Chumillas

The road to Chumillas doesn't mess about. It climbs. Past the last proper town, the tarmac narrows, switchbacks tighten, and suddenly you're threading through a landscape that feels half-forgotten by modern Spain. At 1,000 metres above sea level, this Cuencan village of 58 souls sits suspended between earth and sky, where mobile signal flickers like a dying bulb and the loudest sound is wind rattling through juniper branches.

This isn't postcard Spain. No orange groves or flamenco bars here. Instead, stone houses huddle against a ridge, their roofs weighted with rocks to stop winter gales from peeling them off. Some are freshly rendered, owned by weekenders from Valencia or Madrid. Others stand roofless, their empty doorways gaping like missing teeth. The contrast tells the story of rural Spain in miniature: investment and abandonment sitting side by side.

The Architecture of Survival

Chumillas grew upwards, not outwards. Streets are staircases rather than thoroughfares, paved with granite slabs worn smooth by centuries of hooves and boots. The parish church anchors the summit, its single bell tower doubling as village timepiece and weather vane. Built from the same honey-coloured stone as every other building, it blends into the ridge so completely that you might miss it entirely if not for the weathercock.

Down these alleys, houses adapt to every contour. Some burrow into the rock itself, their back walls disappearing into cliff faces. Others perch on stilts over sheer drops, supported by medieval stonework that defies both gravity and modern building regulations. Windows are small, doors low. Everything designed for a climate where winter temperatures drop to -10°C and summer brings furnace winds from the Meseta Central.

The village fountain still flows from a spring captured by Moorish engineers. Local women once washed clothes here; now it's where hikers fill bottles before heading into the sierra. The water tastes of iron and altitude, sharp enough to cut through the dust of the trail.

Walking Into Empty Country

Chumillas sits at the centre of a web of livestock paths that once connected every hamlet in the Serranía. These cañadas remain public right of way, marked by centuries of hoof erosion rather than yellow paint. Follow any track downwards and you'll hit the Rio Marín, a silver thread that carved the 400-metre gorge below the village. Head upwards and the path dissolves into paramera – high moorland where only juniper and aromatic thyme survive.

No signposts. No fellow walkers. Just stone cairns built by shepherds and the occasional flash of a griffon vulture's wingtag. The birdwatching here rivals anything in Extremadura, without the tour buses. Golden eagles nest in the cliffs above the village; their hunting flights follow thermals that rise from the gorge like invisible elevators. Bring binoculars and patience. The birds appear when engine noise fades and footsteps slow to mountain rhythm.

Autumn transforms these slopes into a forager's larder. Níscalos – saffron milk caps – push through pine needles after September rains. Locals know the spots but won't share them. They'll sell you a bag for €8 at the village gate though, provided you arrive before the weekenders from Cuenca strip the slopes bare.

When the Village Comes Alive

August hits different. The population swells from 58 to perhaps 200 as former residents return. Cars with Barcelona and Bilbao plates line the single street. Grandparents who haven't seen grandchildren since Christmas barbecue entire lambs in courtyards. The village fountain becomes an impromptu bar, with someone inevitably producing a plastic jug of mistela – sweet fortified wine that tastes like liquid Christmas.

The fiesta proper lasts three days. Mass at the church, procession round the fountain, then a communal paella cooked in a pan big enough to bathe a toddler. Music blares from speakers balanced on hay bales. Someone's uncle sings Cuencan folk songs in a voice cracked by decades of roll-ups. For 72 hours, Chumillas forgets it's dying.

Then September. The cars leave. Shutters bang closed. The village shop – open three mornings a week if someone's remembered to pick up the keys – returns to its usual stock of tinned tuna and expired custard creams. The silence feels physical after the August cacophony, like diving deep underwater where sound can't penetrate.

Getting There, Staying There

The drive from Cuenca takes 90 minutes on paper. Allow two hours unless you fancy explaining to your insurance why your hire car now resembles a cheese grater. The CM-2106 climbs 800 metres in 20 kilometres, hairpinning through quebradas where rockfalls aren't cleared unless goats start complaining. Winter makes this serious. Snow chains aren't optional between December and March; they're the difference between reaching the village and spending a very cold night practising your Spanish with recovery truck drivers.

Accommodation means renting. Entire village houses go for €60-80 nightly on Airbnb, typically restored by architects who've never met a neutral colour they didn't like. Expect underfloor heating, rainfall showers, and Wi-Fi that works when the wind blows from the right direction. The alternative is Cuenca, 70 kilometres back down the mountain. Choose wisely if you're planning evening drinks.

Food requires forward planning. Chumillas has no bar, no restaurant, no shop that sells fresh bread. The nearest supermarket is 25 kilometres away in Landete, though the petrol station there does excellent bocadillos stuffed with local morcilla. Stock up. Cook in. The village butcher closed in 1998 but Mrs García three doors down will sell you eggs from her hens for €2 a dozen. Knock loudly; she's usually in the garden.

The Honest Truth

Chumillas won't suit everyone. The silence unnerves some people. The darkness – real darkness, no orange skyglow – makes others jumpy. Phone addicts get twitchy when Instagram won't refresh. Families with small children should note that cliffs don't come with EU-mandated safety barriers.

But for walkers, birders, writers needing off-grid thinking space, or anyone curious about how Spaniards lived before tourism, it offers something increasingly rare: authentic mountain village life without the artisanal cheese shops. Come prepared, tread lightly, and you might understand why 58 people still call this ridge home.