Villanueva de Alcorón

The CM-210 regional road doesn't so much arrive at Villanueva de Alcorón as give up. One moment you're navigating hairpin bends through ochre-coloured scarps, the next the tarmac widens just enough for a tractor to turn round. At 1,250 metres above sea level, this is where Castilla-La Mancha remembers it's supposed to be a plateau, then thinks better of it.

With 140 permanent residents—fewer than most London restaurants seat for Sunday lunch—the village occupies a sweet spot between accessibility and nowhere. Madrid's Barajas airport lies ninety minutes west, yet the only traffic jam you're likely to encounter involves sheep being moved between pastures. Mobile signal drops to one bar by the time you spot the first stone houses, which is precisely the point.

Stone, Adobe and the Art of Staying Put

No one comes here for architectural fireworks. The Iglesia de San Pedro Apóstol squats at the village's highest point like a weather-beaten bulldog, its limestone blocks quarried from the same ground they stand on. Round the back, worn gravestones list at tipsy angles, recording generations who found no compelling reason to leave. Their houses follow suit: thick walls the colour of digestive biscuits, tiny windows punched deep to keep out January's knife-edge wind, and wooden doors that close with a satisfying thunk last heard in British black-and-white films.

Wander the two main streets—there's no need for more—and you'll notice the adaptations of high-altitude living. Eaves project further than seems necessary until you realise they shelter winter firewood stacks. Every other doorway reveals a walled garden no bigger than a Bristol allotment, yet packed with rocket, lettuces and the obligatory quince tree. The British obsession with garden centres would wither here; plants grow or they don't, and no one wastes water coaxing prima-donna exotics.

Tuesday mornings reveal the village's ruthless efficiency. By eleven the bakery has sold its last tortas de Alcorón—soft aniseed buns that taste like hot cross buns without the fruit—and pulled the metal shutter down. The grocery, barely wider than a railway carriage, stays shut all day. Plan accordingly, or you'll be explaining to hungry children why lunch consists of the emergency crisps you keep in the hire-car door pocket.

The Sink-Hole that Outclasses the Village

Three kilometres south, a minor road signed "Sima de Alcorón" deteriorates into a farm track. Park where the gravel widens and walk the remaining 400 metres to discover why every British visitor mentions the same thing. The ground simply stops: a limestone chasm 60 metres across and 120 deep, its walls banded like a ruined amphitheatre. Juniper trees cling to fissures; kestrels ride thermals rising from the shadowy floor. Unlike Cheddar Gorge, there's no ticket office, no interpretation centre, no safety fence worthy of the name. Peer over, feel your stomach lurch, and understand why one TripAdvisor reviewer called it "a secret mini-Grand Canyon without the coach parties".

The geology lesson continues if you follow the signed footpath along the rim. Within thirty minutes the track drops into a dry valley where wild thyme scents the air and the only sound is your boots crunching on calcite shards. Add another hour and you'll reach the banks of the River Tajo, still a modest stream this far upstream, fringed with poplars rattling like old bones in the breeze. Take Ordnance Survey expectations and abandon them: paths peter out, waymarks appear every kilometre rather than every hundred metres, and the ordinariness of getting temporarily lost is part of the deal.

When the Weather Makes the Decisions

Spring arrives late at this altitude; frost can nip as late as May. Visit in April and you'll find almond blossom lingering while lambs chase each other across meadows still patched with snow. October delivers the region's finest hour: clear skies, temperatures in the low twenties, and the quejigo oaks turning the colour of burnt toffee. British half-term week coincides with mushroom season—locals wielding wicker baskets will nod approvingly if you ask permission before foraging, then ignore you completely.

Winter divides opinion. Snow transforms the paramo into a monochrome study worthy of a wartime documentary, but the CM-210 can ice over faster than you can say "all-weather tyres". Accommodation options shrink to a handful of casas rurales whose owners expect you to cope if the power fails. Bring cards, wine and a sense of humour, because Netflix isn't happening.

Summer nights compensate for blazing afternoons. At 9 p.m. the thermometer finally drops to a civilised 24°C, perfect for sitting on the village bench with a €1.20 caña from Bar Alcórón, watching swifts stitch the sky. The bar's owner, Manolo, will produce a plate of Manchego curado aged twelve months—nothing like the supermarket version—then refuse payment because "you're eating with your drink". Try that in Marbella.

Practicalities for the Unprepared

Fill the petrol tank before leaving the A-3 motorway; the nearest fuel station lies 35 kilometres away in Molina de Aragón, and it closes at 9 p.m. Cash is king—bring euros because the village has no ATM and the bar's card machine works only when it feels like it. Accommodation choices are slim: Casa Rural La Alcazaba offers three bedrooms, thick stone walls and a wood-burner that turns the living room into a sauna if you overdo it. Book directly; the owner's English stretches to "hello" and "breakfast at eight", which covers everything necessary.

Dining options expand if you widen the radius. Ten minutes down the road, the Hotel-Balneario de Olmedillo de Alcorón occupies a former spa where iron-rich water once attracted arthritic grandees. These days the restaurant serves robust mountain food—lamb shoulder slow-roasted until it sighs off the bone, and gachas, a shepherd's porridge of flour, water and pork fat that puts northern oatcakes to shame. Order the house red from Uclés vineyards; at €6 a bottle it's cheaper than the Rioja back home and slips down like Beaujolais with backbone.

Leave before dawn on your final morning and you'll understand why Villanueva de Alcorón stays quiet. The Milky Way spills across the sky with a clarity impossible south of the Pennines. A dog barks once, then thinks better of breaking the silence. Somewhere a tractor coughs into life, its headlamps crawling across the hillside like a distant ship. The village doesn't do farewells; it simply lets the dark swallow you up, confident you'll tell the story wrong anyway.