El Pozuelo

The Road That Shrinks the World

The asphalt stops pretending to be important after Cuenca. Past the provincial capital, the A-40 becomes the CM-2106, then simply "the road to El Pozuelo"—a ribbon of tarmac that corkscrews through pine forests where wild boar outnumber humans. At 1,200 metres above sea level, mobile phone signals surrender to geography. This is where Spain's emptiest province keeps its secrets.

El Pozuelo appears suddenly, a cluster of stone houses clinging to a ridge like they've grown there. Forty-three permanent residents. One bar that opens when someone's thirsty. A church tower that serves as the village's only skyscraper. The 21st century feels theoretical here; neighbours still judge time by church bells and seasons, not notifications and deadlines.

Stone Walls and Thicker Skins

The architecture doesn't apologise for practicality. Granite walls sixty centimetres thick keep January's -10°C outside where it belongs. Arabic tiles, heavy enough to withstand mountain winds, create a patchwork roofscape that photographs beautifully at 7am when the sun hits just so. Every house bears the scars of adaptation—medieval foundations, 19th-century extensions, satellite dishes bolted on like afterthoughts.

Walking the single main street takes four minutes if you're brisk. Longer if Doña María emerges from her doorway to discuss the weather. The conversation will cover rainfall statistics, her grandson in Madrid, and why British people insist on hiking in shorts during hailstorms. She's usually right about the weather.

The church of San Pedro occupies the village's highest point, not for spiritual symbolism but because flat ground is precious here. Built in 1787 after the previous structure collapsed during a particularly enthusiastic Easter procession, its modest dimensions reflect both poverty and pragmatism. The bell tower doubles as the village mobile phone mast—progress wearing tradition's clothes.

What the Brochures Don't Mention

The surrounding Sierra de Cuenca offers walking routes that exist mainly in local knowledge and Ordnance Survey-style maps sold at the Cuenca tourist office. Marked trails? Signposts? El Pozuelo laughs at such urban conceits. The PR-CU 71 starts behind the church, climbs through Scots pine forest, and after three kilometres reaches Cerro de San Felipe. On clear days, you can see the Mediterranean glittering 150 kilometres away. More often, you see clouds beneath your feet.

Winter transforms these paths into something approaching serious mountaineering. Snow arrives in November, stays until March, and turns every walk into a navigation exercise. The village becomes inaccessible during heavy falls; residents stockpile food like siege survivors. Spring brings mud that swallows boots whole. Summer, blessedly, offers perfect hiking weather—20°C at midday, cool breezes, zero crowds.

Wildlife doesn't perform on schedule. Roe deer appear at dawn, griffon vultures circle on thermals around 11am, wild boar raid rubbish bins after midnight. Patient observers might spot golden eagles or the increasingly rare Iberian lynx. Everyone hears the nightingales in April, whether they want to or not.

The Tyranny of Distance

Getting here requires commitment. From Madrid's Atocha station, the high-speed train reaches Cuenca in 55 minutes. Then reality intervenes. The daily bus leaves Cuenca at 2:30pm, arrives in El Pozuelo at 4:15pm after stopping at every village along the CM-2106. Miss it and you're hiring a car or sleeping in Cuenca. Taxi drivers quote €80 for the 67-kilometre journey—mountain roads, they explain, while miming gear changes.

Driving means navigating the CM-2106's 365 curves between Cuenca and El Pozuelo. The road achieves a gradient of 12% in places, narrow enough to make passing lorries an exercise in faith. Winter tyres are non-negotiable from October onwards. Sat-nav systems have been known to achieve nervous breakdowns here; Google Maps once directed a Belgian camper van up a forestry track where it remained stuck for three days.

Eating Without Choice

The village's lone shop opens Tuesday and Friday mornings, selling tinned goods, overpriced wine, and gossip. Fresh bread arrives Thursday. For anything approaching gastronomic choice, residents drive 35 kilometres to Buendía, population 414, which boasts two supermarkets and a pharmacy that stocks more than aspirin.

Self-catering becomes less choice than necessity. The nearest restaurant, Casa Julian in Villalba de la Sierra, serves excellent morteruelo (game pâté) and ajo arriero (salt cod and garlic spread) but requires booking three days ahead—they buy ingredients based on confirmed reservations. The set menu costs €18 including wine, roughly what Londoners pay for two flat whites.

Local specialities reflect altitude and poverty. Gachas conquenses, a thick porridge of flour, water, and whatever vegetables survive the growing season, sustained families through centuries of thin harvests. Modern versions include chorizo and paprika, transforming survival food into comfort food. Wild mushroom season brings temporary wealth—níscalos sell for €40 per kilo at Cuenca's Saturday market, assuming you don't eat them first.

When Silence Becomes Loud

August transforms everything. The village's population swells to perhaps 200 as descendants return from Madrid, Barcelona, even Manchester. Suddenly there's noise, traffic, queues for bread. The annual fiesta involves three days of sustained celebration, outdoor discos that finish at 6am, and communal paellas requiring 50-kilogram pans. Residents who spend eleven months craving company spend August craving solitude.

The rest of the year offers something increasingly precious: genuine quiet. Not curated spa silence or meditation app quiet, but the real absence of human noise. No traffic, no music, no voices carrying from neighbouring flats. Just wind through pines, occasional church bells, and the realisation that most of us have forgotten what silence actually sounds like.

The Honest Truth

El Pozuelo isn't for everyone. The altitude makes alcohol hit harder and hangovers last longer. Mobile reception requires standing in specific spots, adopting specific poses. The nearest A&E is 67 kilometres away along that serpentine road. Entertainment means bringing your own—books, conversation, willingness to sit still.

But for those seeking to understand Spain beyond the costas and city breaks, this granite village offers something increasingly rare: authenticity without performance. No gift shops selling "authentic" pottery made in China. No restaurants serving "traditional" food microwaved from frozen. Just 43 people living as their grandparents did, updated with solar panels and WhatsApp.

Come prepared. Bring cash—cards are theoretical here. Pack walking boots and woollens even in August. Download offline maps. Most importantly, abandon schedules. El Pozuelo runs on solar time, not Greenwich Mean Time. The village has spent centuries resisting change; it won't speed up for your weekend break.