Fuertescusa

The Village That Learnt to Whistle

Stand in Fuertescusa's stone-paved square at 9 p.m. and you'll hear it: a low, two-note whistle bouncing between the timber balconies. It's not a local code, merely the kettle at La Casa Grande calling last orders for coffee. Fifty residents, one café, zero streetlights. When the whistle stops, the village belongs to nightjars and the occasional Iberian hare.

At 950 m above the Manchegan plains, Fuertescusa sits high enough to escape summer's furnace yet low enough to keep winter habitable. The name translates roughly as "hard excuse" – allegedly what Moorish tax collectors demanded when villagers claimed poverty. These days the only thing you need to justify is the petrol spent reaching the place. Fill up before abandoning the A-3; the final 25 km along the CM-210 wriggle upward through rosemary-scented scrub and leave the gauge hovering above red.

Stone, Silence and the Smell of Pine

Houses huddle shoulder-to-shoulder, their granite corners rounded by centuries of northerly gales. Timber doors still wear iron fittings forged in the village forge – now a garage whose owner doubles as mayor, plumber and emergency taxi to the health centre 35 minutes away. Walk the single main lane at siesta time and shutters vibrate in the wind; no other sound except your boots on schist.

Above the roofs the church tower keeps watch, plain-faced, its bell cast in 1783 and cracked in 1938. Restoration funds ran out, so the priest rings a hand-held ship's bell instead. Sunday service draws twelve parishioners if the goat herd's knee isn't playing up. Visitors are welcomed with the same curiosity afforded to migrating storks; expect questions about rainfall in Worcestershire and whether British supermarkets really sell pre-peeled oranges.

Paths Where Maps Give Up

Leave the church porch, turn right past the red postbox that hasn't been emptied since 2011, and a web of shepherd tracks unrolls towards the Río Lobos canyon. Markers exist – occasional paint flashes, cairns the size of grapefruits – but the confident stride comes from downloading the free Guía Cuenca App while you still have 4G. Pine plantations alternate with wild rosemary and the odd abandoned threshing circle where eagles perch like surly sentries.

The classic circuit drops 400 m to the river, crosses a medieval pack-bridge, then climbs back through junipers to the village mirador. Allow three hours, carry a litre of water per person and start early; afternoon thermals can rocket to 35 °C even in May. Mountain-bikers share the trail: smile, step aside, resist the urge to point out their tyres are wider than the path's entire history.

Come October the forest floor erupts with saffron milk-caps and trumpet-shaped níscalos. Locals carry wicker baskets and opinel knives; outsiders with plastic bags are politely redirected to the picnic area. Join a guided foray run by La Casa Grande (€25 including tasting) unless you can distinguish edible from "interesting last supper".

Food Meant for Field Hands

Evenings centre on the hotel terrace, sunset bleeding across the Cuenca sierras while griffon vultures ride thermals home. The menu is short, written on a blackboard lugged out from the kitchen; when the chalk runs out, dinner ends. Starters might be tiznao – salt-cod and potato salad sharpened with smoked paprika – or grilled goat cheese drizzled with local honey that tastes of thyme and iron. Mains arrive in pans big enough to bathe a toddler: gazpacho manchego (a game stew, nothing to do with cold tomato soup) or a T-bone the colour of Burgundy. Portions are designed for people who spent daylight behind mules; find a friend or accept defeat.

Vegetarians aren't an afterthought, they're a novelty. The cook will cobble together pisto manchego – a thick ratatouille topped with a fried egg – but warns it "still comes with meat gravy, just no pieces". House red from Uclés tastes like someone squeezed blackberries into velvet; buy a bottle for the room (€9) because the village's single bar shuts when the last customer leaves, usually before ten.

When the Generator Thumps

Electricity reaches Fuertescusa via overhead cables strung across knife-edge ridges; winter storms snap them like cotton. Owners of holiday cottages wheel out diesel generators that thud through the night, drowning owls and rattling windows. Book a room at La Casa Grande – their backup system is quieter and breakfast happens even if the valley beyond is black. Bring a torch anyway; street-lighting is a full moon and good intentions.

Snow arrives sporadically between December and March, turning the access road into a bobsled run. Chains become compulsory within twenty minutes of the first flake; the Guardia Civil enjoy practising their tow-trace vocabulary on optimistic day-trippers. If the forecast mentions "cota 900 m", stay in Cuenca and visit the abstract art museum instead.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

There is no souvenir shop. Buy a wheel of semi-curado goat cheese from the dairy fridge at the hotel reception – it travels well wrapped in a sock and won't embarrass you at airport security. The nearest cash machine lurks 17 km away in Priego; the village trades in paper notes and IOUs scrawled on cigarette packets. Sunday lunchtime everything shutters; self-cater or reserve a table by Saturday night.

Drive away at dawn and you'll meet shepherds leading 200 merino sheep up the tarmac, dogs weaving between hooves and hubcaps. They'll wave you through with a nod, as if sharing a secret: Fuertescusa doesn't need visitors, but it tolerates those who understand the transaction – silence swapped for silence, stars for memory, hard ground for softer perspectives. The mobile signal reappears halfway down the pass; resist answering. Some excuses for staying disconnected are worth preserving.