Tejadillos

The morning mist clings to 1,200 metres of altitude like a reluctant blanket. Below, stone houses with Arabic tiles huddle against the mountainside, their wooden doors painted colours that haven't changed since someone's great-grandfather first opened them. This isn't the Castilla-La Mancha of windmills and flat horizons. This is Tejadillos, where the province of Cuenca remembers it's actually part of the Serranía Alta, and where winter arrives early enough to catch blackberries still ripening on the brambles.

The Vertical Province

Most visitors know Cuenca for its hanging houses and medieval centre. They rarely venture into the mountain ranges that give the province its name, where elevations climb higher than Ben Nevis and the landscape forgets about Don Quixote's plains entirely. Tejadillos sits in this vertical territory, 113 inhabitants spread across a hillside that makes every walk feel like interval training.

The village divides into two nuclei—Tejadillos Alto and Tejadillos Bajo—connected by a road that switchbacks through pine forests. The separation isn't just geographical. Alto keeps the church, the school (closed since 2002), and the remains of proper shops. Bajo has the newer houses, the better views, and the road out. Between them lies a five-minute drive or a fifteen-minute climb that feels longer when you're carrying groceries.

At this altitude, weather doesn't transition—it snaps. August afternoons might reach 28°C, but pack a jumper anyway. September mornings can drop to single digits before you've finished your coffee. Winter proper brings snow that isolates the village for days, though recent years have been disappointingly mild for locals who remember when drifts reached first-floor windows.

What Passes for a Centre

The Church of San Pedro stands at what passes for Tejadillos' centre, though calling it a centre implies more activity than actually exists. Built in the 16th century and modified whenever money or necessity dictated, it's locked most days unless someone's getting married or someone's died. The priest drives up from the valley for Sunday service, navigating bends that would challenge a rally driver.

Around the church, narrow lanes follow goat-path logic, widening where someone built outwards, narrowing where rock faces proved immovable. Traditional houses share walls with their neighbours, creating a continuous stone frontage broken only by doorways and the occasional window. Many stand empty now, their owners deceased or departed for Madrid decades ago. Property agents in Cuenca city list them for prices that would barely cover a garage in the Home Counties—€30,000-€40,000 for three bedrooms and a patch of land where olives struggle against the altitude.

The only accommodation option, Albergue Tejadillos, occupies one of these restored properties. It functions more as a rural retreat than a proper hostel, attracting Spanish weekenders who come for mountain biking and the kind of silence you simply can't buy elsewhere. Rooms start at €45, including breakfast featuring local honey and jam made from blackberries that grow wild along every path.

Walking Without Waymarks

Tejadillos doesn't do signposted trails. What it offers instead is a network of farm tracks and forest paths that lead wherever livestock, hunters, or the curious have wandered over centuries. The GR-66 long-distance route passes nearby, but most walking here involves following your nose and a decent sense of direction.

Head north and you'll reach the Cerro de San Felipe, where views stretch across successive ridges until the landscape dissolves into blue distance. The climb takes ninety minutes if you're fit, two hours if you're stopping to photograph wildflowers or the red kites that ride thermals overhead. Spring brings orchids and wild peonies; autumn paints the oak and pine in colours that put New England to shame.

Southwards, paths drop towards the Júcar river through landscapes that feel Mediterranean despite the altitude. Almond trees cling to impossible slopes; abandoned terraces hint at populations larger than today's. You might walk for hours without seeing another person, though fresh wild boar tracks in the mud suggest you're never really alone.

Bring proper boots and download offline maps. Phone signal disappears faster than the sun behind the western ridge, and the only thing worse than getting lost is explaining to the Guardia Civil why you thought walking sandals were adequate for mountain terrain.

Eating What the Land Provides

Forget tasting menus and wine pairings. Tejadillos eats what the surrounding land yields, when it yields it. Wild mushrooms appear in October if autumn rains cooperate—locals guard their collecting spots with the same secrecy British anglers protect fishing beats. Partridge season brings hunters from Valencia city, their 4x4s clogging the single track through the village while they debate dogs and shooting rights over brandy in the sole bar.

The bar, incidentally, opens when the owner feels like it. Sometimes that's 8am for coffee and churros. Sometimes it doesn't open at all. When it does, order the migas—fried breadcrumbs with chorizo and grapes, mountain food designed to fuel a day working outside in temperatures that would have Scottish farmers reaching for thermal underwear.

Local producers still exist, though you'll need Spanish and patience to find them. María around the corner sells cheese from her dozen goats, €8 a kilo if you bring your own container. José's family has made embutidos for three generations; his morcilla blood sausage carries the faint taste of wild herbs the pigs rooted up before becoming sausage themselves. Neither advertises. Ask at the bar, when it's open.

The Return and The Reality

August transforms Tejadillos. The population swells as descendants return for patron saint festivities, parking cars where sheep normally graze and filling houses silent since Christmas. Fireworks echo across the valley at 6am because tradition demands waking everyone for mass. The single village fountain becomes a social hub as teenagers who've spent their lives in Madrid discover their grandparents' world.

Then September arrives and the exodus begins. Houses shutter. The bar reduces its hours. By October you're back to 113 souls, most counting the days until they can reasonably light the first fire without appearing soft. Winter approaches with the certainty of taxes and the same financial impact—heating oil costs the same here as in London, but incomes reflect rural Spanish reality rather than British city salaries.

Tejadillos won't suit everyone. It demands self-reliance, reasonable Spanish, and acceptance that "popping to the shops" involves a 45-minute drive on roads where meeting another vehicle requires reversing to the nearest passing place. But for those seeking genuine mountain Spain without ski resort prices or walking tour crowds, it offers authenticity in a country where that's becoming increasingly rare. Just pack layers, download those maps, and don't expect the bar to be open when you arrive.