Fuentes

The road to Fuentes climbs steadily through pine forests, each bend revealing another valley folded into the Cuenca mountains. At 1,000 metres above sea level, the air thins and the temperature drops. Mobile phone signal becomes patchy. This is deliberate isolation, not accidental neglect—the village has always turned its back on the plains below, preferring the harsh certainties of mountain life to the easy commerce of the lowlands.

Stone Walls and Winter Wisdom

Houses here huddle together like survivors of a long siege. Thick stone walls, some dating to the 16th century, lean against each other for support. The roofs pitch steeply—too steep for English slate, perfect for shedding the snow that can blanket these heights from December through March. Wooden balconies, painted oxblood red or left to weather silver-grey, project just far enough to shelter doorways from winter storms without catching the worst of the wind.

Walk through the narrow streets at dusk and you'll smell wood smoke from chimneys that never quite go cold. The village's 460 inhabitants have learned to read the weather like their grandparents did. When the clouds sit heavy on the southern peaks, they know to bring livestock down from the high pastures. When the wind shifts to the north-east, they batten down for three days of bitter cold.

The parish church squats at the village centre, its bell tower more practical than pretty. Built piecemeal over centuries, it shows the architectural equivalent of visible mending—Gothic foundations supporting Baroque additions, with modern concrete patching where walls failed. Inside, the temperature remains constant winter and summer. Local women still cover their heads here, more from habit than obligation.

Following Water Through Stone

Fuentes takes its name seriously. Water springs from limestone fissures throughout the surrounding hills, feeding stone fountains that predate Roman occupation. The main fountain, Plaza Nueva's fuente vieja, flows year-round at six litres per minute. Local women fill plastic jerrycans here rather than trust tap water for cooking. The water tastes metallic, heavy with minerals that stain porcelain brown but make excellent bread.

Follow the water and you'll find the village's best walking. An hour's climb north-east brings you to Fuente de la Teja, where water cascades over moss-covered rocks into a natural pool. The pool never freezes, even when air temperature drops to minus fifteen. Local legend claims it has healing properties—though this might simply reflect that anyone reaching it has already proven their fitness.

The paths are not signed. What the Spanish call senderos are really just routes that sheep, goats and their shepherds have followed for generations. Stone cairns mark junctions, but only if you know what to look for. A splash of white paint on a pine trunk might indicate the way to a spring. Three stones balanced on a boundary wall could mark a shortcut back to the village. This is navigation by intuition and observation, not Ordnance Survey precision.

Eating What the Mountain Provides

Food here follows the agricultural calendar with military discipline. April brings wild asparagus, thin as knitting needles, gathered at dawn before the shoots toughen. May means setas—oyster mushrooms that grow on dead chestnut trees. Locals guard their mushroom spots like family secrets, passing locations to daughters but never sons-in-law. October's rains trigger the níscalos season, when whole families disappear into the pine forests with wicker baskets and Opinel knives.

The village's single bar, Casa Paco, opens irregular hours that depend more on Paco's mood than customer demand. When the metal shutter rolls up, usually around 11am, word spreads through the village like wildfire. Within twenty minutes, the six tables fill with men drinking carajillos—coffee laced with cheap brandy—while discussing rainfall statistics and wheat prices. The menu extends to whatever Paco's wife feels like cooking. Might be morteruelo (a pâté of pork liver and spices) with bread, might be nothing at all.

For proper meals, locals eat at home. The midday comida remains sacred, even for those who now work in Cuenca city and commute the 45 kilometres. Gachas, a porridge of flour and water enriched with pork fat, appears on tables throughout winter. It's poverty food elevated to art—each family guards their ratio of flour to water, their secret timing for adding the asiento (pork dripping). Served with grapes from the vine that grows over every patio, it tastes better than it sounds.

When the Village Comes Alive

August transforms Fuentes. The population triples as hijos del pueblo return from Madrid, Barcelona, even London. They arrive in cars loaded with supermarket provisions—mountain shops can't cope with sudden demand for breakfast cereal and branded yoghurt. The village fountain, normally a place for quiet conversation, becomes a social hub where teenagers flirt and grandparents supervise toddlers.

The fiesta patronal, usually the second weekend of August, lasts three days. The church bell rings continuously from noon Saturday through Sunday night. A sound system appears in Plaza Nueva, playing Spanish pop from the 1980s at volume levels that would breach British noise regulations. The paella gigante on Sunday afternoon feeds 800 people from a pan three metres wide. It tastes of smoke and saffron, with rabbit and local beans that have soaked overnight.

But the real celebration happens in private houses. Front doors stand open. Walk past any evening and you'll be summoned inside to inspect photos of new grandchildren, admire a kitchen renovation, or sample someone's homemade aceite de hierbas—olive oil infused with mountain herbs. Refusing hospitality causes genuine offence. Accepting means you'll still be there at midnight, discussing the relative merits of different wood-burning stoves while drinking liqueurs that could strip paint.

Practicalities for the Curious

Getting here requires commitment. The nearest airport, Valencia, lies two hours away via mountain roads that would challenge a rally driver. Car hire is essential—public transport involves a bus from Cuenca that runs twice daily, sometimes. The road climbs through puerto de Cabrejas at 1,400 metres, where GPS systems lose satellite lock and phone coverage disappears entirely.

Accommodation means self-catering. Two village houses offer tourist rentals, both restored by families who couldn't bear to sell ancestral properties to outsiders. Expect stone floors covered with rag rugs, wood-burning stoves that require constant feeding, and bathrooms where the hot water runs brown for the first minute. One house has WiFi that works when the wind blows from the south. The other doesn't pretend.

Bring walking boots with ankle support—the limestone paths eat trainers for breakfast. Pack layers regardless of season. Mountain weather changes fast: breakfast in sunshine, lunch in cloud, dinner in rain. Winter visitors should carry snow chains from November through April. The road clears eventually, but not necessarily when you need to leave for your flight home.

Come with Spanish. English speakers are non-existent, though patience and gesture go far. The village farmacia stocks basics but closes for siesta from 2pm until 5pm. The nearest supermarket, fifteen kilometres away in Beteta, shuts on Sunday afternoons and all day Monday. Plan accordingly or learn to live on bread, cheese and the excellent local wine that costs €3 a bottle and tastes like summer stone fruits.

Fuentes won't change your life. It offers no epiphanies, sells no souvenirs, provides no Instagram moments. What it does offer is continuity—a place where people still live according to seasons rather than algorithms, where water determines daily routine, where strangers become honorary villagers through shared meals and conversation. Just don't expect to remain a stranger for long.