Portilla

The church bell tower appears first, emerging from a ridge like a stone finger pointing skywards. Then the whole village materialises—stone houses clinging to a mountainside at 1,000 metres, their terracotta roofs weathered by decades of harsh winters and scorching summers. This is Portilla, population 58, where mobile phone signals flicker and the nearest supermarket requires a 40-minute drive down sinuous mountain roads.

Portilla squats in the Serranía conquense, Cuenca's highland province where Castilla-La Mancha meets the foothills of the Iberian System. The village represents Spain's quiet periphery, far from the coastal terraces and city break favourites British travellers know well. Here, the landscape dictates everything: pine forests blanket the slopes, agricultural terraces step down precipitous valleys, and the altitude means nights remain cool even when Madrid swelters two hours away.

The architecture speaks of survival rather than grandeur. Two-storey houses built from local limestone line streets barely wide enough for a single vehicle. Wooden balconies, some sagging with age, project over passageways. Arabic tiles, their curved profiles designed to shed snow, crown steep roofs that have withstood centuries of Atlantic storms rolling inland. Many properties stand empty now—second homes for families who left for Valencia or Barcelona decades ago, returning perhaps for August fiestas and little else.

Walking Portilla's lanes reveals a village preserved in geological time. Doorways show centuries of modification: medieval arches alongside twentieth-century concrete lintels, ironwork dating from the 1890s beside modern aluminium frames. The stone itself tells stories—some blocks bear mason's marks from the 1500s, recycled from earlier structures long since disappeared. Nothing here was built quickly; everything required patience, muscle power, and an understanding that winter arrives early at these altitudes.

The Parish That Anchors Everything

The Iglesia Parroquial dominates Portilla's upper reaches, its modest Baroque façade belying the building's significance to village life. Inside, the single nave remains refreshingly austere—no overwhelming gold leaf or theatrical statuary, just whitewashed walls and simple wooden pews that accommodate perhaps forty worshippers. The bell tower serves a dual purpose: calling the faithful and providing orientation for hikers navigating the surrounding tracks.

Sunday mass still draws regular attendees, though the priest must cover several mountain parishes in rotation. The church's survival mirrors Portilla's own stubborn persistence—maintained by contributions from families whose grandparents emigrated to Germany or Switzerland, funded by summer returnees who remember grandparents' funerals held within these walls. The building's weathercock, struck by lightning in 2018, was replaced through village-wide fundraising that took eighteen months to complete.

Mountain Trails and Empty Valleys

Portilla's greatest asset lies beyond its buildings. A network of ancient paths radiates outward—sheep drovers' routes, charcoal burners' tracks, and agricultural terraces now returning to wildflower meadows. These aren't manicured walking routes with way-markers every hundred metres. They're working paths, maintained by farmers accessing distant plots and by hunters following wild boar trails through the undergrowth.

The walking varies dramatically with seasons. Spring brings orchids and wild thyme to south-facing slopes, while north-facing gullies retain snow patches into April. Summer hiking starts early—by 9am the heat becomes oppressive, and afternoon walks require substantial water carrying. Autumn delivers the region's finest walking weather: crisp mornings, clear visibility extending fifty miles across successive mountain ridges, and mushroom hunting opportunities for those who know where to look.

Wildlife sightings reward patient observers. Griffon vultures circle overhead, their two-metre wingspatches riding thermals rising from sun-warmed valleys. Wild boar leave distinctive tusk-marks on tree bark, while Spanish ibex occasionally venture onto crags above the village. Night-time brings an entirely different soundscape—owl calls echo across the valley, and during mating season, Red deer stags bark challenges that carry for kilometres.

When The Village Comes Alive

August transforms Portilla completely. The population swells from under sixty to perhaps four hundred, as former residents return with children and grandchildren who've never lived here but maintain ancestral connections. The fiestas patronales span three days: outdoor Mass beneath temporary awnings, communal paella cooked in pans two metres wide, and evening dances where teenagers WhatsApp friends in cities they've never visited but might one day inherit property in.

These celebrations aren't staged for tourists—they're family reunions where outsiders witness something increasingly rare: authentic Spanish village life surviving economic rationality. The local council hires portable toilets and rubbish collection. Families spend days preparing food, resurrecting recipes their city-dwelling descendants have never tasted. Elderly residents, frail for eleven months of the year, become animated hosts ensuring everyone eats, drinks, and remembers why these traditions matter.

Winter brings an entirely different energy. Snow arrives unpredictably—some years barely dusting the rooftops, others dumping metre-deep drifts that isolate the village for days. The council maintains basic gritting, but residents know to stock provisions when weather forecasts threaten. Central heating arrived relatively recently; many houses still rely on wood-burning stoves using timber cut from surrounding forests. The smell of wood smoke defines winter evenings, mixing with resin from pine forests that stretch unbroken towards the Cuenca provincial border.

Practicalities Without Pretence

Reaching Portilla requires commitment. From Cuenca city, the CM-2106 winds 45 kilometres through increasingly empty country—past villages with names like Villar del Humo and Tragacete where roadside bars serve truck drivers and agricultural workers. The final approach involves a precipitous climb with hairpin bends that test clutch control and nerve. Public transport reaches the nearest substantial village, Zafrilla, twelve kilometres distant—after that, you're hitchhiking or walking.

Accommodation options remain limited. One casa rural operates in a restored farmhouse, offering three bedrooms at €70 per night including breakfast featuring local honey and homemade pastries. Booking requires Spanish language skills—the owner, Maria Jesús, speaks no English but communicates enthusiasm through elaborate gesture and copious food. Alternative lodging exists in neighbouring villages, but Portilla itself offers no hotel, no restaurant, and no cash machine.

The village shop closed in 2019, victim to online shopping and demographic decline. Basic supplies require driving to Zafrilla's Thursday market or Cuenca's supermarkets. Mobile phone coverage depends on your provider—Vodafone functions adequately, O2 barely manages emergency calls. WiFi exists only in the municipal building, open irregular hours that reflect the part-time mayor's other employment commitments.

Portilla won't suit everyone. Those seeking boutique hotels, Michelin recognition, or Instagram-ready moments should probably choose elsewhere. But for travellers comfortable with silence, prepared to engage with places existing for their own sake rather than visitor convenience, this mountain village offers something increasingly precious: an unmediated encounter with Spain's interior realities, where every remaining resident has chosen continuity over convenience, and where the mountains themselves provide the only spectacle necessary.