Valsalobre

The road to Valsalobre starts misbehaving around kilometre 75 from Cuenca. Tarmac narrows, curves tighten, and mobile bars vanish one by one until the screen shows nothing but the time. At 1,200 metres, you're driving through cloud on a road that seems designed to filter out the tentative. This is the point where most sat-navs give up and ask you to "proceed to the route"—which, in Valsalobre terms, means keep climbing until stone houses appear and the only soundtrack is wind scraping across paramera grass.

Twenty-one residents. That's not a misprint. The village headcount fits inside a London double-decker with seats to spare, though you'd struggle to find anyone who'd queue for such a thing here. What you will find is a cluster of stone and timber houses clinging to a ridge, their roofs weighted with antique Arab tiles against Atlantic storms that can arrive even in May. Winter routinely nails the place shut; snow drifts against timber doors, and the single access road becomes a toboggan run. Come July, the same altitude that brings snow delivers cool nights—15°C when Madrid is still sweltering at 30°C after midnight.

Walking into a Reception-Free Zone

Valsalobre doesn't do attractions. No gift shop, no interpretive centre, no café with a blackboard promising "authentic migas." Instead, the village itself is the exhibit: a working museum of Castilian mountain architecture where every lintel and balcony tells the story of people who left for Terrassa or Zaragoza and never returned. Masonry walls two feet thick keep interiors dark and cool; wooden balconies, painted ox-blood red once a generation, sag just enough to prove they're original. The parish church, sized more like an English chapel, doubles as noticeboard, meeting hall and, on feast days, the only source of artificial light for miles.

Walk uphill past the last house and the settlement dissolves into scrub. A faint path—more a suggestion than a right-of-way—leads onto a whale-back ridge where griffon vultures ride thermals at eye level. Golden eaves circle higher, scanning for carrion among the thyme and savin juniper. Without signage, distances feel elastic: a two-hour loop can stretch to four if you stop to watch a pair of eagle owls quarrelling on a basalt outcrop. GPS helps; so does the realisation that every descent eventually meets a track that returns to the village. Just don't count on phone mapping once you're two ravines away—download the offline tile set while you still have Wi-Fi in Cuenca.

What to Pack, What to Leave

The village shop closed in 1998. That means zero retail options: no bread, no beer, no emergency phone charger. Bring everything you plan to consume, including drinking water—the local supply is safe but tastes heavily mineralised. A full fuel tank is non-negotiable; the nearest petrol sits 35 kilometres back down the mountain in Beteta. If winter has sprinkled snow, carry chains or be prepared to hole up until the plough appears. Snow can fall as late as April; by contrast, August sun will fry exposed skin at this altitude, so layer like you're walking in the Peak District, not the Costa Blanca.

Food is simple and self-catered. A small number of holiday homes have been restored; owners usually leave directions to the closest supermarket (Hontoria del Pinar, 22 km). Buy Manchego curado, chorizos from the butcher's counter, and whatever seasonal veg looks least tired. A bottle of Ribera del Duero costs €6—half London prices—and tastes better when the nearest streetlight is 40 kilometres away. If you crave a hot meal, the bar in Arcos de las Salas, 18 km north, does a respectable cordero al horno on Sundays, but ring ahead: they shut when the lamb runs out.

When the Village Throws a Party

August 15th is the fiesta mayor. The population temporarily swells to perhaps 120 as grandchildren, emigrants and the merely curious squeeze into houses designed for eight. A single brass band marches up the main street, the only time traffic stops—though "traffic" here means one resident's Land Rover and a visitor who took a wrong turn from Teruel. After Mass in the chapel, everyone squeezes onto the plaza for caldereta, a mutton stew thickened with bread and served from a cauldron that looks older than the constitution. Bring your own bowl and spoon; the village supplies wine in plastic cola bottles and plastic chairs that wobble on the cobbles. By midnight the generator powering the fairy lights runs out of diesel, and the party continues by starlight. If you leave before 2 a.m. you'll miss the communal clean-up—outsiders are expected to muck in, so roll up your sleeves.

Seasons that Change the Rules

Spring arrives late; crocuses push through snowmelt in April, and nights stay cold enough for frost until mid-May. This is the sweet spot for walking: daylight stretches past 20:30, thermals are unnecessary, and the air carries the scent of thyme crushed underfoot. Autumn is equally gentle, with stable highs around 18°C in October—perfect for longer traverses towards the Sorbe canyon. Summer weekends see a trickle of madrileños fleeing the capital's heat, but even then you might share the horizon with only a handful of cattle. Winter is not for casual drop-ins. Temperatures dip to –8°C inside the houses if the fireplace isn't fed every four hours, and the road can close for 48 hours after a heavy dump. Locals regard snow as a social asset: nobody bothers them.

Leaving Without Losing Signal Again

The return descent feels shorter because gravity helps, but concentration is still required: free-ranging cattle wander onto the tarmac, and melted snow can leave invisible sheets of black ice in shaded corners. Phone signal blinks back somewhere around the junction with the CM-2106; the first WhatsApp ping after two days offline is oddly deflating. Back in Cuenca, espresso machines hiss and traffic lights change, yet the paramera wind stays in your ears longer than expected. Valsalobre offers no souvenirs beyond thyme-scented clothing and a renewed respect for places that refuse to get connected. If that sounds like deprivation, pick the coast instead. If it sounds like relief, fill the tank, switch the phone to aeroplane mode, and keep climbing until even the vultures look surprised to see you.