Puebla de Don Rodrigo

The church bell strikes noon and the only response is a dog barking somewhere near the olive press. In Puebla de Don Rodrigo, population 1,147, this counts as rush hour. The village squats at 496 metres above sea level on the southern lip of the Montes de Toledo, close enough to the provincial capital of Ciudad Real for a 45-minute drive, yet far enough that satellite navigation still questions the turn-off from the CM-412.

This is not postcard Spain. The houses are white, yes, but their walls carry the bruises of hot summers and sharp frosts. Shutters hang slightly askew; elderly men still wear berets without irony. What the place offers instead is a functioning agricultural calendar that hasn't changed much since Archbishop Don Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada attached his name to the settlement in the thirteenth century. Wheat, olives, pigs, sheep. Repeat.

The Arithmetic of Dehesa

Walk ten minutes south of the plaza and the cobbles give way to a track that disappears into dehesa – the open oak woodland that acts as Spain's most extensive free-range larder. Holm and cork oaks are spaced just far enough apart to let sunlight reach the grass, so pigs, sheep and the occasional fighting bull can fatten simultaneously. From October to March the trees drop acorns; local Iberian hoovers convert the fruit into the marbled jamón that fetches €90 a kilo in Madrid. You won't pay that here. The butcher on Calle San Antón charges €28 for paleta, the shoulder cut, and will slice it while you wait.

Early mornings smell of wild thyme and cold dust. Golden eagles use the thermals above the ridge; if you sit quietly by the ruined stone hut at Fuente del Pino you can watch them eyeing the rabbits. Bring binoculars, water, and a second layer – altitude turns summer dawns chilly. The round-trip path to the hut is 7 km with 200 m of ascent, nothing technical, but mobile reception vanishes after the first kilometre. Download the route beforehand.

What Passes for High Street

The centre is a single T-junction. One arm ends at the brick-and-stone bulk of Nuestra Señora de la Antigua; the other peters out by the municipal swimming pool, open July to August and free to residents. Between the two sit a chemist, two bars, a bakery that runs out of bread by 11 a.m., and an agricultural co-op selling everything from tractor axles to newborn chicks. If you need cash, the Santander ATM inside the supermarket charges €1.75 per withdrawal and has been known to run dry before fiesta weekend.

Coffee comes thick, bitter and €1.20. Order a cortado in Bar California and the barman will ask whether you want it "con hielo" even in February – locals treat ice cubes as a food group. They will also assume you are tracking windmills for Don Quixote purposes. Politely explain that those lie 120 km east in Campo de Criptana and conversation returns to rainfall, the only subject that genuinely quickens pulses.

When the Village Lets its Hair Down

Mid-August turns logic upside down. The fiesta in honour of the Virgin brings back emigrants from Barcelona, Bilbao and, mysteriously, Bradford. Suddenly the population triples, the plaza fills with folding tables, and the night air smells of saffron and diesel from the generator powering the dodgems. On the final evening a man in a felt cape rides a horse through a corridor of fireworks; the tradition is called "La Pisa" and the horse invariably wins. Earplugs advised; hotel rooms impossible unless booked before Easter.

May is gentler. The romería to the Ermita de la Virgen de Sopetrán involves a 5-km procession behind a brass band, everyone carrying picnic hampers of tortilla and cold migas. By noon the shrine courtyard resembles a giant outdoor living room: grandparents nap on shawls, teenagers compare Instagram stories, someone produces a guitar that is only slightly out of tune. No tickets, no timetable, no souvenirs.

Eating Like You're Expected to Stay

The village has one proper restaurant, Mesón Los Palomares, open Friday evening through Sunday lunch. Order the perdiz estofada (partridge stew) and you get half a bird, its legs muscly from dodging shotguns, submerged in tomato, bay and a respectable splash of local Tempranillo. A plate feeds two; the kitchen will not split it, so bring appetite or negotiating skills. Starters revolve around morcilla de Burgos or salmorejo; puddings are either flan or flan.

Outside restaurant hours the bars serve raciones. Try the fried borraja (borage) – a green that tastes like cucumber and is only available between March and early May. Cheese comes from the cooperative at neighbouring Puerto Lápice: semi-cura sheep's milk, nutty, slightly oily, €14 a kilo to take away. Wash it down with Valdepeñas wine sold by the glass for €1.50; the bodega is 40 km south but local loyalty runs deep.

Vegetarians face slim pickings. Even the chips are often fried in pork fat; ask "¿está frito en aceite vegetal?" and expect a puzzled shrug. Best fallback is tortilla española – potato omelette – served at room temperature with supermarket white bread. Vegans should bring supplies.

Where to Sleep Without Matching Florals

Accommodation totals three options. Los Gananes, on the road out towards the CM-412, offers six rooms in a converted grain store. Beams are original; Wi-Fi reaches the downstairs lounge but not the bedrooms; breakfast includes churros made by the owner’s mother. Weekend price hovers around €85 for a double, mid-week €65. Book via TripAdvisor or phone (+34 926 69 20 66); emails go unanswered.

Alternatively, HomeRez lists a three-bedroom villa with pool 2 km south of the village. The photographs flatter – the pool is smaller than it appears and the garden merges into an olive grove patrolled by a territorial peacock – but the kitchen has a dishwasher and the nightly rate drops to €90 if you stay a full week. Essential transport: the last 800 m are dirt track, lethal after rain.

For a budget punt, the ayuntamiento runs a four-bed hostel above the sports hall. Beds are €12, sheets €3 extra, showers resemble a 1970s municipal changing room. Keys from the police station next door; officers knock off at 10 p.m. sharp.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Public transport is theoretical. One bus leaves Ciudad Real at 14:15, arrives 15:05, returns at 06:30 next morning. That's it, weekends included. Driving remains the only practical route: take the A-4 south from Madrid, peel off at Puerto Lápice, follow signs for the village across 28 km of curves. Petrol stations are scarce; fill up at the Repsol on the ring-road before you leave Ciudad Real.

Winter driving can surprise. At 496 m snow is rare but frost isn't; the final approach road ices over in January and February. Carry chains if travelling between December and March. Summer brings the opposite hazard: asphalt softens, tyres skid on the melted tar, and the interior of a parked car becomes a proving ground for cast-iron cookware.

The Honest Verdict

Puebla de Don Rodrigo will not change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no infinity pools, no artisan gin. What it does deliver is the chance to watch Spain function at agricultural speed: when the harvest ends, when the fiesta starts, when the church bell decides the day is over. If that sounds like inertia, stay in Córdoba. If it sounds like breathing space, come mid-week in late September when the acorns drum on corrugated roofs and the evening air smells of wood smoke and newly pressed olive oil. Bring walking boots and a phrasebook; leave the selfie stick at home.