Carrascosa

The church bell tolls twice, though it's Thursday morning and barely twenty people are within earshot. That's Carrascosa: a village where every sound carries across the pine-clad ridges of the Serranía Alta, and where the population count drops to sixty-eight once summer visitors head home. At 1,150 metres above sea level—higher than Ben Nevis's summit—this scatter of stone houses sits squarely in Spain's empty quarter, a two-hour crawl from Valencia's beaches and worlds away from the Costas' bustle.

Drive the CM-2106 from Cuenca and the thermometer falls as the road climbs. Oak gives way to Scots pine, the air thins, and mobile signal flickers out just when you need GPS most. The final kilometre snakes along a ridge so narrow that meeting a delivery van means inching backwards to the last passing bay. Pull in, wind down the window, and you'll understand why hikers speak of "the Carrascosa silence"—a hush broken only by wind through resinous branches and the distant clank of a sheep bell.

Life on a Ridge

Stone walls, timber stacks, chimney smoke: the village reads like a textbook on high-altitude survival. Roofs pitch steeply for winter snow, doorways face south to grab every photon of weak sun, and the single shop keeps winter opening hours even in July. Stock up before you arrive—bread, milk, decent coffee—because the nearest supermarket lies 27 kilometres away in Cuenca capital, and the lone village store shuts at 1 p.m. on Wednesdays. There is no petrol station; fill the tank in Beteta or risk a nervy descent in second gear with the fuel light flashing.

Accommodation comes in the form of three privately owned casas rurales, none bookable through the big platforms. Ring ahead: the owners live in Cuenca and need 24 hours' notice to drive up with keys. Expect stone floors that suck the heat from bare feet, wood-burners instead of central heating, and water pressure that dwindles when everyone showers at once. Nights are cold even in August; pack the same fleece you'd take to Snowdonia. Frost is possible any month with an "r" in it, and snow can block the access road for days—glorious if you're stocked up, a nightmare if you're not.

Walking Without Waymarks

Carrascosa sits on a web of old mule tracks that once linked hill-top hamlets before asphalt arrived. None are signed in English; a Spanish IGN map at 1:25,000 scale is worth its weight in gold. The easiest route follows the forest road south-east to Armallones (6 km, 200 m ascent), where Casa Gerardo serves gachas manchegas—paprika-spiked porridge that tastes better than it sounds—at weekends only. More ambitious walkers can continue along the ridge to the source of the River Cuervo, a 14-km round trip that passes the abandoned hamlet of Villalba de la Sierra and offers a dip in crystalline pools if the day's warm enough.

Spring brings carpets of crocus and the first bee-eaters; autumn turns the oak to copper and sends locals mushrooming with wicker baskets and grandfather knives. Spanish law is strict: pick only what you can identify, stay on public land, and never uproot a specimen. Foreigners have been fined for wandering onto private pine plantations—maps show boundaries, so check before you step off the track. Dawn and dusk give the best chance of spotting roe deer or hearing wild boar rustle through the undergrowth; carry a torch even for daytime hikes, as darkness drops like a stone once the sun slips behind the western ridge.

What Passes for Entertainment

There is no pub, no café terrace, no boutique selling local pottery. Entertainment is DIY: a bottle of wine on the church steps as swifts wheel overhead, or an early start to photograph the village floating above a sea of cloud. Once a year, usually the second weekend of August, the population quadruples for the fiesta patronal. A marquee goes up in the plaza, a disco powered by a temperamental generator plays Spanish pop until 3 a.m., and the village butcher roasts a whole pig in an iron cradle. Visitors are welcome—turn up, buy a €5 raffle ticket, and you'll be handed a plate of pork, bread and the local queso de oveja faster than you can say "¡gracias!".

The rest of the year, social life revolves around the church and the occasional delivery van. Bread arrives Tuesday and Friday at 11:30; the fish van pulls in on Thursday afternoons to the blast of its own horn. Locals greet the driver by name, swap mountain weather gossip, and disappear with white plastic bags. Stand around looking foreign and someone will practise school-day English on you—usually "Where you from?" followed by "Very cold here, no?"

Practicalities Your Phone Won't Tell You

Mobile coverage is patchy. Vodafone and Movistar grab a bar on the main square; EE and Three users should assume a digital detox. Download offline maps before leaving Cuenca, and screenshot your booking confirmation—QR codes won't load at altitude. Cash is king: the nearest ATM is in Beteta, 20 minutes down the mountain, and the casas rurales want payment in envelopes, not cards. Bring small notes; nobody wants to change a €50 for two nights' stay.

Driving advice from Brits who've learnt the hard way: treat the CM-2106 like a Scottish single-track with better tarmac. Honk before blind bends, keep tyres away from the crumbling verge, and descend in a low gear to save brakes. If snow is forecast, chains are compulsory—Guardia Civil turn cars around at the first flurry. In summer, the asphalt softens and smells of pine resin; engine coolant temperatures climb, so top up in Cuenca before the climb.

Finally, pack tea bags if you cannot face instant coffee, and download a Spanish offline dictionary. English is spoken less here than in Madrid's back-street tapas bars, but a smile and "Buenos días" open doors faster than any phrasebook. Carrascosa offers nothing in the way of conventional attractions, yet delivers something increasingly rare: a Spanish village that functions for its own inhabitants first, and for visitors only if they're willing to fit in. Bring curiosity, sturdy boots and a full larder—then enjoy the quiet.