Buenache de la Sierra

The church clock strikes eleven and every light in the village goes dark. Not a power cut—just the nightly curfew that lets the Milky Way reclaim the sky. At 1,257 m above sea level, Buenache de la Sierra is high enough for the air to taste of pine resin and cold stone, and small enough that the entire population could fit into a single London bus with seats to spare. One hundred and six residents, one bar, one shop that opens when it feels like it, and more footpaths than streets: that is the inventory.

Stone, Silence and Saffron-Colour Dirt

Houses here are built from the mountain itself. Granite blocks the colour of wet sand are pinned together with ochre mortar, roofs pitched steeply to shrug off winter snow. Many sit empty; their shutters hang at drunken angles, revealing glimpses of 1950s calendars still pinned to lime-washed walls. Yet the place is not museum-still. Someone is always splitting logs, the thud of axe on pine echoing down the lanes. Chickens wander across the single tarmacked road, indifferent to the occasional 4×4 that crawls past en route to the beehives beyond the last streetlamp.

The village clings to a narrow ridge above the River Escabas. Walk fifty paces east and you look straight down 400 m of limestone cliff. Walk fifty paces west and the ground rolls away into holm-oak pasture where a solitary shepherd waves from his quad bike. The Serranía de Cuenca stretches out like a crumpled green blanket, its folds turning from jade to charcoal as clouds scud across. On a clear day you can pick out the white cluster of Tragacete, 15 km distant; on a hazy one the world ends at the next pine-covered spur.

Walking without Way-markers (Mostly)

Maps are trustworthy, phone GPS is not. Signal drops to nil within minutes of leaving the square, so the old-fashioned skill of reading landscape becomes useful again. Three paths begin at the church door: the gentlest follows the ridge south to the ruined snow pits, icerías where winter drifts were once compacted for summer market. Allow ninety minutes there and back, plus time to imagine the sledges creaking downhill two centuries ago.

A stiffer option descends to the river, crosses a medieval pack-bridge of unmortared stone, then climbs through abandoned terraces of almond and saffron crocus. In late October the latter throw purple petals across the path like discarded theatre tickets. The loop is 8 km, gains 350 m on the return leg, and guarantees you will meet no one except possibly a wild boar. They heard you coming long before you see them; the rustle sounds like an overweight tourist struggling out of a hammock.

Proper hikers link Buenache to the PR-CU-51 long-distance trail that stitches together six ghost-hamlets in a two-day, 38 km traverse. Water is the limiting factor: springs marked on the 1:25,000 map often run dry by June, so carry more than you think sensible. The village baker (open 08:30–09:00 sharp) will sell you a fist-sized loaf for €1.50 that keeps for days and doubles as a doorstop.

What Passes for Cuisine at the Edge of Emptiness

There is no restaurant. The bar, Casa Ramón, serves coffee, beer and—if you ring the bell hard enough—tapas of local chorizo sliced so thick it could be sold as steak. Eat at 20:00 and you will share the counter with farmers debating rainfall statistics. Arrive after 21:30 and the place is locked; Ramón has gone home to watch the news.

Self-catering is the realistic option. The nearest supermarket worth the name is in Cuenca, 55 km west along the CM-2106, a road that deserves respect: 90 minutes of tight hairpins and sudden herds of goats. Stock up on tinned tomatoes, cured bacon and the sheep’s-milk cheese that oozes like fondue when grilled. Back in the village, rosemary grows wild along every path; a handful stripped from the stem and dropped into a bottle of cheap Rioja for twenty-four hours produces a marinade that makes even budget beef taste like something from a Michelin list.

If you crave a proper sit-down meal, drive 20 minutes to Tragacete. Mesón Las Pedrizas grills a chuletón for two (€32) the size of a small laptop, served rare unless you specifically beg for cremation. Order the pisto manchego starter: it arrives topped with a fried egg whose yolk performs the sauce duty. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and white beans stewed with bay leaves; vegans should rethink the entire holiday.

Seasons, Snow and the Art of Not Getting Stuck

Winter arrives overnight, usually between 15 October and 15 November. The first snow is photogenic, the second closes the road. The council clears a single lane by 09:00, but if the wind drifts the pass you may wait two days for the plough. Chains are compulsory equipment from December; without them the Guardia Civil will turn you back at the junction, a lonely place to spend the night in a hire-car.

Spring is the sweet spot. Daytime 18 °C, nights cold enough to justify lighting the wood-burner, wild orchids popping up along the paths. By late May the pine processionary caterpillars descend in nose-to-tail columns; resist the urge to poke them—their hairs shed like glass fibre and itch for a week.

August fries. Temperatures top 32 °C in the shade, which is scarce. Spanish families flee the coastal humidity and squeeze into ancestral homes; the village swells to perhaps 300. Suddenly there are three cars attempting to pass on a lane built for mules. Book accommodation early or you will discover that the nearest legal campsite is 35 km away and full of German campervans playing 1990s techno.

Practicalities for the Determined

Getting here: Fly Stansted to Valencia (2 h 15), collect a car with decent ground clearance, head north on the A-3 then CM-2106. Petrol stations are rare once you leave the motorway; fill up in Minglanilla. The final 12 km climb through the pine belt is spectacular and mildly terrifying when dusk meets a delivery lorry.

Sleeping: Three village houses have been restored as casas rurales, sleeping four to six. Expect stone floors, beams blackened by centuries of hearth smoke, and Wi-Fi that functions only when the wind blows from the east. Price €90–€120 per night for the whole house, firewood included. Bring slippers—those floors are cold at 06:00.

Money: The bar takes cards, the shop does not. Cuenca has free ATMs; the one in Tragacete charges €1.75 per withdrawal and occasionally swallows cards for sport.

Language: School-leavers understand English but pretend otherwise. A few phrases of Castilian Spanish oil the wheels; attempt the local “cuñao” accent and they will fall about laughing, but in a friendly way.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

There is nothing to buy. No fridge magnets, no embroidered tea-towels, no artisanal jam. You will leave with photos of clouds pouring over a limestone ridge like milk, and perhaps a jar of thyme honey bought from the beekeeper who parks his van beside the church on Sunday mornings (€6, cash only). Whether that compensates for the absence of room service, espresso martinis and reliable phone signal is a question only you can answer. Buenache de la Sierra does not court visitors; it merely tolerates them, provided they tread quietly and close the gate. If that sounds like your sort of place, the mountain will still be there next week. The chorizo might have run out.