Casas de Lázaro

The church bell strikes noon, yet nobody quickens their pace. A farmer in a blue boiler suit leans against a stone wall, rolling a cigarette with the unhurried grace of someone who knows the next bus out is tomorrow. Casas de Lázaro sits 942 metres above sea level, high enough for the air to carry a faint chill even in May, and high enough for the modern world to feel slightly out of range.

The Village that Forgot to Shout About Itself

Three hundred and fifty residents, one baker, no cash machine. The main street—really the only street—runs for 400 metres, past houses whose lower halves are painted ochre and whose upper halves are whitewashed so thickly the walls look padded. Wooden balconies sag like well-used armchairs. Every front door has a nameplate hammered in by hand: “A. López, 1923”; “Familia Sánchez”. Nobody appears to have moved in or out since the plates went up.

There is no ticket office, no interpretive centre, no souvenir shop selling fridge magnets shaped like Don Quixote. Instead you get the smell of mountain thyme drifting down from the surrounding sierra, and the sound of boot soles on granite setts that have worn smooth since the 1700s. The village’s single public noticeboard advertises next month’s blood-donor session and, underneath, a handwritten card offering two kid goats “con todos los papeles”.

Walk to the upper edge of the settlement and the land falls away in folds of holm-oak and cork. On a clear morning you can pick out the tiled roof of the next hamlet, El Collado, 8 km distant, and beyond it the valley of the River Tus that nobody in London has ever heard of. The silence is not absolute—bee-eaters call overhead, and somewhere a chain-saw coughs into life—but it is the sort of quiet that makes a Londoner realise how permanently tuned their ears are to traffic.

What Passes for Action Around Here

The day starts when the bakery opens at seven. By half past, the bar on the corner is serving cortados to men who have already walked their dogs along the livestock track that doubles as the GR-160 footpath. If you order toast, the waitress will ask whether you want “pan de pueblo” or “el normal”; choose the village loaf—dense, wheat-brown, cut half an inch thick—and she will disappear next door to fetch it.

Serious walkers leave shortly afterwards, following the signed but unsurfaced lane that climbs west towards the Cerro de la Cruz (1,278 m). The climb is steady rather than steep, gaining 330 m in 4 km; allow ninety minutes and carry more water than you think necessary because the only fountain en route dried up in last summer’s drought. The reward is a sandstone ridge dotted with dwarf irises and, in April, enough wild asparagus to fill a carrier bag. Locals insist the spears are sweeter above 1,000 m; test the claim over an open fire back at your rental cottage and mind the sparks—most roofs are still thatched with straw.

If striding out sounds too energetic, borrow the village’s one annotated map from the bakery and trace the 3-km loop south to the charcoal-makers’ clearing. Halfway round you pass a stone hut whose doorway is only four feet high; duck inside and your eyes need a full minute to adjust. When they do, you will see the soot-blackened ceiling that explains why the place is called “la carbonera” and why the last collier quit in 1972.

Seasons Measured in Smells and Wood-smoke

Spring arrives late at this altitude. Almond blossom appears in mid-March, a full month behind the coast, and nights can still dip to 3 °C. Come prepared: most guest rooms rely on plug-in radiators and the stone walls are two feet thick for a reason. By May the thermometer nudges 22 °C at midday, perfect for sitting outside the bar with a caña and a plate of local chorizo that costs €2.50 and arrives sliced so thin you can read the Sierra through it.

Summer is a split shift. Farmers start at five, knock off at eleven, then reappear at six when the sun drops behind the western ridge. August brings the fiestas: three evenings of outdoor dancing, one procession with the Virgin carried aloft on a platform heavy enough to need twenty shoulders, and a paella cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish. Visitors who book for the fiestas should know the brass band rehearses directly beneath several rental bedrooms and does not observe a curfew.

Autumn smells of resin and wild boar. Mushroom hunters park their 4×4s on the verge and disappear into the oaks with knives and wicker baskets; if you meet one, ask permission before photographing—some foragers guard their patches like family heirlooms. The first frost usually lands around All Saints’ Day; by then the village wood piles have grown to shoulder height and every chimney is puffing sweet almond-scented smoke from pruned branches.

Winter is serious. Snow is not guaranteed, yet when it comes the single access road from the N-322 is closed within an hour. The council spreads grit, but tractors take priority over hire cars. Book only if you enjoy self-sufficiency: shops shut early, water pipes freeze, and the nearest A&E is 45 minutes away in Albacete. On the other hand, night skies are so dark that Orion seems close enough to snag on a rooftop television aerial.

How to Get Here, Where to Sleep, What to Eat

Fly to Alicante or Madrid, collect a car, and allow two and a half hours on fast motorway plus forty minutes on the A-32 that wriggles up through olive terraces. There is no railway station; the twice-daily bus from Albacete reaches the village at 14:10 and 19:40, timing that works only if your flight lands at dawn and your return is flexible. Taxis from the provincial capital run to about €90—book in advance because drivers like to be home for lunch.

Accommodation is limited to six tourist cottages scattered through the upper lanes. All have been converted from 19th-century labourers’ houses, so ceilings are low, staircases narrow, and bathrooms squeezed into former pantries. Expect €70–€90 per night for two people, firewood included. The single three-room guesthouse on the plaza charges €45 with breakfast, but shares a wall with the church bell that chimes the quarter, so pack earplugs or embrace medieval time-keeping.

Eating options are similarly restrained. The bar serves platos combinados until the rice runs out; the daily menu is €10 and might feature gazpacho manchego (a game-and-tortilla stew, served hot), migas (fried breadcrumbs with grapes and bacon), or a thin entrecote from cattle that grazed the ridge you walked this morning. There is no restaurant in the English sense; evening meals require twenty-four hours’ notice and the cook’s mobile number is pinned behind the beer tap. Shop early: the tiny grocer opens 09:00–13:00, stocks UHT milk, tinned beans, and excellent local cheese wrapped in newspaper, then pulls down the shutter for siesta.

Leaving Without a Souvenir

Casas de Lázaro will not sell you a fridge magnet. What it might do is remind you that time can be measured in seasons rather than schedules, and that “nothing to do” can feel like an achievement. Drive away at dusk and the village shrinks in the rear-view mirror until only the church tower and a single streetlamp remain, hovering above the treeline like a promise to switch the noise back on—whenever you are ready to return.