Poyatos

At 1,240 m above sea level, the morning air in Poyatos carries the scent of pine resin before it carries any sound. Below the village, the Serranía de Cuenca rolls out in limestone folds so sharp that the valley shadows still look violet at 9 a.m. Population: sixty on a good day, five thousand if you count the roe deer.

The tarmac from Cuenca city stops being a road and becomes a contour line. After Tragacete the CM-2106 narrows, the verges turn to dry stone, and the hire-car suspension remembers every British pothole it was designed for. Seventy-five kilometres, ninety minutes, one petrol station: fill up in Buenache or risk the walk back.

Stone houses shoulder together against the wind. Roofs angle steeply for winter snow; eaves project far enough to shelter both woodpile and cat. Oak doors still carry iron studs from the 1700s, but the keys are modern – locals swapped iron latches for security after the bar shut in 2021. That closure matters: nowhere sells coffee now, so visitors arrive with milk already in the thermos.

The Assumption church opens only for mass on alternate Sundays. Inside, a single 15-watt bulb dangles above a baroque retablo whose gold leaf has thinned to parchment. English Heritage would panic; Poyatos simply props the side door with a stone so swallows can exit.

Walking without way-markers

Maps here are Spanish-only and proud of it. The “Mapas de Cuenca” pdf prints onto four A4 sheets: download before you leave Wi-Fi behind. Coloured dots mean forest track, dashed line means shepherd path, absence of line means scramble. A thirty-minute loop climbs south past threshing circles to a sandstone lip called El Mirador. On clear days you can pick out the wind turbines of the Júcar gorge thirty kilometres away – white flecks like fridge magnets someone forgot to remove.

Longer routes follow the PR-CU-58 to Valdemeca (8 km, 250 m ascent) through black-pine stands where jays sound like unoiled bike brakes. Boots with ankle support advised: the limestone shards owe nothing to the Lake District’s polite scree. Between November and March the same paths become truffle territory; locals carry curved knives and a dog whose expression says “don’t even ask”.

Mobile signal dies halfway to the mirador. Vodafone and EE piggyback onto Movistar masts; O2 users become accidental pilgrims. Download offline maps, then switch the phone to aeroplane mode – the battery lasts longer than the daylight.

Eating what the forest drops

There is no restaurant, no pintxos trail, no Instagram terrace. Self-catering is the deal. The village shop – two rooms of somebody’s ground floor – unlocks at 10:00 and 17:00, Tuesday to Saturday. Fresh bread appears Tuesday and Friday; order the day before by knocking on the green shutter. The freezer holds boar steaks shot last week, vacuum-packed and labelled in felt-tip. A 250 g wheel of local goat cheese costs €4; it is chalk-white, lemon-sharp, and nothing like the supermarket Manchego Brits think they know.

Autumn visitors can buy níscalos (saffron-milk caps) from whoever answers the door opposite the church. Current rate: €6 per kilo, paper bag included. If you lack Spanish, hold up fingers; if you lack cash, they’ll accept wine. Cooking facilities in the cottages are basic: two-ring butane hob, no oven, knives that have opened decades of letters. Bring a corkscrew and a small sharpener.

The nearest proper supermarket is 22 km back in Tragacete; the road is twisty enough to scramble eggs on the passenger seat. Stock up on tins, tomatoes, and decent coffee before the final climb.

Nights colder than Leeds in February

Altitude brings clarity: skies darken to RAF blue by ten, then the Milky Way spills across like someone knocked over the salt cellar. Stargazers report seeing the Andromeda Galaxy with bare eyes – something impossible from any British city. The trade-off is temperature. Even in May the mercury can dip to 3 °C; January routinely hits –8 °C. Rural houses rent butane bottles like Calor gas: €17 per 12 kg, one heater per room. Pack slippers and request a spare bottle on arrival; the owner will shrug and produce one from under a tarp.

Double glazing is recent and patchy. Frost feathers the inside of single panes by dawn, providing a free etching of the Assumption if you squint. Hot-water bottles are not considered eccentric.

When the village remembers itself

Fiestas patronales, 15 August: the population quadruples. Returning emigrants park Seat Leons on any flat roof they can still claim. A sound system powered by a tractor battery plays Spanish eighties rock until the Guardia Civil turn it down. Visitors are welcome; beer is €1 a caña, proceeds to the church roof. The only churros of the year appear on the Saturday morning – queue before 9 a.m. or go without.

December is quieter. A bonfire on the plaza burns old grape vines; locals hand out anisette-laced coffee strong enough to strip paint. Britain’s Christmas-light race is absent: one string of bulbs across the church portal does the job.

Leaving without running out of fuel

Check-out time is “whenever you need to catch the light”. Descend in third gear; the engine braking saves brake pads and nerves. The petrol station in Buenache opens 06:00–22:00, closed Sunday afternoon. If the pump screen is in Spanish, press “sin factura” for a normal receipt. From there it is ninety minutes to Cuenca AVE station and a fast train to Madrid that costs less than the Heathrow Express.

Poyatos will not change your life. It offers no souvenir magnet, no sunset cruise, no craft-beer flight. It gives instead the sound of wind in black pine, the smell of mushrooms turning in butter, and the realisation that Spain still contains places where the day is set by daylight, not Google Calendar. Bring phrase-book, walking boots, and a sense of having arrived after the map runs out of colours.