Sotorribas

The church bell in Pajares strikes noon, yet no one quickens their step. An elderly man continues polishing his hunting boots on a doorstep; two dogs sleep in the middle of the lane, confident no car will disturb them before nightfall. At 990 m above sea level, Sotorribas operates on a timetable the Romans would recognise: dawn means work, dusk means rest, and anything in between can wait.

This scatter of hamlets, 130 km east-south-east of Madrid, sits on the southern lip of the Serranía de Cuenca. Limestone shelves tilt like broken paving slabs; Aleppo pines cling to the fissures. The municipality counts 696 souls spread across nine tiny pedanías—Ribagorda, Valdemoro del Rey, Villar de Olalla—each with its own stone church, communal laundry trough and view across empty valleys. Drive the CM-2105 spur and you’ll see every spire in a single sweep of road.

Stone, Slate and Silence

Houses here are built from what the ground rejected. Walls are chunky mampostería—odd-sized limestone chunks laid with more enthusiasm than precision—topped with hand-split slate so dark it drinks sunlight. Timber balconies sag under geraniums, but the structures outlasted their builders: dates carved on doorways read 1734, 1811, 1886. Look up and you’ll spot ventanucos, tiny windows designed for muskets rather than light; look down and you’ll find metal rings set in doorjambs where goats were once tethered overnight.

There is no “old quarter” because nothing is new. Even the village bar occupies a former grain store; the billiard table has to squeeze under a Gothic doorway a metre too narrow. Public architecture is limited to churches you can walk round in three minutes and ermitas the size of a Cornish chapel. Inside San Pedro in Ribagorda, the paint may be 1970s ochre but the retablo is 17th-century pine, gilded with copper powder that turns green instead of gold. The guidebook entry is brief; the whisper of history is not.

Tracks Where the Romans Once Overtook

Sotorribas is stitched together by caminos reales—pack-horse trails now reduced to stony footpaths. One morning circuit heads south from Pajares, drops into the Cañada Honda gorge and climbs to an abandoned shepherd’s hut at 1,150 m. Spring brings purple polygala and the faint vanilla scent of Cistus laurifolius; golden eagles ride thermals overhead, red-billed choughs tumble like black handkerchiefs. The whole loop is 8 km, takes three slow hours, and you will meet no one—except perhaps a farmer on a quad bike hunting wild boar with a single dog trotting behind.

Maps are advisable: waymarking consists of occasional paint splash or a cairn the wind knocks over. Mobile coverage vanishes in every ravine; download the IGN 1:25,000 sheet before leaving Cuenca. Stout shoes suffice in dry weather; after rain the clay grips like fresh cement.

Come October the same tracks become mushroom supermarkets. Locals set off at dawn with cuchillos de setas tucked into belts, returning at midday with wicker baskets of níscalos (saffron milk-caps) and rovellones (wood blewits). Outsiders may tag along—ask inside the bar and someone’s cousin will agree, provided you split the haul and hand over any reynas (cauliflower fungus) prized for stews. If you know only supermarket buttons, hire a guide: the Corte de Cuenca mycological association runs Saturday walks for €20, including insurance and a sandwich that weighs half a kilo.

Bread, Lamb and Honey that Tastes of Pine

Food is high-calorie, low-fuss, designed for people who spend daylight on limestone scree. Breakfast might be migas ruleras: yesterday’s bread crumbled and fried in olive oil with garlic, chorizo and grapes that burst into sweet pockets. Lunch could be caldereta de cordero—lamb shoulder stewed with bay and smoky pimentón de la Vera—served in an earthenware bowl that keeps it bubbling five minutes after it reaches the table. Vegetarians get pisto manchego, a thick ratatouille topped with a fried egg, though you must specify sin jamón or the chef will consider ham a seasoning.

Cheese is Manchego curado, nutty rather than sharp, best dribbled with local honey harvested from hives tucked among rosemary and Erica arborea. The honey carries a faint menthol note; spread it on toast and you taste the mountain. Wine arrives in 500 ml porrones—glass teapots that require steady forearms—though most folk order cañas of La Mancha lager the colour of polished brass. Expect to pay €12–14 for two courses, bread and a drink; cards are accepted only after much cable waggling.

Sunday lunch is the social glue. Families drive up from Valencia or Madrid, fill the two restaurants in Valdemoro del Rey, and sit down at 15:00 sharp. If you want a table, book by Thursday; arrive without one and you’ll be offered a stool at the bar next to the coffee machine, which is no hardship—portions stay the same, only the view of the television changes.

When the Fiesta Outnumbers the Population

Every pedanía keeps its patron saint and therefore its own party. The season kicks off on 15 May with San Isidro in Pajares: a tractor Mass, dulzaina band, and communal paella cooked over pine trunks that leave resin streaks up the cooks’ arms. July belongs to Ribagorda’s Virgen del Carmen—procession at dusk, fireworks that echo round the gorge like artillery, and a dance that lasts until the band remembers they left the shepherd’s pie in the oven. August ends with Valdemoro del Rey’s encierro, a gentle version of Pamplona where two heifers jog behind a rope barrier while teenagers practise bravado and grandparents bet on which grandson will fall over first.

Visitors are welcome but not announced in English. Download a Spanish fiesta phrasebook; learn “¡Viva el santo!” and you’ll be handed a plastic cup of mistela (sweet anise liqueur) faster than you can say cheers. Accommodation triples in price for those weekends—book the instant dates are published on the municipal Facebook page, usually late March.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

You need wheels. From Madrid Barajas take the A-40 east to Cuenca, exit at junction 201, then follow the CM-2105 28 km south. The final stretch corkscrews through pine woods; meet one lorry and someone must reverse 200 m. There is no petrol station, no bank, and the only cash machine belongs to the Cooperativa Agrícola, open when the secretary remembers her keys. Fill the tank in Tarancón, withdraw euros in Cuenca, and buy groceries before 14:00 on Saturday—shops bolt for siesta and stay shut until Monday morning.

Sleeping options fit on one hand. Apartamentos Turísticos Serrano has five flats above the doctor’s surgery: white walls, Wi-Fi that flickers, and balconies wide enough for a chair pointed at the sunset. Hotel Rural El Cuco offers thirteen rooms, a pool fed by mountain water (icy until July) and a Labrador who escorts guests on morning walks. Both places cost €70–90 a night including breakfast—expect sponge cake, cured pork and coffee thick as paint. Campers can pitch at Fuente de la Teja for €10 a night; facilities are cold-water sinks and a view of the Pleiades so sharp you feel you could dust them.

Phone reception is patchy; Vodafone dies in Ribagorda, Orange survives in Pajares. Download Google Maps offline or, better, carry the paper Adrados 1:50,000 sheet sold in Cuenca’s Librería San Pablo. Snow can block the CM-2105 two or three days each winter; the council clears it by lunchtime, but leave chains in the boot between December and March.

The Part They Don’t Print on the Brochure

Sotorribas is not cute. Roofs leak, dogs bark at 03:00, and the only nightlife is a bar stool warmed by the same three farmers who hold court on why Brussels ruined tobacco subsidies. August weekends bring motocross riders who treat the forest tracks as a racetrack; their exhaust ricochets off the cliffs for hours. English is rarely spoken—pointing and smiling works, yet a sentence of Spanish unlocks a second glass of home-distilled orujo.

But the place delivers something increasingly scarce: a 360-degree horizon unbroken by cranes, a night sky graded from silver to ink, and the certainty that tomorrow will sound like today. Leave after breakfast, descend through the pines, and Madrid’s orbital motorway feels like another planet. You may not remember the name of every pedanía, yet the smell of resin, the taste of honey, and the church bell that struck while dogs slept in the lane will follow you all the way to the airport—and ask why you ever hurried.