Villalba de la Sierra

The bread van honks at eleven sharp. Within minutes, Villalba de la Sierra's main street turns into an impromptu social club – neighbours comparing the crustiness of today's barra, swapping mushroom spots, and checking whether anyone's driving to Cuenca later. It's the day's first scheduled event in a village that measures 484 souls and twice as many stone walls, perched at 960 m on a ridge above the River Júcar.

Most visitors race past the turning on the CM-2106, hell-bent on the Ciudad Encantada's limestone sculptures twenty minutes further into the hills. Those who brake for the tight left-hander discover a place that works as a slow-motion antidote to Spain's blockbuster sights. No souvenir stalls, no audio guides, just the smell of pine resin and the sound of your own boots on granite cobbles.

A village that keeps its back to the road

Houses are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, built from the same blond stone that tumbles down the slope behind them. The effect is a fortified crust protecting a handful of narrow lanes, all tilting towards the 16th-century church of San Andrés. Its tower houses two bells that mark the hours with a confidence disproportionate to the population. Light sleepers should pack earplugs; everyone else treats the tolling as an al-fresco alarm clock.

There is no high street in the British sense. The top road is a utilitarian affair: village supermarket El Árbol, a pharmacy the size of a post-office counter, and Bar La Cuenca where the coffee machine hisses from seven a.m. The bar doubles as the Wi-Fi hotspot – expect 10 Mbps on a good day, zero if it rains. Cash is king; the nearest ATM is 25 km away in Cuenca, so fill your wallet before the mountain bends begin.

Architecture buffs may leave underwhelmed. Villalba never had a grand plaza or ducal palace; its charm lies in the absence of renovation fashion. Wooden balconies sag inwards, geraniums overflow in coffee tins, and every third doorway reveals a corral where chickens investigate visitors' ankles. The palette is stone, rust and forest green – colours that don't change with the seasons because they were never painted in the first place.

Water, woods and weekend traffic jams

Five minutes downhill, the Júcar abandons its canyon persona and widens into a string of emerald pools known locally as las pozas. In July and August Madrilenians arrive with cool-boxes and bluetooth speakers, turning the gravel track into a single-lane standoff. Monday-to-Friday it's a different story: you can claim a granite slab, plunge into water that never tops 19 °C, and watch kingfishers ricochet between the poplars. River shoes are non-negotiable; the stones are slippery and the village doctor is off-duty on Thursday afternoons.

Pine forests start directly above the last row of houses. A 45-minute shuffle on the signed path SL-CU 80 reaches the Mirador del Diablo, a limestone window that frames the Júcar gorge 300 m below. Griffon vultures launch themselves from caves at eye-level – bring binoculars, or simply follow the local dogs; they always know where the thermals are rising.

Longer hikes enter the Serranía de Cuenca Natural Park proper. The loop to Las Torcas de los Palancares – a cluster of sinkholes straight out of a sci-fi set – covers 12 km and 500 m of ascent. Waymarking is sporadic; download the GPS track or ask at the supermarket counter, where José keeps a laminated map photocopied in 1998 and still accurate.

Calories earned, calories returned

Hotel-restaurante El Tablazo sits on the Cuenca side of the ridge and functions as Villalba's dining room. The interior is pine-panelled, the menu unapologetically carnivorous. A single chuletón weighs in at a kilo, meant for two but capable of feeding a Welsh rugby front row. Prices feel misprinted: €26 per person including chips, salad and a bottle of local Manchuela red. Vegetarians get ajo arriero, a paprika-heavy potato scramble originally devised to feed shepherds when the river was in flood.

Back in the village, La Cuenca serves caldereta de cordero on Thursdays, gazpacho manchego on Saturdays. Both dishes pre-date the arrival of tomatoes; expect a thick stew of game or lamb topped with squares of unleavened torta bread. Pudding options stop at queso de oveja and honey. The honey comes from beehives 3 km away; the cheese is aged six months and tastes like a milder Manchego with a nutty finish. Aficionados buy an extra wheel for the journey home – the supermarket will vacuum-pack it while you wait.

Seasons that decide for you

April turns the surrounding meadows into a pointillist canvas of poppies and wild peonies. Temperatures hover around 18 °C, ideal for walking without the river crowds. British half-term coincides with setas season: locals head into the pine belt after rain, knives wrapped in tea-towels, and return with baskets of níscalos (saffron milk-caps). Rules are simple: no plastic bags, no collecting within 50 m of the road, and always ask someone's grandmother to double-check your haul for poisonous lookalikes.

By late June the thermometre nudges 30 °C; the village empties as families open casas de campo down by the water. Accommodation prices jump 20 percent, yet rooms remain cheap by UK standards: €55 buys a studio in a restored barn on Plaza del Olmo, Wi-Fi included, roof terrace shared with nesting storks.

Winter is when you learn the altitude. Night frosts start in October; January can bring snow that lingers a week. The CM-2106 is kept open but the last 3 km to Villalba become a bob-sleigh run. Chains are rarely needed, yet summer tyres will spin. Bars stay open but hotel kitchens close midweek – ring ahead or be prepared to self-cater on the supermarket's reduced winter hours (10:00-14:00, 17:00-19:30).

Getting there, getting out

Cuenca's daily coach from Madrid drops you 25 km short of Villalba. A pre-booked taxi completes the journey for €35; buses exist but follow the school timetable – useless unless you fancy a 14:00 curfew. Car hire at Cuenca station is straightforward; allow 35 minutes on mountain roads that tighten like a drawstring after Tragacete. UK-sized campervans fit, yet passing places are carved into rock: drive slowly, flash headlights, and reverse to the widest bend if another vehicle appears.

Heading home, the return curve offers one last panorama. Pull in at the lay-by signed Alto de Villalba; the village appears as a terracotta smudge between dark pine and pale limestone. Below, the Júcar glints like polished pewter. No souvenir kiosk, no ice-cream van, just the view and the memory of bread van gossip. It lasts thirty seconds, then you drop into the gorge and the radio finds a signal again.