Anchuras

At 560 metres above the Toledo skyline, Anchuras runs on a different clock. Mobile reception flickers in and out, the only cash machine is 35 km away, and the evening news arrives next morning with the bread van. What sounds like inconvenience is, for some, the whole point. This scatter of whitewashed houses—270 permanent souls, plus whoever is staying in the single guesthouse—sits on a ridge that feels closer to the Sierra Morena than to Madrid’s high-speed network an hour north.

The Village that Refused a Makeover

No one has ever suggested turning Anchuras into an “experience”. The streets are too narrow for coaches, there is no medieval castle to restore, and the church clock has shown the same hour since 1987. Instead you get a working example of how Castilla-La Mancha lived before irrigation circles and industrial estates: thick-walled houses painted the colour of fresh milk, wooden gates warped by decades of hot drought followed by snap February frosts, and chimneys that still smoke because every other family keeps goats or pigs out back.

Walk the short main street at 08:00 and you will meet two delivery vans, the mayor (recognisable by the ring of keys clipped to his belt) and a pair of retired brothers arguing over the price of wild asparagus. By 08:15 the asphalt is empty again; the only sound is the clink of a horseshoe being reshod in somebody’s garage. Tourism here is not a product, it is simply tolerated—provided you do not expect lunch after 15:00 or a flat white at all.

Up Among the Stone Oaks

The real map begins where the tarmac ends. Anchuras is ringed by one of Spain’s least publicised forest systems: dehesa of holm and cork oak, much of it never ploughed. From the last lamppost a gravel track drops into the Cañada Real Conquense, an ancient drove road still used by merino sheep. Markers are scarce—an occasional concrete post with a faded stripe—so first-timers should download the free IGN sheet 892 or hire local guide Pepe Serrano (€40 half-day, WhatsApp only, signal permitting).

Spring walks are gentle: 8 km north to the seasonal waterfall of Chorrera de la Gitana, where water actually tumbles until early June, or the shorter 5 km loop through Fuente del Berro, a spring that tastes faintly of fennel. Summer is a different contract; temperatures can reach 38 °C by 11:00, so walkers set off at dawn and are back for breakfast before the village dogs have stopped barking. Autumn brings the rut: stags bellow from the barrancos at dusk, and the council temporarily closes the path to the peat bog after hunters lobbied for privacy. Winter is crisp, often snowy, and the CM-403 from the main road can ice over—carry chains after November.

What Passes for Gastronomy

There is no restaurant. Eating happens in kitchens that smell of oak smoke and rendered pork fat. If you are staying at Casa Rural La Casona—the only lodgings with a three-key rating—owner Concha will leave a casserole of perdiz estofada (partridge stew) on the hob and a note saying “Back after the olive delivery”. Expect to pay €14 pp for dinner if you book in advance; otherwise the nearest menu is in Navahermosa, 22 km of cork-screw road away.

The village shop opens 09:00-11:00 and 17:00-19:00, Tuesday to Saturday. Stock is idiosyncratic: tinned squid in ink, UHT milk, local honey labelled only with a mobile number, and wine from Valdepeñas sold in plastic five-litre jugs. Bring your own coffee if you dislike the instant variety that tastes of cardboard. Breakfast in a private house (toast rubbed with tomato and a thimble of olive oil) costs €3—leave the coins on the table or someone will chase you down the lane.

Birds, Bells and Bureaucracy

Ornithologists arrive in April with telescopes and patience. Black vultures cruise the thermals above the granite crest; imperial eagles are less reliable, though a pair nested on the far slope in 2022. There is no hide, no entrance fee, and no warden—just a cattle grid and a hand-painted sign asking visitors to close the gate so the “vacas no se escapen”. The best vantage is the old threshing floor, ten minutes above the cemetery; take the stone steps opposite house number 42 and mind the bramble that always grows back.

If you need a permit to collect wild herbs (yes, that is a thing), the town hall opens Thursday mornings. Knock twice; the secretary doubles as the postman and may be out delivering a tractor part. Cash payments only, receipts handwritten in triplicate.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Public transport does not. The closest bus stop is in Piedrabuena, 28 km north, served twice daily from Ciudad Real. Hire a car there: expect €35 a day for a Fiat 500 that will wheeze up the final gradient. Petrol is cheaper in the city; the village pump closes at lunchtime and only takes Spanish cards.

Driving from Madrid takes two and a quarter hours on the A-4, then the CM-403 through Almodóvar del Campo. The last 12 km are single-track with passing bays; meet a truck of pine logs and someone has to reverse. In summer the tarmac softens and tyres kick up tar; in winter the same bends are shaded by rock and stay icy well after midday. If the weather forecast mentions “cota de nieve 600 m”, believe it.

Accommodation options are binary: stay in the Casona (three en-suite rooms, €70-€90 B&B) or camp discreetly among the oaks—wild camping is tolerated provided you move on after one night and take your fire-ring with you. There is no municipal pool, no tennis court, no yoga retreat. Evening entertainment consists of watching the sky turn from copper to bruise-purple while swifts scream overhead and somebody practices the saxophone three doors down.

When to Bail Out

Come in May for the wild peonies and 22 °C afternoons, or mid-October when the dehesa smells of fermenting acorns and mushroom hunting is a legitimate excuse for being late. July and August are furnace-hot; afternoons feel like standing inside a pizza oven, and even the village fountain runs warm. Rain is rare but spectacular—August storms can wash the road away in twenty minutes, leaving you stranded until the grader arrives from the county depot. If that happens, accept the offer of home-distilled aguardiente and wait. In Anchuras, waiting is part of the itinerary, and nobody keeps track of how long you have been there.