El Ballestero

At 1,050 m above sea level the night air still carries a nip in July. Locals step out after dinner in jumpers while lowland visitors sit on the single terrace in T-shirts, wondering why their Rioja is cooling so fast. This is El Ballestero, a scatter of stone houses 55 km south-east of Albacete where the Meseta’s wheat ocean finally wrinkles into the Sierra de Alcaraz. The village counts 398 souls on the register; add the dogs and you might reach 420.

The slow lane above the plain

The name dates to the Middle Ages when the place turned out crossbows for frontier skirmishes between Castile and Aragón. Today the only battle is with silence: traffic on the CM-412 is light enough that you hear tyre tread rather than engine noise. The road climbs from Villarrobledo through olive groves that shrink as the altitude rises, replaced first by low Holm-oak scrub, then by stone pines whose bark smells of butterscotch when the sun hits. There is no dramatic pass, no Instagram viewpoint—just a gradual lift into cleaner air and a sense that the rest of Castilla-La Mancha has been left on the dashboard below.

Most British travellers arrive only because the sat-nav places the village halfway between the Lagunas de Ruidera and the source of the Río Mundo. They book a night at Hostal Las Truchas on the main street, eat grilled trout, and plan to leave after coffee. Some stay for breakfast too, seduced by the discovery that the modern tapas bar opposite the petrol station serves a cheddar-and-onion croqueta that would not look out of place in Borough Market. The owner, Jesús, spent a season in Leeds; he keeps Yorkshire Tea behind the counter for the regular trickle of Brits who appear between April and October.

What passes for a centre

El Ballestero has no plaza mayor in the usual Spanish sense. Instead the church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción fronts a pocket-square of tarmac where cars park at careless angles. The building is 16th-century, plain, with a single tower that leans slightly after a lightning strike in 1974. Inside, the cool darkness smells of candle wax and pine disinfectant. A side chapel keeps a cedar statue of the Virgin dressed in local embroidery; her cloak is changed every August before the fiestas that triple the village population for four days. If you want to look inside, turn up before 11 a.m.; the priest locks up when he goes home for lunch and doesn’t always come back.

Behind the church three streets converge into a triangle of stone houses whose doorways still have the original iron studs. Number 14 displays a medieval crossbow bolt above the lintel—easy to miss unless you know the motif. There is no interpretation board, no gift shop, no QR code. The village assumes you are passing through on foot and will ask if you want to know more.

Walking without way-marks

The Sierra de Alcaraz is too low for dramatic peaks—1,400 m is the usual ceiling—but the relief rolls enough to give views back across the plain. A farm track leaves the upper end of Calle San Antonio, passes a ruined threshing circle, then splits: left towards the pine ridge, right down an old drove road used by shepherds taking Manchegan ewes to winter pasture. Both routes are unsigned; locals navigate by knowledge of the watercourses. The left-hand climb gains 250 m in 40 minutes and ends on a limestone slab where griffon vultures ride the thermals. Bring binoculars: Spanish imperial eagles sometimes appear, though you are more likely to spot a red fox trotting across the opposite slope at dawn.

Spring brings carpets of lavender and white rock-rose; the scent carries on a breeze cool enough that you do not notice sunburn until evening. Autumn is mushroom season; families from Albacete drive up with wicker baskets and a licence from the regional forestry office. If you fancy joining them, ask in the tapas bar—Jesús’s cousin runs accompanied forays on Sundays, 30 € including lunch, but you must reserve by Wednesday because numbers are capped at twelve.

Food that remembers the fields

Menus are short and heavy on game. Perdiz estofada (partridge stew) appears from September to January; the birds come from nearby cotos managed for hunting. Rabbit is done in tomate natural with a splash of Villarrobledo tempranillo—lighter than Rioja, half the price, served by the carafe rather than the bottle. Starters tend towards comfort: galianos, a thick manchego gazpacho thickened with flat bread and poached egg, or migas ruleras, fried breadcrumbs laced with chorizo and grapes. Vegetarians get tortilla or... tortilla. Portions are built for labourers who have walked behind ploughs all morning; a half-ración is usually enough unless you have just come off the hill.

Cheese is local, made with a mix of goat and sheep milk and aged only six weeks. It tastes grassy, almost lemony, and melts well over toast if you buy a wheel from the bakery on Calle Real. The bakery shuts on Monday, as does the other bar and the grocery—plan ahead or you will be foraging for supper at the petrol-station shop whose sandwich selection runs to jamón or jamón y queso.

When the village wakes up

August 15 brings the fiestas patronales. The population swells to 1,200 as descendants of emigrants return from Madrid, Valencia, even Manchester. Brass bands start at seven in the morning; fireworks follow at lunch, again at midnight. If you want sleep, book a room on the west side of town where the hill blocks the echo, or simply avoid the week entirely. September’s romería is quieter: a procession to a 13th-century hermitage 3 km away, followed by a communal paella cooked over pine branches. Brits are welcome but are expected to stir rice when summoned.

Winter is the secret season. Daytime temperatures hover around 8 °C but the air is so clear you can pick out the olive groves 30 km north. Logs of Holm-oak burn in open hearths inside the tapas bar; the smell is sweet, almost incense-like. On weekdays you may have the place to yourself—perfect if you are writing a novel, less so if you need conversation. Snow falls two or three times between December and March; the CM-412 is gritted promptly because the regional bus still runs to Albacete twice daily. Chains are rarely necessary but hire companies will nod approvingly if you pack them anyway.

The practical bit, woven in

There is no cash machine; the nearest is 15 km away in Villarrobledo and it charges 2 € on UK cards. Both bars accept contactless but the bakery does not. Petrol on the CM-412 closes at 21:00 sharp; if you have an early flight from Albacete airport, fill up the night before. Mobile signal is patchy: EE holds 4G on the main street, Vodafone and Three drop to 3G or nothing once you leave the tarmac. Accommodation is limited to 18 rooms in two small hostals; weekends in May and October fill with bird-watchers, so book ahead. Double rooms cost 55–70 € including breakfast (instant coffee, toasted baguette, olive oil, tomato purée, and a slab of the local cheese).

Leaving without noticing

Drive south at dawn and the village disappears in the rear-view mirror before the engine warms. The road dips, the pines thin, and suddenly the plain opens again—flat, wheat-gold, indifferent. El Ballestero does not cling to the hillside; it simply stops, as if the sierra ran out of patience. Most visitors forget to look back. Those who do often find themselves slowing, window down, tasting pine on the air and wondering whether one night was enough.