Alcalá de la Vega

The only sound at midday is the church bell echoing off stone walls and the clatter of a farmer’s van negotiating the single-track road. Alcalá de la Vega, 1,100 m up in the Serranía de Cuenca, doesn’t announce itself. You reach a pass, the pines thin out, and suddenly the village is there—roofs the colour of burnt toast, TV aerials skew-whiff, a cluster of houses clinging to a ridge that feels closer to the sky than to Madrid.

Air That Thins and Views That Stretch

The altitude matters. Even in May the dawn wind carries a knife, and by October the first frost can glaze the windscreens of the dozen cars parked below the plaza. Summer mornings are deliciously cool, but step into the sun at 2 p.m. and the UV index reminds you you’re only a shade south of Manchester’s latitude yet a kilometre higher. In winter the access road from the N-420 is occasionally closed after snow; chains live in boots for a reason. The compensation is air so clear that the cathedral spire of Cuenca—60 km away—can glint on the horizon like a pin on a map.

Walking starts from the top of the village where the tarmac gives up. An old drovers’ lane, wide enough for two mules, drifts south-east along a limestone spine. After twenty minutes the last stone wall is behind you; the path narrows to a ribbon of packed clay between rosemary and juniper. No waymarks, no mileage posts—just the occasional cairn left by shepherds. The reward is a natural balcony over the Júcar canyon system, a 500-metre gash that turns from chalk white at noon to fox red at dusk. Griffon vultures ride the thermals at eye level; if you sit, they pass close enough to tag with a wide-angle lens.

Stone, Tile and the Echo of Hooves

There is no ticket office, no audioguide, and the church keeps irregular hours. Push the heavy door around 11 a.m. on a weekday and it may yield, releasing a waft of candle wax and cold plaster. Inside, the single nave is plain, the frescoes faded to pastel ghosts. What catches the eye is the wooden pulpit, carved in 1683 with grapevines so deep you could run a fingertip along them. The sacristan is usually in the bar two doors down; he’ll lend the key if you ask politely and return within the hour.

The bar—name painted directly onto the stone, no awning—doubles as grocer’s and post office. Coffee is €1.20, served in glasses that once held gherkins. Ask for “un mitad” if you want it cut with milk; the barman will understand even if your Spanish is schoolboy. The only menu is handwritten on a paper plate: migas with grapes on Thursdays, cocido on Saturdays. When it’s gone, it’s gone.

Houses are built from the mountain they stand on. Granite below, timber from local pines above, Arabic tiles that ripple like fish scales. Many are empty; doorways have been bricked up to keep out goats. Peek through a broken shutter and you may see a straw mattress, a calendar stopped at 1997, a sewing machine coated in volcanic grey dust. It’s archaeology without the ropes.

How to Arrive Without a Parade

From Heathrow the quickest route is a morning flight to Madrid, then the A-40 toll road east to Tarancón before swinging north on the N-420. After the junction at Puerto de Contreras the tarmac narrows, the verges sprout broom and abandoned agricultural machinery. Count 45 minutes from the motorway to the village; the last 12 km average 35 mph and involve three blind summits where wild boar appear like fat, fast-moving boulders. A small car is sufficient; a sat-nav is not—download the offline map because the signal dies in the valleys.

No bus serves Alcalá de la Vega. A school minibus passes through on term-time weekdays, but it is technically for residents’ children. Taxis from Cuenca will quote €80 one-way; most refuse the return journey after dark for fear of ice. The honest option is self-drive or a pre-booked transfer with a Cuenca-based company such as Serranía Travel (English spoken, €120 day-return including two hours’ wait).

Weather That Respects No Calendar

Spring arrives late. April can still deliver sleet, yet by the month’s end the hillside is polka-dotted with lavender and the first bee-eaters arrive from Africa. May and June are the sweet spot: 22 °C at noon, 10 °C at dawn, wild asparagus to pick along the paths. July and August are hot if you stand in the sun, but shade and altitude make hiking viable; carry more water than you think—streams are seasonal. September turns the landscape sepia; mushroom foragers appear with wicker baskets and small knives. October evenings require a fleece; by November the fireplaces are lit and the smell of almond wood drifts down the lanes. January can hit –8 °C at night; snow is brief but slush refreezes into polished ramps. Chains or winter tyres are mandatory, not advisory.

A Sunday Lunch You Didn’t Plan

There is no hotel. The nearest beds are in Villalba de la Sierra, 18 km down the mountain: Casa Rural La Escuela has three doubles from €70 including breakfast (toast, local honey, coffee that could revive a corpse). Book ahead; weekenders from Valencia snap up rooms for the hiking. In Alcalá itself the only accommodation is a single self-catering house, Casa de la Tía Feli, booked via the village Facebook page. It sleeps four, costs €90 a night, and the hot-water tank copes with two consecutive showers—no more.

Bring supplies. Cuenca’s Mercadona (open 9 a.m.–9 p.m. except Sunday) is the last reliable supermarket. In the village the grocer opens 9–11 a.m. and stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, chocolate and not much else. Fresh bread arrives in a white van at 12:30; queue by the church or go without. Lamb from the upland farms is exceptional; arrange to collect a shoulder from a local shepherd (ask in the bar) and slow-roast it with garlic and rosemary. The village wine cooperative folded in 1993, but a retired teacher in the third house on the left sells 5-litre containers of sturdy red for €8; bring your own bottle.

What You Won’t Find (and Might Miss)

Gift shops. Evening entertainment. A cash machine. Mobile coverage is patchy—Vodafone works on the plaza, O2 demands you stand on the picnic table. Wi-Fi exists in Casa de la Tía Feli but cuts out when the microwave turns on. Noise is limited to dogs, church bells and the occasional tractor that sounds like it’s climbing through the living room. If that feels like deprivation, stay in Cuenca and visit on a day trip. If it sounds like detox, bring a pair of boots and a sense of calendar-optional time.

Come for a single night and you’ll leave with photographs of stone and sky. Stay for three and you start recognising the postman’s whistle, the hour the sun hits the bench, the way the village cat follows hikers for the first mile. Alcala de la Vega doesn’t sell itself because it has nothing to spare. It offers altitude, silence and the small revelation that rural Spain is still ordinary, still inhabited, still waiting for you to walk up the hill and ask the time—even if nobody wears a watch.