Henarejos

The church bell strikes eleven and nobody stirs. Not because Henarejos ignores the hour, but because at 1,070 metres above sea level, silence is the default setting. One hundred and twenty-seven souls share these Cuenca ridges with roe deer, wild boar and boot-high drifts of pine needles. Mobile reception flickers in and out like a faulty torch; the loudest sound after dark is often the wind rearranging the rooftops’ Arab tiles.

A village that measures time in firewood, not seasons

Stone houses climb the slope in tight terraces, their wooden balconies painted the same ox-blood red used a century ago. Many still keep the original corral attached: a walled yard where chickens, goats and the family mule once spent the night. Today you are more likely to find a tidy stack of oak logs, cut last winter and left to season until the first frost returns. The locals call this la horma—the mould—and judge a neighbour by how straight the pile sits. Ask politely and someone will demonstrate the two-wedge technique that stops the whole thing collapsing in a March gale.

There is no high street, only a short hook of tarmac that widens enough for three cars before narrowing back into a footpath. The council recently painted yellow lines; nobody takes much notice. Parking is solved by leaving the handbrake off and letting gravity nudge the tyre against the kerbstone. Walking is quicker, especially when the gradient reaches one in five and the altitude reminds you how little cardio you did back home.

What passes for sights, and why they matter

The parish church of San Roque sits exactly at the top, not for spiritual symbolism but because that is the only flat ground large enough for a nave. Built from the same granite that pokes through the surrounding fields, it looks more like a fortified granary than a place of worship. Inside, the single altarpiece depicts the plague-stricken saint striking a bargain with the mountains: spare us and we’ll remember you every August. The deal still holds; during the fiestas the population swells to perhaps four hundred, the church bell rings until the early hours, and the priest has to borrow chairs from the next village.

Below the bell tower, a stone water trough runs with snowmelt even in July. Older residents rinse lettuce here, chatting across the divide while supermarket vans from Cuenca unload at the tiny alimentación. The shop stocks UHT milk, tinned octopus and three types of chorizo; if you need fresh coriander or soya milk, bring it yourself.

Maps are only half useful

Trails start where the concrete ends. One path heads east along an old mule track towards the Cueva del Gato, a limestone arch where ice lingers until May. The walk is six kilometres return, gains 250 metres, and offers a bench precisely at the point most people start questioning their life choices. Vultures turn overhead, riding the thermals with the efficiency of seasoned commuters. Spring brings purple Digitalis edging the path; autumn means níscalos mushrooms pushing through the pine duff—pick only if a local has pointed them out, and never on a Sunday when the forest belongs to the village.

A stiffer route climbs west to the Cabeza de la Yegua ridge at 1,420 metres. From here the view stretches across three provinces and, on very clear days, picks out the white turbines of the Campo de Montiel wind farms 60 kilometres south. The descent is a knee-killer; allow four hours and carry more water than you think sensible. In winter the same trail becomes a snow-shoe loop, though the council grades it only when enough residents complain. If the barrier across the track is closed, respect it: the rescue 4×4 is stationed 45 minutes away and the driver enjoys neither night calls nor British apologies.

Eating what the altitude dictates

Meat needs chewing up here. Morteruelo, a pâté of hare, partridge and pork liver, is served warm and sets like concrete as it cools—perfect for coating the stomach before the resoli coffee-and-rum chaser appears. Ajo arriero began as a shepherd’s supper: salt cod pounded with garlic, potato and enough olive oil to silence the pan. Modern cooks swap cod for tinned tuna; purists mutter that this is why Spain lost the empire. Either way, finish with gachas manchegas, a saffron-thickened porridge that tastes better than it photographs. Vegetarians should make friends with the baker; her tarta de piñones uses only eggs, almonds and mountain honey, and comes out of the wood-fired oven at eleven on Saturdays. Miss that slot and you will be offered factory biscuits instead.

When the silence is broken

Mid-August turns the village into an open-air karaoke. The fiestas de San Roque import brass bands, inflatable castles and a portable bar that serves cañas until the beer barrel floats. Book accommodation early; the only self-catering house with English reviews, Casa Rural Las Buitreras, sleeps six and is reserved months ahead by returning emigrants. If you arrive without a reservation, expect to drive 25 kilometres to the nearest hotel in Huélamo—not advisable after the communal resoli tasting.

September brings the Romería to the Virgen de la Cabeza chapel, six kilometres of cart track decorated with rosemary sprigs. Locals pack picnics into the boots of ageing Seat 600s and argue over whose grandmother made the best empanadillas. Visitors are welcome but space in the shrine courtyard is allocated by family lineage; stand at the back, applaud when everyone else does, and refuse the first offer of wine—accept the second.

Getting here, and why you will still need a car

From either Madrid or Valencia airports the drive is 230 kilometres, roughly two and a half hours if the A-3 behaves. After the Motilla del Palancar exit you leave the motorway, swap three lanes for one, and discover how Spanish civil engineers flirt with contour lines. The final 35 kilometres snake through pine plantations where wild boar wander at dusk; keep the headlights on full beam and brake for shadows. There is no petrol station in Henarejos; the closest pump closes at 21:00 and does not accept UK-issued Amex. Fill up in Cuenca while you still have phone signal.

Buses exist on Tuesday and Friday, timed to coincide with the street market in Landete. The service is reliable unless the driver’s cousin is getting married, in which case the route is “temporarily” suspended. Car hire remains the sensible option; a compact will cope, but if you visit between December and March consider something with winter tyres—snow chains are compulsory equipment when the nieve sign flashes, and the Guardia Civil do not accept “I’m on holiday” as an excuse.

The honest verdict

Henarejos will not change your life. It has no gift shops, no Michelin mention, and the nearest museum is forty minutes away. What it does offer is a yardstick: a place where the loudest generator belongs to the bakery, where neighbours still barter labour for lamb, and where the night sky remains dark enough to remind you what the Milky Way actually looks like. Come prepared—bring cash, a phrasebook and a sense of vertical humour—and the village repays with a calibration of scale. You will leave knowing exactly how small a community can be, and how large a mountain feels when you share it with 127 people who all know your car registration by heart.