Almodóvar del Pinar

The baker on Calle Larga fires his wood oven at half past six. By seven, the day's pan de pueblo is cooling on racks, and the smell drifts through streets still in shadow. At 992 metres above sea level, Almodóvar del Pinar wakes cool even in July; windows stay closed until the sun clears the ridge of Pinus pinaster that gives the village its name. This is not the Spain of coastlines or city breaks. It is Castilla-La Mancha tipped vertically into the Serranía baja conquense, a place where resin buckets hang from tree trunks like forgotten lanterns and the nearest cash machine is 35 km away.

The High, Quiet Ground

Drive south-east from Cuenca on the CM-220 and the thermometer drops a degree every ten minutes. Mobile signal falters long before the turning appears; download offline maps while you still have 4G. The road climbs through plantations of rodeno and negral pine, their trunks scored by generations of resin-tappers. At the summit the village materialises: 500 souls, stone houses the colour of weathered parchment, and a single tower that used to be a castle until it was quarried for building stone. What remains is less a ruin than a geological accident—wear trainers, not flip-flops, and keep dogs on leads; there are no guard rails, no ticket booth, no gift shop.

The altitude shapes daily life. Summer afternoons are tolerable enough for walking, but after October the mercury can dip below freezing by dusk. Snow closes the CM-220 two or three times each winter; locals keep chains in the boot and a month’s worth of lentils in the larder. Spring comes late—wild narcissi flower in April, a month behind the plateau—and autumn brings the mushroom season, when cars with Madrid plates nose along the verges and their occupants disappear into the trees with wicker baskets and pocket knives.

Between the Stones and the Forest

There is no formal museum, yet the village is an open-air archive of mountain architecture. Roofs are steep to shed snow, eaves project far enough to shelter woodpiles, and every façade has a nameplate carved by hand: “Año 1923, año de hambre,” reads one, a reminder of the post-war years when pine nuts replaced wheat. The church of La Asunción squats at the top of the hill, its bell tower patched with mismatched stone. Inside, the only ornament of note is a 12th-century Romanesque font—wide enough to immerse an infant, its rim worn smooth by eight centuries of thumbs. Ten minutes is plenty, but stand still and you’ll hear the wood pigeons outside louder than any organ.

Beyond the last house the forest takes over. Waymarked paths are few; instead there is a lattice of forestry tracks used by resin crews and, in November, wild-boar hunters. A gentle circuit heads south for 4 km to the charcoal-burners’ clearing, where blackened earth still smells of smoke decades after the last stack was fired. Serious walkers can continue along the watershed to the ruins of the Cistercian monastery at Villar de Domingo, 12 km further, but carry water—streams dry up in summer and the bar at the monastery gate closed in 1978.

What You’ll Eat and What You Won’t

Forget tapas trails. The village has one bar, one bakery and a grocer that shuts from two until five. Lunch is served at 14:00 sharp; arrive at 15:30 and the stove is cold. The daily menú del día runs to three courses, a carafe of local Tempranillo and change from fourteen euros. Expect cordero a la miel—shoulder of lamb braised with mountain honey—followed by migas, fried breadcrumbs studded with chorizo and grapes. Vegetarians survive on pisto manchego, a pepper-and-aubergine stew that tastes better than it sounds, especially when mopped with the baker’s dense, smoky bread. If you self-cater, buy cheese in Cuenca before you leave: the cured queso de Cuenca is drier than Manchego, sharp enough to make a Rioja taste soft.

Dinner options are limited to whatever you can heat in a rural house. There are only six, all converted farm cottages with beams low enough to crack a forehead. Book early for the August fiesta—the Virgen de las Nieves brings back emigrants from Madrid and Valencia, and every spare bed is claimed by May. Otherwise you will be driving 40 minutes to the nearest hotel, and the CM-220 is no place for night-time navigation after a second bottle of Ribera del Júcar.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April and May are the kindest months: daytime 18 °C, nights cool enough for sleep, and the forest floor carpeted with orchids. September repeats the trick, plus mushrooms. August is warm but rarely oppressive; it is also the only time the village feels busy, though “busy” here means you might have to wait ten minutes for a coffee. October weekends attract mycological day-trippers—park considerately, ask permission before crossing private land and never pick more than a kilo per person; the regional government levies spot fines.

January and February are for residents only. Snow can isolate the village for days, the grocer’s stock dwindles to tins, and the single daily bus from Cuenca is cancelled at the first flurry. If you do arrive in winter, bring chains, a full tank and enough cash for three days—when the power fails, so do the card machines.

The Practical Bits That Matter

No ATM, no petrol station, no Sunday shop. Draw euros in Cuenca or Motilla del Palancar before you head uphill. The bakery opens 07:00–13:00, the grocer 09:00–14:00 and 17:00–20:30; both close on Monday afternoons. Mobile coverage improves if you stand in the square beside the church—look for the group of teenagers who have worked this out. The castle path starts opposite the bar; allow twenty minutes up, ten down, and mind the loose shale. If you need a doctor, the consultorio is staffed two mornings a week; for anything serious the helicopter lands on the football pitch.

Buses leave Cuenca’s Avenida de la Cruz Roja at 16:00 weekdays, returning at 07:00 next day. A single service runs on Sunday at 19:00, often full by the time it reaches the village—buy your seat from the driver in cash. Driving remains the realistic option: two hours from Madrid, under an hour from Cuenca city, and the last 20 km are a good test of clutch control.

A Parting Glance

Almodóvar del Pinar will not change your life. It offers no souvenir to prove you were here, no sunrise selfie that hasn’t already been taken. What it does provide is the sound of wind moving through a million pine needles, the smell of resin warming on a bark scar, and the realisation that Spain still contains places where the timetable is set by firewood, rainfall and the baker’s alarm clock. Arrive with petrol, cash and modest expectations; leave before the forest persuades you to stay for good.