Masegosa

The temperature drops eight degrees in the final twenty minutes of the CM-2106. One moment you're winding through sun-baked olive groves; the next, pines replace olives and the car's thermometer reads 14 °C. At 1,200 metres, Masegosa appears suddenly—a cluster of stone roofs huddled against the wind, population 62, with nothing higher between here and the Tagus valley.

This is Spain's quiet quarter. Mobile signal flickers out halfway up the mountain, cash machines vanish at Beteta twenty-five kilometres back, and the weekday bus from Cuenca carries more schoolbooks than tourists. What remains is altitude, space and an architecture dictated by winter: thick limestone walls, wooden balconies sized for firewood stacks, and bread ovens built into house façades because snowdrifts block back doors.

Stone, Wood and the Winter Wind

Masegosa's streets amount to three interlocking lanes no wider than a Land Rover. Houses grow straight from bedrock; their timber balconies sag under pumpkin vines in October and drying beans in September. There is no formal centre, just a widening where the church stands. The parish tower, medieval in origin but patched in the 1800s, houses two bells that still mark the agricultural day—one at sunrise, one at dusk. Inside, the nave is plain whitewash and dark wood, the air smelling of beeswax and cold stone. Visitors expecting gilt and frescoes will be disappointed; those who arrive after a mountain hike appreciate the silence and the pew cushions knitted from old jumpers.

Walk the lanes slowly. Notice the iron door-hinges forged in nearby Tragacete, the stone gutters cut to carry melt-water, the way every south-facing wall has a single tiny window to let in winter sun without losing heat. Most cottages are second homes now, locked tight until August when emigrant families return. A few retain original wine cellars—caves hacked into the rock, still cool enough to store cheese and the local honey sold in un-labelled jars for three euros.

Forests that Start at the Back Door

Past the last house, the track becomes a shepherd's path. Within five minutes you are inside the Serranía Alta, a maze of quartzite ridges and red-pine forest that stretches east to Teruel province. The way-marking is unofficial: occasional paint flashes on holm oaks, cairns built by hunters. Download the track before leaving Cuenca—there is no 4G to rescue you once the holly thickens.

Two circular routes are doable without GPS if you keep the village in sight. The shorter climbs south to the Puerto de la Hiruela (45 min), a wind gap where griffon vultures ride thermals and the view opens onto a chessboard of almond terraces. The longer loop drops north into the Rio Mayor valley, passing an abandoned stone shepherd's hut where wild mint grows around the spring. Both are quiet; you may meet a local collecting pine cones for kindling, but rarely another walker.

October is colour month: oaks turn copper, maples flare vermilion, and the forest floor pops with saffron milk caps. Spanish foragers work silently, knives hidden, protective of patches. Photographers do better on weekday dawns when mist pools between ridges and the only sound is boar snuffling among acorns.

What to Eat When Nobody Sells Lunch

Masegosa has no restaurant, bar or petrol station. Plan accordingly. The village shop opens 09:00-14:00, closes Saturday afternoon, all day Sunday, and stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, local apples and the crumbly sheep cheese Quesado de la Mancha. Bring fresh supplies from Cuenca's Mercado San Antón or phone ahead to Casa Rural Fernández: the owner will leave eggs, chorizo and a bottle of caldo in your kitchen.

Self-catered evenings revolve around the wood-burner. Try gachas manchegas—a peppery porridge of flour, garlic and pork belly—adapted easily for vegetarians by swapping stock for tomato and adding a poached egg. Pair it with a young Manchego and the rosemary honey, then finish with figs from the terrace tree. In August, returning families stage spontaneous street barbecues; visitors who bring a bottle of Rioja are usually invited to pull up a chair.

When the Village Re-inflates

For eleven months Masegosa sleeps. Then, around 15 August, the population quadruples. Cars with Madrid plates squeeze between stone walls, elderly neighbours reappear after decades in the capital, and the plaza hosts a makeshift bar under striped plastic. The fiesta programme is pinned to the church door: evening mass, sack races for children, a foam machine, and a Saturday night verbena that thumps until the Guardia Civil arrive to turn the music down at 03:00. Sunday lunchtime sees a communal paella cooked on a wood fire so large the handles are tractor axles. Outsiders are welcome but beds are scarce—book your casa rural months ahead.

Winter has its own smaller ritual. On the feast of St Blaise (3 February) a bonfire of pruned vines burns on the threshing floor; locals parade the saint's effigy to bless livestock against wolf attacks. Snow is likely, so carry chains beyond December. The mountain road is cleared sporadically—if the wind drifts overnight, you may wake to find the village cut off until the JCB arrives from Tragacete.

Practicalities Without the Sales Pitch

Fly to Madrid, collect a hire car, head east on the A-40 then A-15 to CM-2106. The last 18 km twist through pine forest; allow ninety minutes from the airport. No-car travellers can take the ALSA coach to Cuenca and the weekday bus at 15:00, but check return times—there isn't one on Saturday or Sunday.

Accommodation is limited to half-a-dozen casas rurales. Casa Rural Fernández sleeps six, has central heating thick enough for January, and costs around €90 per night mid-week. El Tormagal offers two heated flats with washing machines; owners speak English and leave detailed hiking notes. Both supply firewood at cost—expect to pay €5 per basket.

Pack layers regardless of season. Summer afternoons may reach 28 °C, but night-time temperatures slip to 12 °C; in January the mercury can fall below –8 °C and water pipes freeze. A compact umbrella lives in the rucksack—storms blow in fast from the east. Fill the tank at Beteta or Tragacete; the nearest garage after that is forty kilometres. Finally, carry cash. Cards are useless here, and the bakery only takes exact change for coffee.

Leave before sunrise at least once. Stand where the lane ends and the forest begins, lights of the village behind you, valley fog below. The sierra will be utterly silent except for the wind and, if you listen hard, the faint clink of a goat bell somewhere on the slope. That sound hasn't changed for centuries; in Masegosa, it probably never will.