Urda

A white line between holm oaks

At 763 metres, Urda sits just high enough for the plateau air to thin and the horizon to widen. The village appears suddenly after twenty kilometres of cork and holm oak: a single ridge of whitewashed houses that catches the late-afternoon light like a chalk mark across a green board. No motorway spur, no industrial estate, just the CM-410 road narrowing to a main street wide enough for one lorry and a handful of swallows.

British drivers arriving from Madrid usually overshoot the first turning; the sign is half-hidden by oleander and the font has not changed since the 1980s. Once inside, the pace drops to walking speed. A farmer in a Citroën C-15 van will gesture you past, but there is no hurry. The village clock strikes quarters whether anyone is listening or not.

Stone, bread and siesta

The Church of San Julián and Santa Basilisa anchors the highest point. Its tower is the only thing taller than the oaks, built from the same honey-coloured stone that the Moors quarried further down the slope. Inside, the temperature drops ten degrees; the smell is of candle wax and the previous Sunday's incense. Restoration stopped halfway down the south aisle in 2009 when the money ran out, so one arcade remains roped off, scaffolding dressed in plastic sheeting that flaps like a sail whenever the west door opens.

Below the church, the streets are a lattice of smooth cobbles and sudden flights of steps. Doorways are painted the traditional indigo or ox-blood to repel insects; geraniums in olive-oil tins add the only deliberate colour. By 14:00 the baker has sold the last revuelto pastries and pulled the metal shutter. Shops reopen at 17:00, or whenever the owner finishes the post-laundry chat. There is no ATM; the nearest cash machine is fifteen minutes away in Consuegra, so fill your wallet before you arrive. Cards are accepted at the single rural guesthouse, but the Saturday market stallholders prefer coins.

Walking the old drovers' web

Urda's best feature is the paths that radiate from the upper cemetery. These are the cañadas reales, the drove roads that once carried Merino sheep to winter pastures. Markers are erratic – a blaze of yellow paint here, a cairn there – but the routes are easy to follow if you remember that every track eventually drops into a valley with water. Spring brings rockrose and lavender; autumn brings mushrooms and the smell of wet earth. A circular walk to the abandoned Fuente de la Teja takes two hours, descends 200 metres, and ends at a stone trough where tadpoles swim in January. Take the OSM map offline; Vodafone coverage vanishes after the first ridge.

The mountains proper – the Montes de Toledo – rise another 400 metres to the south. Their crest is the provincial boundary; on a clear day you can see the windmills of Consuegra lined up like white sentries. Summer hikers should start early; by 11:00 the thermometer touches 34 °C and shade is scarce. In winter the same trails can be white with hoar frost, and the guesthouse pipes freeze. April and late-October are the comfortable months, when night temperatures stay above 5 °C and the midday sun still has authority.

Food without flourish

Evenings centre on the Plaza de España, a rectangle of cracked concrete shaded by three plane trees. The only bar open in winter sets tables outside when the thermometer allows; locals bring their own chairs if the terrace is full. The menu is written on a chalkboard and changes with the cook's mood. Migas manchegas arrives as a mound of fried breadcrumbs, chorizo and garlic; it costs €7 and is enough for two if you add a side of pimientos. The gazpacho de pastor is not the chilled Andalusian soup Brits expect but a thick game stew poured over bread – order the half portion unless you have walked fifteen kilometres. House red from Valdepeñas is €2.50 a glass and tastes like a lighter, fruitier Rioja; ask for "un tinto joven" and the barman will assume you know what you are doing.

Vegetarians survive on pisto manchego (a slow-cooked ratatouille topped with egg) and the local Manchego curado, sharp and nutty after twelve months in cave-like cellars. Cheese sells for €6 a wedge at the Saturday market; the same piece is €9 in Consuegra's souvenir shops. If you are self-catering, stock up before 13:00 on Saturday; Sunday options are crisps and tinned tuna from the filling-station opposite the cemetery.

Stars and silence

By 23:00 the square empties. Streetlights dim at midnight, part of the council's austerity package, and the Milky Way appears with a clarity that makes suburban Britons blink. There is no nightclub, no late churros van, only the church bell counting the hours and, somewhere beyond the last house, a dog that barks once and stops. Guests at the rural hostal discover that Wi-Fi struggles at 5 Mbps and the heating is oil-filled panels switched off at 01:00. Pack a paperback and a fleece.

When the village parties

Urda's calendar still pivots on the saints. The fiestas of San Julián and Santa Basilisa land on the last weekend of January; daytime highs hover around 8 °C, so the procession moves quickly. A brass band plays the same three pasodobles, sweets are thrown from the church steps, and everyone disappears indoors for caldo con pelotas (meatball broth). In mid-August the village doubles in size as grandchildren return from Madrid and Valencia. Bull-running in the side streets starts at 07:00; British visitors usually watch from the safety of the first-floor balcony lent by the baker. Neither event is staged for tourists, so do not expect bilingual programmes or padded seats.

Leaving without regret

Urda will not suit travellers who need a flat white before eight or a gift shop before departure. It offers instead a lesson in scale: a place small enough to learn in a day, large enough to keep returning to if quiet skies and oak-scented air are your currency. Drive away slowly; the farmer in the Citroën will still be gesturing you past, and the swallows will be back under the eaves, stitching the village to the sky with thread you cannot buy.