Pétrola

The morning bus from Almansa drops you at the edge of Petrola with a hiss of air brakes and the smell of diesel. No taxi rank, no tourist office, just a single bench and the wind that sweeps across Castilla-La Mancha with nothing much to stop it. From here the village appears as a low white line against cereal fields, 890 metres above sea level, high enough that your ears might pop on the way up. The plateau stretches so wide that the horizon shimmers like a fault line.

Walk ten minutes down the main street and the illusion of emptiness dissolves. Someone is watering geraniums in a zinc bucket, two elderly men manoeuvre dominoes outside the only bar open before noon, and the loudspeaker outside the town hall crackles with announcements about prescription collection times. Petrola has 600 registered inhabitants—fewer than most British secondary schools—yet it still supports a pharmacy, a medical centre, and a bakery that runs out of bread by 13:00. The rhythm is practical rather than sleepy; tools get repaired, soil gets analysed, tractors get parked wherever they fit.

Salt, Flamingos and a Lake that Refuses to Behave

Three kilometres south the tarmac stops at the mirador over Laguna de Petrola. What you see depends on the week you arrive. In late spring the water can blush a definite candy-floss pink, the result of salt-loving algae blooming under the right temperature and salinity. On other days the lagoon reverts to a dull pewter, no less beautiful if you appreciate the mineral smell of shoreline mud and the way mirages lift the distant hills. Flamingos sometimes drop in during migration—slender punctuation marks against the skyline—but they are seasonal extras, not headline acts. Bring binoculars, patience, and a windproof jacket; the plateau breeze has a habit of flinging grit at lens and cornea alike.

The lake is shallow enough to wade across in places, but don't. The regional government has ring-fenced sensitive areas with wire and bilingual signs reminding visitors that this is both a Ramsar wetland and working salt pan. Walk the signed path instead, a 45-minute circuit that passes the ruined stone hut once used by salt workers and ends at a wooden hide big enough for four people, five if they breathe in unison. Entry is free; the car park is a gravel patch that turns to custard after rain.

Church Walls, Wash Houses and the Smell of Cumin Stew

Back in the village the Iglesia de San Bartolomé keeps vigil over Plaza de España. The building is 16th-century backbone with 18th-century skin—plain stone, little ornament, the sort of tower that guided muleteers long before GPS. Inside, the cool darkness smells of candle wax and the previous Sunday's lilies. A side chapel displays an anonymous painting of Saint Bartholomew holding his own flayed skin with the expression of a man who would rather be somewhere else. Drop a euro in the box and the sacristan will switch on the lights, but even illuminated the church feels more communal than grand, a parish hall that happens to have altars.

Fifty paces downhill the public wash basins still function, though nowadays the main users are dogs seeking a drink and the occasional photographer angling for rustic reflection shots. The water runs constantly, channelled from a spring that once dictated where the village could grow. Stand here long enough and an old woman will tell you she met her husband while scrubbing sheets in 1958, the year the first television aerial appeared on Calle Mayor. Such conversations happen without prompting; Petrola has not yet learned to distrust strangers.

Lunch options are limited to one restaurant, Casa Paco, open Thursday through Sunday. The menu del día costs €12 and arrives in three waves: noodle soup thick enough to stand a spoon, lamb stew scented with bay and cumin, and a slab of La Mancha cheese that tastes of sheep and straw. Vegetarians get eggs and potatoes—this is not a region that apologises for meat. Wine from the Almansa denomination flows freely; ask for "un corto" if you want a modest pour rather than a fishbowl.

Tracks through Thyme and the August Inferno

Afternoons belong to the countryside. From the lagoon a farm track continues south-east, rising gently across wheat stubble and thyme scrub. In May the air is loud with bees and the perfume is almost medicinal; by late July the same ground is baked to biscuit and the only sound is the hiss of grasshoppers. There are no waymarks, but the mobile signal is strong and the castle at Almansa is visible on its rock, a useful compass point. Allow two hours for the circular walk back to Petrola, carrying at least a litre of water per person—streams here are seasonal and the nearest bar is the one you already passed.

Come August the village empties as families flee the plateau's furnace for coastal relatives. Temperatures flirt with 40 °C; the lagoon shrinks and its salt crust crackles like brittle toffee underfoot. This is not the moment for gentle strolls unless you relish the sensation of walking inside a hairdryer. Arrive instead in late September when the first storms rinse the dust from the air and the evening light turns the stone walls honey-coloured. Winter brings a different austerity: clear skies, sharp frosts, and the possibility of seeing the lagoon iced over, a phenomenon that occurs roughly one year in five. Roads are gritted promptly; Petrola may be small but it refuses to be cut off.

Getting Here, Staying Here, Leaving Again

Public transport is the weak link. ALSA runs one daily bus from Madrid's Estación Sur to Almansa (2 h 15 min, €19–€31 each way). From Almansa a local service continues to Petrola three times a week—Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday—departing 13:30 and returning at 06:45 next morning. Miss it and a taxi costs around €20. Driving is simpler: exit the A-31 at Almansa, follow the CM-412 for 14 km, then turn right on the CU-401. Petrola appears so suddenly that first-timers invariably overshoot the junction.

Accommodation is limited to two rural houses, both renovated by the same cooperative of young locals who refused to watch their grandparents' homes collapse. Casa de la Abuela sleeps six from €90 per night; Casa del Pósito, smaller and darker, starts at €65. Neither offers breakfast, though the bakery will open early if you knock firmly. Book via the municipal website—English translations are shaky but functional. Campers should note that wild pitching is forbidden around the lagoon; the nearest authorised site is 30 km away beside the marble quarries of Fuente-Álamo.

Petrola will not dazzle you with Michelin stars or boutique hammams. What it offers is continuity: salt scraped from the same lagoon that attracted Romans, bread baked in an oven that predates Franco's railways, and a plaza where children still chase footballs under streetlights that switch off at midnight sharp. Stay long enough to watch the lagoon change its mind, share a table with farmers discussing almond prices, and you might find the village's stubborn smallness stays with you longer than any postcard panorama. The bus back to Almansa leaves at 06:45 sharp; if you're still on the bench, the driver will honk once, wait thirty seconds, then continue without you.