San Lorenzo de la Parrilla

The church tower of San Lorenzo de la Parrica is visible for 10 km in every direction, a stone compass needle that reminds you how flat Castilla-La Mancha really is. At 940 m above sea level the village sits high enough for winter fog to pool beneath it like milk in a saucer, yet low enough for July temperatures to brush 40 °C. The cereal fields—wheat, barley and the occasional stripe of sunflowers—roll away in a billion stalks of gold, interrupted only by the dirt tracks that farmers still use to reach their plots.

A Horizon That Moves With the Sun

Nobody comes here for postcard drama. The landscape is horizontal, the colours seasonal, the architecture plain. What shifts is the light. At dawn the fields glow pink; by noon the sky burns such a violent blue it hurts to look up; dusk lays a layer of bronze dust that makes even the tractor sheds look temporary and precious. Photographers who expect Andalusian white villages leave disappointed—until they notice how the church tower turns into a black paper cut-out against an orange sky, or how a single cumulus cloud can throw a shadow the size of Coventry across the plateau.

The 1,050 residents have stopped apologising for the lack of mountains. They point out that you can watch weather happen here: storms approach for half an hour before they arrive, rain falling in grey sheets you can time with a stop-watch. Night skies are dark enough to see the Andromeda Galaxy without binoculars; the village switched off half its streetlights two years ago and nobody complained.

Walking, Cycling and the Art of Taking Water

There are no signed footpaths, just the agricultural lattice that has linked farmsteads since the 1850s. A typical circuit leaves the cemetery gate, follows the camino de los Barrancos for 5 km, then cuts back along the irrigation ditch known as the Zanja Vieja. The gradient is negligible but the altitude makes itself felt: British visitors used to moorland notice lungs working harder than expected, especially when the thermometer is nudging 35 °C. Start early, carry more water than seems reasonable, and expect to meet nobody except the odd farmer on a moped.

Mountain bikers like the same tracks because they are wide, rock-free and allow 20 km loops without repeating ground. The surface is hard-pack clay—rideable even after rain, which is more than can be said for the bridleways of the Peak District. A hire bike can be arranged through Cuenca’s BiciMonte shop (€25 a day) but they will deliver only if you commit to three days; otherwise it’s a 40-minute drive to collect.

Summer heat is dry rather than humid, so sweat evaporates before you notice dehydration. The local remedy is a glass of water with a pinch of bicarbonate and a squeeze of lemon, served in every bar at 8 a.m. alongside the aniseed-flavoured breakfast biscuit called a pan de anís. Try it once; it tastes like liquid Refreshers but it works.

One Church, One Bar, One Oven

The parish church of San Lorenzo Mártir is open only for mass (Sundays 11 a.m., weekdays 7 p.m.) but the sacristan lives opposite and will unlock if you knock politely. Inside, the surprise is the eighteenth-century fresco of the martyred saint grilling on his iron bars—rather too graphic for breakfast time—painted by a monk who had clearly never seen either a gridiron or human anatomy. The tower houses two bells, the larger cast in Toledo in 1783 and cracked during a Civil War bombardment; the hairline fracture gives it a Welsh lilt on cold mornings.

Opposite the church, Bar La Cuatro has been run by the same family since 1981. Coffee is €1.20, a caña of lager €1.50, and the tapas list is short: migas (fried breadcrumbs with chorizo), morteruelo (pork-liver pâté set in its own fat) and gachas manchegas, a paprika-thickened stew that shepherds once carried in flasks. Order all three and the bill still slips under a tenner. The television is always on, volume low, usually showing replays of yesterday’s segunda división. Conversation stops when the delivery lorry reverses outside; resumes the moment the engine cuts.

Bread comes from the horno opposite the school, baked at 5 a.m. in a wood-fired oven that uses vine prunings for fuel. Ask for a barra de pueblo and you will receive a loaf the weight of a house brick, crust blackened, crumb tight enough to survive a rucksack. They sell out by 10 a.m.; after that you get the commercial baguette and everyone knows you are a late riser.

When the Village Throws a Party

Fiestas take place twice a year: the patronal weekend around 10 August, and the feria mayor the third weekend of September. The August event is religious at its core—procession, brass band, fireworks let off at 2 p.m. because the pyrotechnician likes daylight—but the real action happens after midnight when the plaza fills with teenagers dancing to reggaeton blasted from the back of a Transit van. Visitors are welcome, beer is €2 a plastic cup, and nobody cares if you dance badly.

September belongs to the adults. The encierro (bull run) uses novillos, young bulls whose horns are taped, released one at a time through a 400-m course between orange barriers. Participation is forbidden to anyone who has been drinking; British spectators should note that the medical tent is staffed by final-year veterinary students from Albacete, not St John Ambulance. The run starts at 7 a.m.; blood pressures are visible in the dust.

Both fiestas end with a communal paella cooked in a pan two metres across. Tickets go on sale at 1 p.m. in the ayuntamiento lobby; buy early because they print only 250. Locals bring their own chairs, bottles of tinto and opinions about saffron quantities. If you are invited to contribute, a bag of rabbit joints from the Cuenca market costs €8 and buys instant acceptance.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

San Lorenzo sits 22 km east of Cuenca city along the CM-210, a road narrow enough for wheat stalks to brush both wing mirrors. A hire car is essential; public transport is one bus a day leaving Cuenca at 6 p.m. and returning at 5 a.m.—fine if you fancy spending 23 hours in a village with no hotel. Petrol stations are non-existent; fill up in Cuenca or gamble on the 24-hour self-service pump at Villar de la Encina, 18 km south.

The nearest accommodation is the Casa Rural La Tercia, three kilometres outside the village beside an abandoned threshing floor. Four double rooms, shared kitchen, no pool, Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind is from the north. Price is €70 a night for the room, breakfast of toast and supermarket jam included. They will lend bicycles but the tyres are usually soft; bring a pump. Book by WhatsApp (+34 626 147 322) and expect replies after 9 p.m. when the owner finishes in the fields.

If you need civilisation, Cuenca has the usual NH and Parador options, but then you miss the dawn light slipping across the plateau while the village bakery is still loading trays. Stay one night, walk one track, drink one coffee in La Cuatro, and you will understand why people who leave at eighteen still come back to bury their parents beneath a horizon that never quite stays still.