Campillos-Paravientos

The name itself warns you. Paravientos—"for-the-winds"—isn't marketing fluff. At 1,140 m the Atlantic weather systems that slip across the Meseta hit the first serious obstacle for 120 km and stall, funnelling gusts through the village's single street fast enough to whip dried thyme against your shins. Winter mornings here start at –8 °C; July afternoons peak at 32 °C but drop to 14 °C the moment the sun slips behind the sandstone ridge. Pack both fleece and sun-cream, whatever the season.

Campillos-Paravientos sits on the roof of the Serranía Baja, the low, folded range that buffers Cuenca province from Valencia's coastal plain. Barely a hundred souls remain on the padron, and in January you may count them on two hands. The place makes no apology for that; it simply carries on shepherding, sowing barley, and repairing roofs with the same grey limestone that tumbles down the hillsides. Visitors who expect interpretive centres or craft boutiques leave disappointed. Those happy to trade amenities for altitude and silence stay longer than they meant to.

A Village That Architecture Forgot (Deliberately)

Start at the church. No plaque, no opening hours, just a 16th-century stone rectangle whose bell tower doubles as the only reliable mobile-phone mast. The door is usually open; push it and the smell is of candle wax, sheep-wool and the cold. Walls are a metre thick—walk inside on a July afternoon and the temperature falls ten degrees in three paces. The retablo is plain pine, painted mud-brown, the colour chosen because it showed less soot when households burned esparto grass for heat.

Houses follow the same logic. Two-storey cubes of rubble and mortar, roofs weighted with slabs to stop the west wind from peeling them back. Timber balconies are narrow enough to high-five the neighbour opposite; in summer families drag chairs into the street instead. Look closely and you'll see newer breeze-block extensions painted the identical grey so the council doesn't notice. Planning permission is informal but strictly enforced: build whatever you like as long as the village silhouette stays the same.

There is no main square. The road simply widens outside the bakery (open 06:30–11:00, closed Tuesday) to let farmers turn their pickups. Buy a 70-cent mollete—a soft roll that tastes of wheat and wood smoke—and you've sampled the local speciality. The bakery's oven burns oak prunings; when the door lifts, the whole street smells like a British autumn bonfire.

Walking Into an Empty Soundtrack

Footpaths radiate like spokes. The most useful leaves from the cemetery gate, marked "PR-CU 212" on a tin plate someone shot with an air-rifle. It climbs 250 m to the Sierra de los Claveles ridge in 40 minutes, then follows the crest for 6 km. To the north you see the marble-white villages of the Serranía; southwards the land drops 800 m into olive plantations that shimmer like corrugated tin. Griffon vultures cruise at eye level—bring binoculars, not for rarity but because here you can watch them bank without leaving the path.

The loop back takes three hours total. There is no café, no water fountain, and mobile coverage ends after the first kilometre. Take a litre of water per person; in July you'll drink it before the halfway point. The only shade comes from scattered juniper and the occasional stone hut whose roof collapsed decades ago. These shelters, called chozos, once stored cheese; now they frame photographs that make desktop wallpapers look busy.

After rain the clay surface sticks to boots like wet concrete. The council grades the track once a year—usually the week before the August fiestas—so late-spring hikers find the going easiest. Snow arrives any time after mid-November and can linger until March; the access road is cleared sporadically, so ring the ayuntamiento (0034 969 271 007) if you're booking a February weekend.

What Passes for Nightlife

Evenings start when the streetlights flicker on at ten past nine, powered by a solar array the EU co-funded in 2013. Pensioners appear on folding chairs, facing west as though watching a play that ended hours ago. English is rarely spoken, yet someone will offer a plastic cup of beer brewed in the next valley; accept it and you'll be updated on rainfall statistics, wheat prices, and which British hikers tried to wild-camp in the plaza last year (they were moved on politely, then fed tortilla in the bar).

There is, in fact, one bar: Casa Emilio, sign-written in 1980s Coke-red, open Thursday to Sunday. Inside: three tables, a television that shows bullfighting on mute, and a menu that never changes. Order migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic, grapes and the local chorizo spiced with pimentón de la Vera. A plate costs €7 and feeds two if you add a sliced tomato. Wine comes from bulk boxes stamped "Vino de la Tierra"; ask for the tinto joven and you'll get half a litre for €3, poured into a rinsed jam jar. They close when Emilio feels like it, usually around 22:30, so buy your breakfast supplies in advance.

Getting There, Staying Warm

Public transport stops at Cañete, 24 km down the mountain. From Cuenca's bus station two daily services make the 75-minute run to Cañete (€7.45); ring Taxi La Serranía (0034 647 382 944) for the final climb—budget €30 and book the day before, because the driver may otherwise be tending goats. If you're driving, leave the A-40 at Cuenca and follow the CM-2108; after Carboneras the asphalt narrows, drops, then corkscrews upward for 18 km. Petrol stations are scarce—fill up in Cuenca.

Accommodation is limited. Three village houses have been restored as casas rurales; two-bookable through Cuenca province's website—sleep four and six respectively, from €90 per night, minimum two nights. Heating is by pellet stove; instructions are in Spanish but the owner, Concha, will WhatsApp you a video demonstration. Bring slippers—stone floors suck the warmth out of socks. There is no hotel, and wild camping is tolerated only if you ask at the town hall first. In August every returned emigrant claims a spare room, so reserve months ahead; outside fiesta season you can turn up unannounced and still get keys.

When to Bail Out

Come in late April for almond blossom and daytime hiking temperatures of 18 °C. May adds colour but also the annual locust swarm of Cuenca-school geography field-trips—expect thirty teenagers measuring gradients outside the bakery. September light is photographic gold, yet the first frost can arrive overnight; mornings smell of wood smoke and wet slate. Mid-winter brings crystalline skies, but if the wind shifts to the north-east the chill factor rivals the Cairngorms, and the CM-2108 can ice over before the gritter leaves Cañete. If snow is forecast, the safest option is to retreat to Cuenca's Parador and try again tomorrow.

The Honest Exit

Campillos-Paravientos will not change your life. It offers no epiphany, no artisan gin, no Instagram pier. What it does give, generously, is altitude and quiet—two commodities increasingly rationed elsewhere in southern Europe. Turn up expecting entertainment and you'll be counting the minutes until the road reopens. Arrive prepared to walk, listen and accept a beer from strangers, and the village repays you with a soundtrack of wind and boots on grit that lingers long after you're back at sea level.