Fontanarejo

The church bell strikes noon and the village loudspeaker crackles to life—not with news or adverts, but with a recorded cockcrow that echoes off whitewashed walls. In Fontanarejo, population 261, this passes for rush hour. Stand in the single-lane main street and you can see the whole settlement in one slow turn: stone houses roofed with terracotta, a handful of geraniums, and olive groves rolling away until the land buckles into the Montes de Toledo.

At 650 m above sea level, the air is thinner and cleaner than on the baking plains of La Mancha below. Nights stay cool even in July, when Ciudad Real swelters at 40 °C. That altitude once made Fontanarejo a summer refuge for shepherds; now it draws Madrilenians looking for a long weekend without the Costa mark-ups. The village has no hotel, only four self-catering casas rurales booked solid at Easter and again in September when the olive harvest begins. Expect to pay €70–90 a night for a two-bedroom house with beams, thick walls and a wood-burner—essential because central heating is still viewed with suspicion.

The sound of silence (and the occasional hunting dog)

Walking tracks leave from the top of the village past stone water troughs fed by natural springs—Fontanarejo is named after them. Follow the signed Ruta de la Fuente de la Teja for 4 km and you reach a stone basin where water runs year-round, even after the driest summer. The path is easy but stony; trainers suffice if you’re happy to skirt the occasional goat pellet. Mid-week you might meet one retired farmer on a moped; weekends bring families from Madrid in serious boots. Either way, the loudest noise is bee-eaters overhead.

Hunters arrive in October, when the cork oaks turn rust-red and wild-boar season opens. Shots echo at dawn and dusk; walkers should stick to marked trails and wear something brighter than khaki. Birdwatchers fare better: imperial eagles patrol the ridges, and nightjars churr after dark. Bring binoculars and a blanket—the stone benches on the western edge of the village deliver a horizon so empty that the sunset feels gratuitously large.

Bread, cheese and other minor miracles

There is no supermarket. The panadería opens at 08:00, sells out of crusty barra by 10:00, then becomes the bar. Order a café con leche, squeeze onto the lone bench and you’ll be offered a slice of Manchego before the foam settles. The cheese is made five kilometres away, costs €14 a wedge, and tastes of thyme the sheep grazed on. If you ask nicely, the owner phones her cousin who keeps bees; a jar of raw honey appears the next morning for €6.

Lunch options are limited to whatever the bar reheats—usually migas (fried breadcrumbs with chorizo) or pisto (a thick ratatouille topped with fried egg). Vegetarians are tolerated rather than catered for; request “sin jamón” and you’ll get an extra egg. Dinner starts after 21:00, later than most British stomachs appreciate, so stock up at the Saturday market in nearby Puertollano: 25 minutes by car, or 40 if you get stuck behind a tractor. The village’s single cash machine has been “temporarily” broken since 2022; fill your pockets before you leave the A-4.

When the village remembers how to party

August turns the place inside out. Migrants return, grandsons who left for Valencia factories, granddaughters nursing in Barcelona. Suddenly every balcony sprouts fairy lights, a sound rig appears in the plaza and the population quadrifies—still tiny, but enough to justify a temporary bar serving tinto de verano (red wine with lemonade) for €1.50. The fiesta patronal climax is a procession at midnight: the Virgin is carried past houses that blast competing playlists from 1980s boom boxes. Fireworks bounce off the surrounding hills like artillery in a spaghetti western.

September’s romería is gentler. Locals hike three kilometres to the ermita, share cold cocido stew and return in hay carts towed by tractors older than their drivers. Visitors are welcome but not announced; turn up with a bottle of Valdepeñas and you’ll be poured lemonade in return. Winter brings San Antón in January: bonfires, free chorizo and a blessing of animals that turns the plaza into a fragrant mix of gun-dog, donkey and over-excited spaniel.

Getting there, getting out

The nearest airport is Madrid; Ryanair and easyJet fly Stansted–Madrid from £38 return if you avoid Fridays. Hire cars live in Terminal 1; ignore the sat-nav’s promise of “1 h 40 min” and allow two and a half hours including a coffee stop in Valdepeñas. After the turn-off at Manzanares the CM-412 narrows, climbs and occasionally deposits a wild boar on the tarmac. Fontanarejo appears so suddenly that overshooting the single entrance road is a rite of passage; reverse 200 m and pretend you meant to admire the view.

Leave time for the drive out, too. Thirty minutes east lies Almodóvar del Campo, whose castle starred as Winterfell in Game of Thrones; north-west, the Cijara reservoir has empty beaches where Spanish families picnic without a Union Jack towel in sight. Both make handy Plan B should Fontanarejo’s silence start to feel eerie rather than relaxing.

The catch

There is little to “do” in the conventional sense. Rainy days reduce the entertainment options to watching the baker’s television or re-reading the dog-eared copy of Don Quixote someone left in your cottage. Mobile signal is patchy on EE and Vodafone; Whatsatchat addicts should sit on the church steps and wave their phone at the sky. If you crave nightlife, artisan gin or even a cashpoint, aim for Toledo an hour away. Fontanarejo offers none of these, and the locals like it that way.

Book for two nights minimum—owners simply refuse single nights—and arrive with snacks if your ETA is between 14:00 and 17:00 when everything shuts. Bring walking boots, a star chart and a sense of rhythm slowed to Spanish rural time. Do that, and the cockcrow alarm clock starts to feel like the most civilised wake-up call you’ve ever had.