Megina

The road to Megina climbs 1,275 metres above sea level before the village appears, a cluster of stone houses clinging to a ridge like an afterthought. At this altitude, the air thins and the temperature drops five degrees below the valley floor. Mobile phones lose their minds here—one bar flickers in and out like a faulty torch—yet the night sky delivers 4K clarity without subscription.

This is the Señorío de Molina, a high plateau in Guadalajara province where winter arrives early and stays late. Snow can cut the village off for days; in July, midday sun still scorches despite the elevation. The handful of residents—31 on the last census, though locals claim closer to fifty when the grandchildren visit—have learned to live with these extremes. They keep freezers stocked, woodpiles higher than doorframes, and vehicles fuelled. Visitors should copy the habit: the nearest petrol station lies 29 kilometres away in Molina de Aragón, a forty-minute drive along switchbacks that demand daylight and nerves.

Stone, Silence and the Art of Self-Reliance

Megina’s streets are barely two metres wide, built for mules not motors. Granite walls sweat in summer and breathe frost in winter; wooden balconies sag under geraniums that somehow survive the altitude. There is no shop, no bar, no ATM. Groceries must be fetched from Checa, eleven kilometres down the mountain, before the 2 pm lunch closure. Forget popping out for milk: the village trades only in silence and views.

The parish church stands at the top of the hill, its bell tolling the hours for farmers who now commute to construction jobs in Tarancón. Inside, the air smells of wax and centuries. The altar cloth is embroidered with motifs of wheat and wolves—reminders that both once sustained life up here. Photography is allowed, but the elderly caretaker prefers donations in the discreet wooden box; coins clink louder than the bell itself.

Accommodation is limited to Las Aliagas, a row of seven apartments carved from a former grain store on the village edge. At £44 a night they offer underfloor heating, kitchenettes thick with stonework, and terraces that face east towards the Alto Tajo gorges. Book directly—third-party sites add twenty percent and the Wi-Fi drops halfway through the transaction anyway. Bring slippers; stone floors are unforgiving in the morning chill.

Walking Tracks Where Maps Run Out

From the last house a shepherd’s path drops into the Barranco del Buey, a ravine where junipers twist like arthritic fingers and griffon vultures ride thermals overhead. The descent is 300 metres in two kilometres; knees will complain on the return. Carry water—there are no fountains and the sun reflects off pale limestone with Alpine intensity. Mid-October colours the maples rust and gold; by December the same trail turns treacherous with ice that lingers in shadow until March.

For an easier circuit, follow the gravel lane west towards Peralejos de las Truchas. The track skirts fields of lavender and thyme planted by an organic co-op whose oil sells in London delis for £18 a bottle. Farmers here wave but rarely stop; they assume anyone walking for pleasure is either lost or English. Both assumptions are partly correct.

Serious hikers can link up with the GR-66 long-distance route, which crosses the plateau 5 kilometres north of the village. Markers are sporadic—cairns substitute for yellow dashes—and phone signal vanishes entirely in the valley bottoms. Download the IGN 1:25,000 map before leaving home; paper versions sell out in Molina and nobody stocks them in Checa.

Night Skies and Other Free Entertainment

Light pollution registers zero on the Bortle scale. Step outside at 11 pm on a clear night and the Milky Way arcs overhead like spilled sugar. Shooting stars appear every few minutes; satellites even more frequently. The village turns off its dozen streetlights at midnight—ask for the switch location if you’re photographing star trails. A basic DSLR, tripod and thirty-second exposure will capture nebulae your retina barely notices.

Winter nights drop to minus eight; thermals and ski gloves are not overkill. Summer brings Perseid meteors in August, though the village fiesta overlaps and fireworks can bleach the sky for twenty minutes. Locals insist the display honours Nuestra Señora de la Asunción; astronomers might call it light trespass.

Food That Arrives When It Arrives

There is no menu in Megina. Meals happen when someone slaughters a lamb or shoots a rabbit. Visitors staying at Las Aliagas can preorder cocido, a mountain stew of chickpeas, morcilla and salted pork, delivered in a clay pot large enough for two hungry walkers. Price varies with meat markets—expect €18–22 per portion, cash only. Vegetarians receive tortilla so thick it needs two plates; vegans should cook for themselves.

The nearest restaurant is in Checa: Casa Juan serves roast suckling lamb on Sundays, €24 for a half portion that still defeats most appetites. Book by Thursday; the chef buys livestock alive on Friday morning. House red comes from Cuenca province—lighter than Rioja, drinkable by the half-litre without morning remorse. They close promptly at 5 pm; the cook drives back up to Megina for evening milking.

Leaving Before the Road Leaves You

Check weather, not just forecasts. A late-April storm can dump 20 cm of snow and the CM-210 becomes a toboggan run. Spanish hire cars rarely carry winter tyres; chains are compulsory in the mountains from November to March but rental desks at Madrid airport forget to mention this. Police blockades turn visitors back at the junction near Checa—no refund on empty apartments.

Spring arrives late: wild daffodils peak in May, not March. Autumn is the sweet spot—warm days, cool nights, mushrooms pushing through pine needles if October rains cooperate. Whichever season you choose, fill the tank in Tarancón, buy bread in Checa, and switch the phone to aeroplane mode. Megina works best when you arrive prepared to miss it after you leave.