Villel de Mesa

At 970 m above sea level, Villel de Mesa announces itself with a roadside thermometer that locals swear once read –24 °C. That was an unusually bitter night, but the village still competes most winters for the title of “coldest place in Spain”. Frost feathers the cereal stubble until late morning; the wind that scuds across the Mesa river gorge carries the metallic smell of snow even when the sky is cobalt. Bring a fleece in July and you may still be grateful after sunset.

The village squats where the southern edge of the Sistema Ibérico drops into the canyon of the river Mesa, 125 km north-east of Madrid. From the final bend of the CM-2104 the houses appear almost accidental: stone cubes huddled on a narrow ridge, their terracotta roofs jammed together like badly stacked cards. There is no dramatic plaza mayor, no mirador framed by geraniums—just a single bar that opens on Saturday lunchtimes and the blunt tower of the parish church, its masonry pitted by two centuries of hail.

Inside the church the air smells of candle wax and damp sandstone. The altarpiece is plain pine, painted a dull vermilion that has flaked in exactly the places where generations of farmers have rested their palms. No admission charge, no audioguide—just a notice asking visitors to close the door against swallows. The building’s real treasure is acoustic: stand at the font and speak normally; your voice reaches the rafters as though the stone itself is listening.

Tracks, not postcards

Walk fifty paces beyond the last house and the plateau fractures into ochre cliffs. A network of unsignposted livestock paths links Villel de Mesa to hamlets that do not appear on most Google zoom levels. The GR-90 long-distance footpath passes within 4 km, but the village’s own trails are more rudimentary: stone cairns, the occasional splash of faded yellow paint, and the understanding that you might meet a shepherd on a quad bike who will point the way with his dog stick.

One straightforward circuit drops 300 m to the river, crosses a medieval pack-bridge of black slate, then climbs back through thyme and espino candela. The whole round takes two hours, yet the ascent is steady enough for anyone who manages Kinder Scout without tears. Griffon vultures ride the thermals overhead; in April the hillside is stippled with wild tulips the colour of burnt orange. Take water—there is none en route—and do not rely on phone coverage; the canyon swallows EE signal as efficiently as it does sound.

If you prefer four wheels to two feet, the CM-2104 continues north to Algar de Mesa, a hamlet whose population is even lower. The road corkscrews down inside the canyon; stone retaining walls bulge outward like old textbooks on a damp shelf. Stop at the mirador halfway and you can watch the evening sun ignite the opposite cliff, turning the limestone the colour of Bristol Cream sherry. Then drive back before dusk—deer emerge at dusk and they have not learned the Green Cross Code.

What passes for supper

Villel de Mesa itself offers no restaurant, no pintxos trail, no Saturday market. The nearest supermarket is a Día in Sigüenza, 35 km south, so self-caterers should stock up on the drive in. What the village does grow is wheat, lamb and rosemary; local honey carries a faint resinous note that works surprisingly well on morning toast. If you are staying in one of the three village cottages, the owner will usually leave a jar on the kitchen table together with half a cured sheep’s cheese—sharp, granular, closer to Pecorino than to the mild Manchego sold in British supermarkets.

For a sit-down meal you drive to Cifuentes (20 min) or to Sigüenza. Both towns serve ternasco, the regional roast lamb that uses milk-fed animals barely a month old. The meat is paler than UK lamb, almost veal-like, and arrives in a wide earthenware dish with only its own juices for sauce. Expect to pay €18–22 for a shoulder that feeds two; potatoes are extra and salads tend to be iceberg plus grated carrot, so adjust expectations accordingly.

Vegetarians are not forgotten, but they need to ask. Gachas manchegas—literally “mush”—sounds unpromising, yet a well-made version, thickened with wild mushrooms and sweet paprika, tastes like a Spanish take on savoury porridge. Wash it down with the local young Tempranillo; at 12.5 % it is light enough for anyone who normally chooses rosé.

When the cold returns

Most visitors come in May or September, when daytime temperatures hover round 22 °C and the wind carries the scent of flowering broom. Mid-winter has a different appeal: brilliant light, empty trails, and the possibility—rare elsewhere in Spain—of genuine sledging. The village keeps three plastic toboggans in a shed by the playground; children borrow them on trust and return them when the snow melts. On the Feast of the Epiphany the priest blesses the fields with holy water sprinkled from a green plastic watering can, an act that feels older than the church itself.

Accommodation closes in deep winter unless you book ahead. Casa Rural El Tranco has under-floor heating and a wood-burning stove made from an old olive-oil drum; weekends cost €90 for the whole house, mid-week €60. The owner, Marisol, leaves a thermos of caldo (meat broth) on the doorstep if the night temperature is forecast below –8 °C. She also warns guests not to park under the walnut tree—jackdaws drop stones on roofs for sport.

Leaving the mesa

Drive out at dawn and the plateau looks like a sea frozen mid-swell. Stone walls divide the wheat into irregular polygons; lone holm oaks cast shadows long enough to measure in kilometres. The thermometer outside the last farmhouse flickers between –2 °C and 0 °C, numbers pulsing like a cautious heart. By the time you reach the A-2 the air has softened, Madrid’s skyscrapers glint 90 km away, and the memory of Villel de Mesa already feels sharpened by cold.

Come back? Only if you remember to fill the boot with food, download an offline map and pack that extra fleece. The village will still be there, half-empty, wind-scoured, indifferent to whether you ever arrived at all.