Campillos-Sierra

The road from Cuenca climbs through black-pine forest until the tarmac thins and the temperature drops eight degrees. At 1,240 m, just below the winter snow line, Campillos Sierra appears: twenty-nine residents, one church bell that still marks the hours, and stone houses built to survive minus fifteen. Sat-navs give up five kilometres back; phone reception is patchy on a good day. This is the Serranía Alta, the least-populated corner of Castilla-La Mancha, and the village functions less as a destination than as a vantage point over empty Spain.

Most visitors arrive by accident, having taken the CM-2106 detour to avoid the toll on the A-40. The first sight is a hand-painted sign: “Campillos Sierra – Altitud 1.240 m”. Below it, a boarded-up bakery and a tractor parked since 1998. Keep driving; the road ends at the village plaza where the church door is never locked and the only bar opens when its owner, Paco, sees headlights. Order a café solo (€1.20) and he’ll produce a map photocopied in 1992 marking three footpaths that start from the fountain.

Thin Air, Thick Walls

Altitude dictates everything. Nights remain cool even in July; locals still shut windows at dusk to keep the warmth inside walls a metre thick. Winters bring snow from November to March, and the single access road is chained after dusk. The council distributes grit, but residents keep their own shovels. If you plan to stay, pack as for a Scottish January: down jacket, hat, gloves. Rental cottages (three in the whole village) store blankets, not air-conditioning units. Heating is extra—firewood €7 a sack, delivered by Miguel after siesta.

Summer, by contrast, is crisp and dry. Daytime temperatures hover around twenty-five degrees, perfect for walking the pine ridges without the sweat-bath of Andalusian lowlands. The trade-off: afternoon thunderstorms build over the Cuenca peaks and roll in after 4 p.m. Locals time hikes for dawn, back in time for lunch and a two-hour stillness when even the dogs stop barking.

Tracks for Boots, Not Apps

Forget way-marked National Trust style routes. Paths here are drovers’ lanes once used for moving sheep to winter pastures. The most straightforward leaves the upper cemetery, climbs 250 m through black pine and juniper, then contours along the Cueva del Hierro escarpment. Total distance: 7 km return; total signage: one cairn. The payoff is a ledge overlooking three provinces—Cuenca, Guadalajara, Teruel—layered like corrugated cardboard. Griffon vultures ride the thermals below eye level; bring binoculars and a map, because phone GPS drifts when the mist rolls in.

For a longer day, the old mule track to Villalba de la Sierra drops 600 m into the Rio Mayor gorge, crosses a stone bridge rebuilt in 1897, then climbs back out. Twelve kilometres, no facilities, no phone coverage. In wet months the river is knee-deep; carry sandals or accept soggy boots. The village taxi (Luis, 0034 656 789 233) will collect you from Villalba for €25 if you can ring him—arrange a time before you set off.

What Grows and What You Can Eat

Wild food is taken seriously. October brings trumpet chanterelles in the pine litter; locals guard patches the way Scots guard grouse moors. Picking is tolerated if you ask first and limit yourself to a kilo. The village shop stocks only tinned milk and tinned tuna, so fresh supplies come from Tragacete, 28 km east. There, the Friday market sells local honey, lamb from the Montes Universales and a soft, smoky cheese wrapped in spruce bark—buy early; the producer sells out by 10 a.m.

Eating out means one option: Bar Sociedad, open weekends year-round and weekdays July–August. Menu is whatever Carmen has cooked: migas (fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo), gazpacho manchego (not the cold soup but rabbit stew thickened with flatbread) and, if you ring ahead, cordero al horno cooked in a wood-fired oven that doubles as the village bakery. Three courses, wine and coffee: €14. Vegetarians get tortilla and a shrug; coeliacs should bring their own bread.

When the Village Swells to 200

Festivities are short, loud and rooted. The weekend nearest 15 August sees the fiesta de la Virgen: mass at noon, procession at dusk, then a sound system dragged into the plaza for rancheras played at window-rattling volume. Former residents return from Madrid and Valencia; spare rooms fill, cars line the single street. If you want sleep, book a cottage on the edge or join in—outsiders are welcome, though nobody speaks much English. The other date is 3 February, Santa Bárbara, when the priest drives up from Huélamo to bless the fields. Attendance: thirty people, twenty dogs, one donkey.

Getting There and Away

Public transport is theoretical. A school bus passes Monday to Friday at 07:15, returning at 14:00—hitching a lift is tolerated if you pay the driver €2. The nearest car-hire desk is at Cuenca railway station, 70 km south. From Madrid, take the AVE to Cuenca (55 min), pick up a vehicle and allow ninety minutes on the CM-2106. Petrol stations are scarce; fill up in Cuenca. In winter carry snow chains—Guardia Civil turn cars back at the first patch of ice.

Accommodation choices are limited. Casa Rural La Sierra sleeps six, has central heating and charges €90 a night minimum two nights. Casa del Pino is smaller, cheaper, but only opens April–October because pipes freeze. Both can be booked through the provincial tourist office (+34 969 240 550) whose staff speak serviceable English. Wild camping is tolerated above the tree line, but fires are banned May–October; fines start at €300.

The Honest Verdict

Campillos Sierra will never feature on a postcard rack. The village is scruffy, services are erratic, and a rainy day here feels like November on the Pennines. Yet for walkers who value space over comfort, or for anyone curious how Spain functions when the tourists go home, it offers a rare clarity: silence you can measure in kilometres, night skies at 1,240 m where the Milky Way still casts a shadow, and a lesson in how twenty-nine people keep a centuries-old settlement alive. Come prepared, lower your expectations of convenience, and the altitude might just clear your head in ways a beach resort never could.