Algarra

The church bell strikes eleven, but nobody stirs. Twenty-two residents, two sleepy cats and one white van occupy the stone core of Algarra, parked almost 1,300 m above sea level on the southern lip of the Serranía Baja. From the mirador beside the ruined castle you look across kilometres of pale limestone ridges, pine-dark ravines and, on a clear day, the hazy outline of Cuenca’s medieval casco 80 km away. The air is thin enough to make the average rambler reach for water after ten minutes; it is also clean enough to taste nothing at all—just cold, dry mountain.

A village learning to live with emptiness

Algarra’s warren of single-track lanes predates the motorcar by centuries, so drive slowly and expect to reverse onto someone’s threshing floor when the delivery lorry appears. Houses are built from the mountain itself: chunky granite blocks, timber beams blackened by hearth smoke, Arabic tile roofs that dip and buckle with the slope. Roughly half are shuttered year-round; their owners left for Valencia or Madrid in the 1970s and return only for the August fiesta. The remainder shelter a tenacious mix of retired shepherds, remote-working thirty-somethings and part-time apiarists who sell thyme honey for €8 a jar from a fridge on the porch.

There is no supermarket, cash machine or petrol station. The nearest bread roll is 17 km away in Tragacete, so visitors usually arrive with cool-boxes already stocked. What Algarra does offer is a front-row seat to rural Spain’s demographic experiment: how few people can a settlement lose before it stops being a village? For the moment the answer is still “one more”, and the handful who remain greet strangers with the unhurried curiosity of folk who know tomorrow will look much like today.

Walking into the quiet

Footpaths leave the upper edge of the village without ceremony—no ticket office, no interpretive panels, just a wooden fingerpost reading “PR-CU 215” and a graphic of a boot. Within five minutes the tinkle of goat bells replaces the crunch of gravel under hire-car tyres. The old drovers’ route to Beteta follows a knife-edge ridge where griffon vultures circle at eye level; their two-metre wingspan casts moving shadows on the limestone scree below. Spring brings purple thyme, yellow cytinus and the faint scent of wild rosemary released by passing sheep. Autumn turns the Scots pine copper and makes mushroom hunters obsessive about grid references.

Maps are advisable: mobile coverage is patchy and waymarking fades in and out like a dodgy radio signal. A circular hike to the abandoned hamlet of Majada de la Madera and back takes three hours, climbs 250 m and offers a 90 % chance of meeting nobody. Sturdier boots tackle the nine-kilometre descent into the sickle-shaped canyon of the Rio Escabas, but be prepared for a calf-burning 500 m climb back to the car. Snow can arrive overnight from November onward; if the white stuff is forecast, carry chains because the village access road is last on the gritter’s list.

Stones that remember

Algarra’s castle is less a ruin than a rumour—three walls and a staircase that ends mid-air. Built by the Knights of Saint John in the thirteenth century, it was already obsolete when Napoleon’s troops pulled the roof off for firewood. Children still scramble over the masonry, but the structure is not fenced, so watch for unfenced drops and loose masonry when taking cliff-edge selfies. Better shelter is found in the sixteenth-century parish church of San Pedro Apóstol, open only on Sunday mornings unless you track down the key-keeper (usually the lady in the green gatehouse opposite). Inside, a single nave, hand-hewn pews and a naive fresco of the Last Supper give off the pleasing smell of extinguished candles and old stone.

Around the tiny plaza stand three stone benches; sit here long enough and someone will emerge with a bottle of tinto and the inevitable question, “¿De dónde viene?” Explain you have driven up from Cuenca and conversation drifts to rainfall, lamb prices and whether the new asphalt on the CM-2106 will survive the next cloudburst. These exchanges are Algarra’s informal tourist office, and information is swapped with the same gravity locals reserve for agricultural forecasts.

Where to lay your head

Booking.com lists one option only: Algarra Apartamentos, a row of four self-catering flats carved from a former grain store. Expect uneven floors, low doorways, electric wall heaters and Wi-Fi that copes with email but sulks at Netflix. At €65 a night for a two-bedroom unit it undercuts anything comparable in the better-known Alto Tajo villages, and the car park is level—no small mercy after navigating hair-pin bends. British guests note: towels are provided, but bring oven gloves and washing-up liquid; the nearest shop is a 35-minute round trip.

Those who prefer stars over star-ratings can wild-camp beside the track to Majada Blanca, 2 km south-west. Technically you need the town hall’s permission, yet with no permanent mayor in residence enforcement is theoretical. Leave no trace: the area is grazed by free-ranging sheep and plastic bags kill livestock faster than wolves ever did.

Eating and the lack of it

Algarra has no bar, restaurant or weekend pop-up. Self-catering is obligatory unless you time your visit for the August fiesta, when returnees fire up communal paella pans and the scent of rosemary-scented lamb drifts across the plaza. For everyday supplies, fill the boot in Cuenca before you leave. If you must eat out, Tragacete’s Casa Julian serves plates of migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic and pancetta—for €9, but check opening hours on Facebook; mid-week closures are common and the owner is fond of unannounced fishing trips.

When to come—and when to stay away

April–June delivers 20 °C afternoons, emerald meadows and the chance to hear nightingales at dusk. September–October swaps flowers for fungi and paints the maples gold along the Rio Escabas. Mid-July to mid-August is hot, dry and oddly crowded: second-home owners, Madrid motorbikers and Spanish language students fill the lanes with quad-bike noise. Winter can be magical under snow, but the final 12 km from the N-420 are cleared last, if at all. Unless you enjoy reversing downhill in low gear, wait for the thaw.

Getting here without tears

Fly to Madrid, pick up a hire car and head east on the A-3 to Tarancón, then follow the CM-210 north through steep vineyards and the surreal white windmills of Mota del Cuervo. Total driving time from Barajas terminal is 1 h 45 min; add 30 min if you stop for photos of the quixotic giants. There is no bus, no train and no Uber—just you, the road and the occasional shepherd waving from a ridge. Petrol gauges dip quickly in the mountains; fill up in Cuenca because rural stations close on Sundays and during the siesta window (14:00–17:00).

Parting shot

Algarra will not entertain you in the conventional sense. It offers no gift-shop magnets, no flamenco tabs and no craft-beer tasting flight. What it does provide is a measuring stick for how loud, how hurried and how over-connected life elsewhere has become. Sit on the castle wall at sunset, watch the vultures ride thermals above an empty valley and you may catch yourself counting the residents—twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty—wondering how many you would trade for another hour of this particular silence.