Alcoba

The baker’s van toots at eight. If you’re still in bed, the horn echoes off whitewashed walls and you’ve missed warm barra for breakfast. Alcoba, population 535, doesn’t do lie-ins. Dogs bark, goats shuffle past the church, and the day starts whether you’re ready or not.

A Village that Prefers Sheep to Sightseers

Wedged into the southern lip of the Montes de Toledo at 638 m, Alcoba looks south across an ocean of dehesa – oak savannah that ripples from summer khaki to winter velvet green. There are no souvenir shops, no medieval gates, no coach parks. The only traffic jam involves a tractor and 200 merino sheep ambling to pasture. The houses are plain, sturdy, built from local stone and finished with lime wash that blisters in the July furnace and flakes in January frost. Rooflines sag like tired eyelids; television aerials sprout like stubborn weeds. It is, unapologetically, a working village rather than a set.

Visitors who expect waiters fluent in Instagram will be disappointed. English is rarely spoken, though a wave and “buenos días” buy instant goodwill. Curious grandmothers lean over wrought-iron balconies to watch strangers pass; children on BMX bikes perform impromptu escort duty to the village edge. Tourism exists only in the loosest sense – you are simply the newest face in a place where everyone remembers the last outsider’s car registration.

Walking the Dry Side of Spain

Serious hiking boots are overkill, but don’t attempt the surrounding tracks in flip-flops either. A lattice of unmarked caminos radiates from the upper cemetery, threading through holm oak and madroño whose strawberry-red bark peels like sunburn. One gentle 6 km loop climbs to the Cerrro de la Horca (759 m) before dropping back along an old charcoal burner’s sled path. Another, stiffer route heads east to the Puerto de la Serrana, where Iberian imperial eagles ride thermals above the Cabañeros skyline. Paths are obvious in April when the grass is short; after October’s first storms they turn slimy with leaf mulch and require a stick for balance.

Maps are optimistic: some footpaths end in a thicket of bramble or a locked game gate. Download the free Wikiloc files uploaded by a local hunter, but skip the section that skirts the goat farm south-west of the village – loose mastiffs regard canine hikers as trespassers. Water is scarce; carry at least a litre per person from October to May when temperatures swing from 4 °C at dawn to 22 °C by noon. Mobile signal fades within a kilometre; offline navigation is essential.

Autumn Trumpets and Other Noises

Late September brings the berrea, the red deer rut. At dusk the hills vibrate with stag bellows that sound like broken plumbing echoing through a cathedral. You won’t see much from the village, but a ten-minute drive towards the Cabañeros park gate puts you within earshot. Dawn is better: arrive at 6.45 am, switch the engine off, and wait. Binoculars (8×42 minimum) pick out does skirting the tree line while a dominant stag keeps watch, breath steaming. No park fee is required for roadside watching; if you want a guided 4×4 excursion, the visitor centre at Navas de Estena charges €28 pp and insists on advance booking.

Mushroomers turn up after the first autumn soak. Boletus edulis and Lactarius deliciosus appear under Pinus pinea on the north-facing slope above Arroyo de Alcoba. Collection is legal for personal consumption up to 3 kg per day; carry a penknife and brush, and never bag anything you can’t name with certainty. The village bar (open weekends only) will cook your find if you hand it over before noon – setas a la plancha, garlic, parsley, splash of local olive oil, €6 service charge.

What Passes for Cuisine and Supplies

Forget restaurants. Alcoba has one social club with a television permanently tuned to La Sexta and a coffee machine that works on alternate Tuesdays. The baker’s van (Mon–Sat) sells pan de pueblo, sticky ensaimadas and, on Fridays, empanadillas stuffed with tuna. Flag it down by raising your hand like hailing a rural bus. Fresh milk arrives the same way on Thursday; cheese can be bought from a fridge in the garage of the house with the green gate – leave money in the honesty box.

Serious provisioning happens in Alcázar de San Juan, 25 minutes down the CM-412. The Mercadona there stocks everything from Quorn to gluten-free beer, handy if you’re self-catering at Casa Rural Los Olivos on the village edge (three bedrooms, wood burner, £85 a night). The nearest bar meal is in Piedrabuena, 12 km west: a no-nonsense plato combinado of fried egg, chips and jamón that costs €9 and arrives within four minutes of ordering. Local wine is Manchega DO – young, fruity, served at cellar temperature; it copes admirably with both stew and disappointment when clouds smother the sunset.

Seasons: Choose Carefully

April and May gift waist-high poppies along the verges, daylight until 8.30 pm, and night-time temperatures cool enough for sleep under a single duvet. Wild asparagus sprouts roadside; villagers collect carrier-bags full at sunrise. By July the mercury punches past 38 °C; concrete radiates like a storage heater long after dusk. Walking is restricted to the two hours after dawn; the baker shifts his horn to 7 am and sells warm water by mistake. August fiestas involve a portable bar, a foam machine in the plaza, and temporary reunification of the diaspora from Madrid – accommodation disappears, so book early or stay away.

Winter is sharp. At 640 m, frost glitters from November to March; the CM-412 can close when sleet sweeps across the plateau. Firewood is delivered by the tractor-load; most cottages lack central heating, relying instead on braseros – low tables with electric elements beneath – that keep knees warm and shoulders cold. The village is quiet, almost monastic, ideal for writers and misanthropes.

Getting There, Getting Out

Public transport is a myth. Fly Stansted to Madrid-Barajas (2 h 15), pick up a hire car, and head south-west on the A-4 and CM-42. Tolls are minimal, petrol cheaper than the UK motorway average. The final 17 km from Bolaños de Calatrava twist through encina forest; watch for wild boar at dusk. If you’re motor-homing, grey-water disposal and potable water wait at the Area Sostenible in Torralba de Calatrava, five minutes north. Petrol pumps on the CM-420 close at 22:00; after that, the nearest 24-hour fuel is 40 km away in Daimiel – plan accordingly.

Parting Shot

Alcoba will never feature on a postcard carousel. It offers no cathedrals, no Michelin stars, no boutique hammams. What it does provide is a gauge of how slow life can run when traffic lights, chain stores and 5G are stripped away. Come if you’re content to trade Instagram moments for the smell of oak smoke, the clatter of a baker’s tray, and the realisation that 535 people have already solved the puzzle of living with less. Stay home if you need room service, nightclubs, or someone to top up your prosecco. The village won’t mind – the sheep still need moving, the deer will still roar, and the horn will still sound at eight, whether you’re listening or not.