Las Majadas

The bakery van arrives at half past nine. By ten, the only sound is diesel fading down the mountain and the clink of a single coffee cup in Bar La Vega. At 1,393 metres, Las Majadas is already cooler than the baking plain two hours south, and the air carries pine resin rather than olive dust. This is Castilla-La Mancha, but not the one sold in tourist brochures—no vineyards, no Don Quixote windmills, just a grey-stone grid of houses glued to a ridge that feels closer to the Pyrenees than La Mancha.

A village that measure altitude in attitude

Drive up the CM-2105 from Cuenca and the thermometer drops a degree every ten minutes. By the time the road corkscrews into the village, the thermometer has shed eight degrees and the verges have turned from thyme and holm oak to Scots pine and bilberry. August afternoons here peak at 26°C—fleece weather for anyone arriving from the Costas—and night temperatures regularly dip below 10°C even in July. Winter is another story: snow can cut the pass for days, and locals keep shovels stacked by front doors the way seaside towns keep flip-flops.

The architecture follows the climate: small windows, massive lintels, roofs pitched steep enough to shrug off snow. Most houses are built from the same limestone they stand on, so the whole village looks as if it has been quarried rather than constructed. There is no town square worth the name; instead, narrow lanes tilt towards the church of San Pedro, a modest sixteenth-century rebuild that squints over a precipice into the pine void. Inside, the air smells of wax and burnt pinecones—cheap heating for Sunday mass.

Walking without way-marked whimsy

Forget themed trails with colour-coded arrows. Routes start where tarmac ends. Head north past the last streetlamp and a stony track drops into the Hoz de la Veguilla, a ravine where griffon vultures tilt on thermals and the only soundtrack is your own breathing. After 40 minutes the path splits: left for the Cerro de la Mojina summit (three hours, 360-degree views as far as the Cuenca skyline), right for the Callejones de las Majadas, a labyrinth of crevices locals call “the alleyways”.

These limestone gashes are toddler-wide in places; adults must turn sideways, rucksack held above head, while sunlight stripes the stone like prison bars. Kids treat it as a natural assault course; geologists mutter about karst erosion and million-year-old seabeds. The full loop is 3.6 km, way-marked by 89 wooden posts that look suspiciously new compared with the rock itself. Go early—by 11:00 Spanish school parties arrive from Cuenca and the hush is broken by echoing shrieks.

Further out, the GR-66 long-distance footpath skirts the village. A there-and-back section to the abandoned hamlet of Villar de la Encina takes four hours, passes two stone shepherd huts and crosses exactly zero roads. Mobile signal dies after the first kilometre; download the track beforehand or enjoy being gloriously lost.

Food that remembers the flock

The weekly menu at Bar La Vega is written on a blackboard that still says “viernes” even when it’s Monday. Expect cordero al pastor—lamb slow-cooked with pine branches until the meat slips off the bone—and migas pastoriles, fried breadcrumbs laced with chorizo and grapes. Portions are built for men who have walked ridges all morning; half-raciones are available if you ask before the cook starts. A plate costs €9, wine from Cuenca’s own bodega another €2.20. Pudding is usually cuajada, sheep’s-milk curd drizzled with mountain honey sharp enough to make your tongue tingle.

Self-caterers should shop before arrival. The village grocer opens 09:00–13:00, stocks UHT milk, tinned beans and little else. The bakery van brings crusty loaves on weekdays; catch it by the church or wave frantically on the bend. Tragacete, 20 km east, has the nearest proper supermarket—use it.

Seasons measured in silence and bells

April brings almond blossom and the first swallows, but also the fiercest winds. May is peak walking weather: daylight until 21:00, streams still running, wild peonies splashing red among the pines. June turns the undergrowth crisp; by July the risk is forest fire, and smoking on paths is fined €600. Autumn is mushroom season; pick níscalos (saffron milk-caps) legally with a €6 regional permit sold online, or join the local micología club that meets at the ayuntamiento every Saturday in October. They’ll check your basket and confiscate anything undersized—no arguments.

Winter empties the place. Population drops below 200, dogs outnumber humans, and the church bell counts the hours just to prove someone is still listening. If snow blocks the CM-2105, the Guardia Civil closes the barrier at Villalba de la Sierra—stock up on firewood and settle in. Photographers love it: limestone crags iced like Christmas cake, vultures picking at frozen carcasses, absolute silence after the lens clicks.

Getting there, staying there

Madrid to Las Majadas is 185 km, 2 h 15 min if you resist the motorway coffee. Take the A-40 to Tarancón, swing onto the A-3 until exit 322, then follow the CM-2105 all the way up. Petrol pumps disappear after Villalba; fill the tank. There is no bus, no taxi rank, no Uber—hire a car or forget the whole idea.

Accommodation is strictly casas rurales—stone cottages restored by weekenders from Valencia. Expect beams, wood-burners, patchy Wi-Fi and hot-water systems that object to two showers in succession. A two-night weekend for four people runs €180–€220; mid-week discounts hover around 30%. Hosts leave keys in a coded box and communicate via WhatsApp voice notes. Bring slippers; stone floors at altitude are cold even in August.

The honest verdict

Las Majadas will not change your life. It offers no souvenir shops, no Michelin stars, no flamenco nights. What it does offer is a yardstick for how quiet Spain can be when nobody is watching. Walk the ridge at dusk, hear nothing but your own pulse, and the Costas suddenly feel like someone else’s holiday video. Just remember to buy milk before you leave the lowlands—because once that bakery van trundles away, the next delivery is tomorrow, weather permitting.