Ocaña

The Plaza Mayor stretches so wide that locals joke you could land a small aircraft on it. At 730 metres above sea level, where the wind whips across Castilla-La Mancha's cereal plains, this rectangular expanse of ochre stone and wrought-iron balconies feels less like a Spanish square and more like a military parade ground that forgot to shrink. Three sides of colonnades shield café tables from the weather; the fourth is commanded by a 16th-century town hall whose clock still strikes quarters with mechanical precision.

Ocana surprises first-time visitors precisely because it isn't surprising. No ravines, no cliff-top location, no dramatic gorge—just an unusually large town dropped onto an almost perfectly flat plateau halfway between Madrid and Andalucía. The Romans spotted the logic (intersecting drovers' roads), the Knights of Santiago built their headquarters here, and Napoleon fought a messy pitched battle in 1809. What remains is a working town of 5,000 souls whose grandest monuments face inwards, as if the outside landscape were an afterthought.

Stone, Brick and the Smell of Sheep's Cheese

Start at the northern corner of the plaza, where the morning market sets up on Tuesday and Friday. Stallholders unwrap queso Manchego that has been aged in local caves; the rind carries the imprint of esparto grass belts still woven in the province. A wedge of semi-curado costs around €6 and survives the journey home in hand luggage—ask for "semicurado, por favor" if you prefer the milder, nuttier version to the eye-watering vintage that Spaniards adore.

From the market it is a two-minute walk to the parish church of Santa María, its tower visible from every approach road. The doors open only for Mass (12:00 Sunday, 19:30 weekdays) but arrive ten minutes early and you can slip in before the priest. Inside, the air is cool and carries a faint scent of beeswax; the retablo is gilded with American gold that once passed through Seville. Photography is tolerated if you sit discreetly at the back.

Behind the church a grid of wide streets recalls Ocana's medieval charter: house fronts set back behind grilles, stone coats of arms, and the occasional reja from which noble daughters once watched tournaments. The Palacio de Cárdenas is now a private law court, but you can still read the Renaissance plaque dated 1535 above the door knockers shaped like Moorish heads. The so-called Ruta de los Palacios is sign-posted with bronze plaques; ignore the official arrow near number 7—it points to a 1970s bank. Instead, turn left into Calle San Juan and look for the crimson geraniums on the 15th-century Casa de los Oviedo.

When the Wind Forgets to Stop

The Meseta plain means wind, and Ocana gets its full share. In March the levante can gust at 60 km/h, filling coffee cups with dust if you sit outside. Locals counter this by weighting tablecloths with wrought-iron clips and ordering café con leche in thick glass tumblers that double as hand-warmers. The trick is to choose the leeward side of the colonnade; look for tables where napkins haven't blown onto the floor.

Summer brings the opposite problem: still air and 38 °C by 14:00. Shops reopen at 17:30 precisely, but until then the town feels abandoned apart from a single pharmacy whose metal shutter lifts just enough for a body to duck under. If you are travelling by car, use the free carpark behind the Parador (sign-posted "Aparcamiento Público")—the underground level stays cool enough to prevent seat-belt buckles from branding skin.

Outside town the landscape flattens into a geometrical grid of wheat and olive. A minor road, the CM-410, runs east for 12 km to Belmonte, Cervantes' prototype for El Toboso; cycle it early and you will share the tarmac only with tractors and crested larks. There is no bike hire in Ocana, so bring your own or sweet-talk the mechanic at Talleres Lozano—he occasionally rents out a hybrid for €15 a day if you leave ID and a deposit.

Eating After the Siren

Spanish time feels later here than on the coast. The dinner siren—yes, an actual civil-defence loudspeaker—sounds at 21:30, and restaurants will not serve before then. On Plaza Mayor, Mesón de la Plaza does a respectable cordero asado (half rack €18) but runs out at weekends; arrive before 15:00 lunch or book. For lighter fare, La Cueva on Calle Marqués de la Romana serves pisto manchego with a fried egg on top (€9) and understands the word "vegetarian" without flinching. Pudding is usually marzipan from the Convento de la Concepción: ring the bell, wait for the nun's voice behind the grille, state your budget and she will slide a white box back through the turntable. €12 buys half a kilo; cash only.

Wine comes from neighbouring Quero, whose small cooperative sells young Airén in unlabelled bottles for €3. It tastes like sharp green apples and pairs surprisingly well with sheep's cheese. If you prefer red, ask for "cosechero"—the local tempranillo bottled the same year and designed to be drunk within twelve months. British palates sometimes find it thin; add a pinch of salt to the glass, an old shepherd's trick that rounds the edges.

Departures and Down-sides

Ocana has no railway station; the Madrid–Andalucía AVE thunders past on a viaduct to the west but refuses to stop. Buses from Madrid's Estación Sur take 55 minutes and cost €7.85 each way, dropping you on Avenida de la Mancha, a ten-minute walk to the centre. The last return departs at 20:30 sharp—miss it and you are looking at a €90 taxi to the capital.

Monday is best avoided: the archaeological museum stays shut, and half the bars close because Sunday night has emptied the tills. English is rarely spoken; download an offline translator or prepare to point. Finally, adjust expectations: Ocana trades in everyday Castilian life rather than Instagram drama. Stay one night, linger over breakfast toast soaked in local olive oil, and you will understand why the plaza is still measured in horse-lengths rather than metres.