Fuentenava de Jábaga

The church bell strikes noon, yet nobody appears. Not a single shop door opens, no lunchtime clatter emerges from behind the stone walls lining Fuentenava de Jábaga's single main street. At 950 m above the southern Meseta, the village keeps its own timetable: siesta stretches longer, conversations happen later, and visitors learn to slow down within a day or risk feeling absurdly overdressed for the occasion.

Between Moorish Memory and Manchegan Plain

Cuenca province is famous for its hanging houses and dizzying gorge, but 37 km south-east of the city the landscape loosens its grip. Fields of cereal fade into gentle rises of pine and oak, and the CM-210 road starts to curve like a hesitant signature across the plateau. Here, Fuentenava de Jábaga sits where the Alcarria limestone meets the granite foothills of the Serranía Media. The name itself is a linguistic fossil: "Fuentenava" from the Spanish for new spring, "Jábaga" a reminder of the 8th-century Berber outposts that once dotted these ridges. No fortress remains, no horseshoe arch frames a gate; instead, the legacy is subtler—terraced plots, irrigation channels that pre-date the Reconquista, and a street pattern tight enough to confuse anyone expecting a neat Castilian grid.

Walk uphill from the small car park (free, always half-empty) and the village reveals itself in layers. Ground floors are still stables or storerooms, wooden balconies sag under terracotta pots, and the stone is the colour of wet sand whatever the weather. Houses rarely rise above a single upper storey; the idea is to shelter from wind rather than show off wealth. The effect is monochrome but not bleak—more like a drawing exercise in which the artist limits the palette on purpose.

What Passes for Sightseeing

There is no ticket office, no audioguide, no postcard rack. The 16th-century parish church of San Pedro keeps its door unlocked because the priest lives three minutes away; inside, the air smells of wax and extinguished votive candles. The retablo is a sober piece of provincial workmanship, gold leaf long since flaked off, yet the carved stone font where generations were baptised still holds water that drips from a copper tap. Stand still and you can hear it hit the bowl—proof that the village's eponymous springs still run.

Below the nave a tiny museum occupies what used to be the sacristy: two glass cases, a handwritten ledger recording civil-war casualties, and a set of agricultural tools donated by families whose surnames fill the cemetery outside. Opening hours are "mornings before mass" and "when Paco has the key," which tends to coincide with daylight. Donations go towards roof repairs; drop a euro in the box and you may be offered a photocopied leaflet in English so literal it becomes endearing.

The real artwork is the urban fabric itself. Follow any alley that narrows until you can touch both walls and you emerge onto a lane where laundry snaps above chickens scratching in wire pens. Notice the keystones carved with star-and-crescent before 1492, reused upside-down in later doorways—recycling avant la lettre. Halfway along Calle de la Fuente, number 14 has a timber balcony supported on beams taken from a dismantled wine press; the knots still smell faintly of grape must when the sun warms them.

Trails, Tracks and the Smell of Resin

Fuentenava makes no bid for the adrenaline market. There are no zip-wires, no via ferrata, not even a bike-hire shop. What you get is 86 km² of public footpaths, forestry tracks and livestock droving routes way-marked by the Junta de Comunidades with discreet white-and-yellow slashes. The Sierra de Jábaga tops out at 1,320 m, high enough for thyme to give way to broom and finally to Scots pine that bleeds golden resin when cut. Spring brings purple patches of orchids along the ravines; by July the same ground is ochre dust, and every footstep raises a puff that settles on your socks.

A circular walk of 9 km starts at the fuente nueva on the western edge of the village, climbs through holm oak, then contours round to the abandoned hamlet of Los Albaricoques. Roofs have collapsed but the threshing floor is intact, a perfect stone circle where eagles now perch. Allow three hours including the detour to a viewpoint that looks west over the cereal sea of La Mancha—on clear days you can pick out the wind turbines near Tarancón 45 km away. The only sound is the rasp of cicadas and, if the breeze is right, the clank of a distant tractor.

Mountain bikers use the same web of tracks; gradients are steady rather than brutal, but the surface is loose and there is no mobile coverage for the last 6 km back to the village. Carry water—there are no cafés en route, and the single spring marked on the 1:50,000 map runs dry after August.

Eating, Sleeping and the Art of Self-Catering

Even Spaniards struggle to name a restaurant here. The closest thing to hospitality is the bar at the petrol station on the CM-210, 4 km south, which serves coffee from 07:00 and plates of tortilla from a bain-marie until it runs out. Instead, visitors book one of six rural cottages scattered through the centre. Rural Arco Iris offers two-bedroom houses built around a former grain store: underfloor heating, beamed ceilings, Wi-Fi that flickers whenever it rains. Expect to pay €90–110 a night, minimum two nights at weekends. Each kitchen comes with a labelled spice rack and a bottle of local olive oil that the owner presses from 200 trees on the outskirts—strong, peppery, nothing like the supermarket version back home.

Shopping requires planning. The nearest supermarket is in Villanueva de la Jara, 18 km east, so most guests stop in Cuenca on the way in. The covered market there sells wild boar chorizo, Manchego curado for €18 a kilo, and jars of purple garlic smaller than a golf ball. In Fuentenava itself the bakery van arrives Tuesday and Friday at 11:00, horn blaring; locals queue for pan de pueblo, foreigners stock up on almond biscuits that keep for a week in a tin.

If you insist on being served, drive 25 minutes to the Venta de San Julián, an old muleteers' inn on the N-320. Their cordero al estilo de la Mancha arrives as a whole shoulder for two, slow-roasted in a wood oven until the bone slides out like a drawer. Price: €24 per person including house wine that tastes of tin and disappears faster than expected.

Seasons and How They Feel

April turns the surrounding hills an almost Irish green; mornings start at 6 °C, afternoons reach 18 °C, and the wind still carries enough bite to make a fleece welcome. Wild asparagus sprouts along the verges—villagers carry penknives specifically to harvest it on the way home from the fields. May adds colour but also clouds of pine-processionary caterpillars; keep dogs on leads unless you fancy an emergency vet bill.

Summer is dry rather than savagely hot. The altitude caps the mercury around 30 °C at midday, yet by 21:00 the thermometer has dropped to 19 °C and locals appear on doorsteps with folding chairs. August fiestas bring marching bands, a foam party in the concrete polideportivo, and a street market selling plastic toys. For three nights the population triples; if you came for silence, book elsewhere during the second weekend.

October delivers the photographer's jackpot: ochre oak, yellow broom, red maple planted by the council in a rare moment of municipal exuberance. Chanterelles pop up under the pines; carry a wicker basket and someone will volunteer cooking advice whether you ask or not. Nights drop below 10 °C; cottages light their wood-stoves and the smell of burning pine drifts through the streets.

Winter is when you discover how few people actually live here. Snow arrives maybe twice, melts by noon, but the wind that scours the plateau can make 5 °C feel like minus figures. Some cottages close; those that stay open offer radiators and thick duvets. The upside is clarity: on a blue-sky December morning you can see the snowcaps of the Cuenca ranges 70 km away, and the only footprints on the trail are your own.

Getting It Right, Getting It Wrong

Fly to Madrid, collect a hire car, and head east on the A-3. After 90 minutes leave at junction 172, then thread across the CM-210 for 25 minutes. The road is single-carriageway, perfectly smooth, and almost empty except for lorries hauling timber. Do not trust the postcode in a sat-nav—one wrong turning drops you onto a dirt track where stone walls close in and reversing becomes a test of marriage. Fill the tank at the motorway services; the village has no fuel, and the nearest 24-hour station is 35 km away.

Do not arrive expecting a gift shop. Do not ask the baker for gluten-free options—she will apologise profusely and produce a packet of rice cakes dated last year. Do not plan an evening bar crawl; the village's nocturnal life is a bottle of local red on your cottage step, counting shooting stars that the dark sky makes embarrassingly easy to spot.

Come instead with walking boots, a car full of food, and an appetite for quiet so complete you can hear your own pulse. Stay three nights, drive to Cuenca for the morning, return before the sun drops behind the sierra. Leave on the fourth day realising you never did find the monument, never took a selfie in front of anything famous—and that, perhaps, was the whole point.