €55 including garage parking—useful because on-street spaces vanish when the Friday market rolls in. Breakfast is delivered to your door: crusty roll, olive oil, tomato purée and a cafetière. Larger groups might try Hotel-Restaurante Albergue de la Jara on the outskirts; rooms are motel-plain but there is a pool, rare at this altitude.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

Unless you hit one of the fiestas, nights finish by 23:00. September’s Virgen de Gracia week sees the population triple; former residents return from Madrid and Valencia, brass bands parade, and the basilica’s bell rings non-stop. Rooms are booked months ahead—plan accordingly or time your escape. Carnival in February is colder but more inclusive: comparsa groups in cardboard helmets mock local politicians, and everyone ends in the sports pavilion for stew and red wine. Easter processions are low-key, carried by twenty-something cofrades who look as if they are hauling the family sofa—respectful, yes, but refreshingly short on theatrical suffering.

Winter itself is crisp and often sunny; snow falls once or twice yet rarely lingers. The upside is silence and hotel discounts of 20%. The downside: many bars close on random weekdays and the swimming pool at the albergue is drained. Still, walkers wrapped in fleece can have the cereal trails to themselves, returning to a hearth-warmed taberna for a glass of cardo-cinnamon liqueur made by the Clarisas. It tastes like Christmas pudding in a glass and warms faster than central heating.

The Honest Verdict

Villanueva de la Jara will never compete with Cuenca’s hanging houses or Toledo’s sword-makers. It offers no selfie-magnet viewpoints, no artisan gin distilleries, no boutique hotels with infinity pools. What it does provide is a working Spanish interior town where siestas remain non-negotiable, mushrooms arrive fresh from a warehouse you can cycle past, and the church bell still dictates the tempo. If that sounds too quiet, stay in the city. If you hanker after an unpolished slice of Castilla-La Mancha where your phrase-book Spanish earns genuine smiles, drive up the ridge, park under the plane trees, and let the bell count out your afternoon.