Albaladejo del Cuende

The church bell tolls twice at dawn. Nothing else moves except a tractor idling outside the only grocer, its headlights picking out frost on stone. At 920 metres above sea level, Albaladejo del Cuende wakes later than the rest of Castilla-La Mancha, and once the diesel engine cuts out you can hear why: the wind combs through Aleppo pines that wrap the ridge, a low, steady hush that drowns the A-3 motorway far below.

This is not the Spain of high-speed trains or coach-party circuits. The village sits on the southern lip of the Serranía Media conquense, 55 kilometres south-west of Cuenca, reachable only by the CM-412, a road that narrows to a single lane each time it meets a rock face. The name—Arabic “al-balad”, the settlement—hints at a frontier past, yet the Moors were gone seven centuries ago and what remains is a compact grid of stone houses built to withstand winters that can dip to –8 °C and summers that still touch 35 °C. The altitude smooths both extremes, but only just; pack a fleece even in May.

A walk that starts at the bakery and ends wherever the path fades

There is no tourist office, so directions come from the bakery-cum-bar on Plaza de la Constitución. Order a cortado and you’ll be told which shepherd’s track is clear of wild boar, or which almond grove is flowering. The most straightforward circuit leaves from the upper cemetery, drops into the Rambla del Cuende and loops back via the old threshing floors—about 6 km, two hours, no waymarking beyond the occasional cairn. Stone terraces collapse into the gully, and the only sound is the click of buntings in the juniper. After rain the rambla becomes a torrent; if the stone bridge at the bottom is wet, turn back.

For something stiffer, continue east to the Cabezuela gorge where limestone walls tighten to arm’s width. The path is a medieval drove road once used to move merino sheep to winter pasture; hoof-shaped hollows are still polished smooth. You’ll gain 350 metres, emerge on a wind-scoured plateau and meet the GR-66 long-distance trail that links the village to the ruins of Uclés monastery 25 km away. Carry water—there are no fountains after the first kilometre and the only bar en route is in Mota del Cuende, open Saturday lunchtimes if the owner’s truck starts.

Lamb, logs and the lingering scent of resin

Back in the village, smoke rises straight up from chimneys at 16:00 sharp; that’s when the day’s oak logs, cut under licence from the Montes Municipales, are stoked for the evening meal. Restaurants are thin on the ground—two, to be exact. Mesón La Cuerva serves cordero al estilo de Albaladejo: a whole shoulder for two, rubbed with garlic and mountain thyme, roasted in a wood-fired clay oven until the rind crackles like burnt toffee. It feeds three if you order the pisto manchego first, a pepper-and-aubergine hash that tastes of sun rather than tinned tomato. House rosado is drawn from a five-litre plastic drum and costs €2.50 a glass; it’s light enough to drink at lunch and still walk the gorge afterwards.

If you’re self-catering, the grocer opens 09:00–13:00, stocks Manchego curado aged 14 months, and will slice jamón from the leg while you wait. Bread arrives from Motilla del Palancar at 11:00; by 11:30 it’s usually gone. There is no fish counter—the village turned its back on the sea centuries ago—yet on Fridays you can order gambas from the travelling fish van that tours the sierra, horn beeping like an ice-cream van in a British cul-de-sac.

When the square fills with people who were born here

August 15 turns the clock back. Families who left for Madrid or Valencia in the 1970s return, park 4x4s where goats usually graze, and string fairy lights between the church and the school. The fiesta programme is printed on a single A4 sheet taped to the bakery door: mass at 12:00, paella for 200 at 14:00, verbena with an 80-year-old brass band until the generator runs out of diesel. Visitors are welcome but not announced; buy a €5 raffle ticket and you’ll be handed a plate and a plastic cup like everyone else. At midnight the younger crowd hikes to the Ermita de la Virgen, a chapel 2 km uphill, carrying candles in jam jars. The sky is dark enough to catch the Perseid meteors streaking above the castle ruins of Cuende—no light pollution, no phone signal, just the bells marking quarter hours until dawn.

Getting there, staying warm, knowing when to leave

Madrid is the nearest airport with UK flights. Collect a hire car at T1, follow the A-3 south for 165 km and exit at Tarancón; the final 20 km climb the CM-412 through almond terraces that flower white in February. In winter carry snow chains—the pass at Puerto de Carboneras (1,050 m) is cleared but can close during sudden storms. Buses exist only on paper: one Cuenca–Motilla service pauses at the village square at 16:35, returns at 06:55 next day, and is cancelled if the driver is unwell.

Accommodation is limited to three casas rurales. Casa de los Tiesos sleeps six, has under-floor heating and a telescope on the roof; weekends book months ahead. Off-season you can rent the lower floor of Casa Rural La Solana for €70 a night, minimum two nights, firewood extra. Hosts leave a litre of local olive oil and a note: “If the water pump whistles, switch it off for five minutes.” Mobile coverage is patchy inside stone walls; Whatsop calls drop unless you stand by the church tower facing south-west.

Leave before Sunday lunch if you need petrol—the nearest 24-hour station is 35 km away in Tarancón, and the village pumps close at 14:00 even in August. On the descent the bell rings twice again, fainter now, a reminder that time here is still measured in seasons, not in visitor numbers.