Masegoso

The church bells ring at noon, but nobody hurries. At 1,100 metres above sea level, time moves differently in Masegoso. A shepherd leans against the stone wall of the Nativity church, rolling a cigarette while his dogs flop into the shade. The only shop closed three hours ago, and it won't reopen until someone feels like it—possibly tomorrow.

This is Spain's Sierra de Alcaraz, where the land folds into ridges of pine and oak that stretch all the way to the horizon. Masegoso clings to these heights like something forgotten, a village of perhaps 120 souls where the 21st century arrives via patchy mobile signal and satellite dishes bolted to medieval walls.

Stone, Silence and September Sunshine

The approach tells you everything. From Albacete, the CM-3203 winds upward for ninety kilometres, each hairpin revealing another valley of cork trees and abandoned terraces. The final stretch narrows to a single track where meeting another vehicle requires creative reversing. Your reward is a village that never quite got around to modernising itself into oblivion.

Masegoso's houses stand shoulder-to-shoulder, their limestone walls thick enough to swallow mobile signals and their Arabic tiles silvered by decades of mountain weather. Doors painted ox-blood red or Mediterranean blue stand open, revealing glimpses of dark interiors where great-grandmother's table still serves its purpose. These aren't museum pieces but working homes, albeit ones where the occupants might be out tending goats or simply sitting in the plaza, watching the day drift by.

The Plaza Mayor isn't grand—barely twenty metres across—but it's the village's living room. Elderly men play cards under the council-installed pergola while women shell beans into plastic bowls, their conversation flowing between Spanish and the local dialect fast enough to lose most outsiders. They'll nod at strangers, perhaps offer directions, but they're not performing for anyone. This is simply daily life, conducted at altitude.

Walking Where the Vultures Circle

The real Masegoso begins where the tarmac ends. Paths radiate outward like spokes, following ancient routes that once connected hill farms now reduced to foundation stones and wild rosemary. The PR-A 251 trail heads southeast toward the Calares del Mundo natural park, dropping through stands of laricio pine where wild boar root for acorns and Egyptian vultures ride thermals overhead.

Walking here requires preparation. The altitude might moderate summer temperatures, but the sun still burns fiercely—factor 30 essential, water crucial. Trails marked on local maps have an alarming habit of disappearing into goat tracks or recent landslides. The village's single bar-owner, María Jesús, doubles as unofficial trail guide; buy a coffee (€1.20, served in glass tumblers) and she'll sketch routes on napkins, warning which paths the hunters have baited this week.

Spring brings the best hiking: clear skies, temperatures hovering around 18°C, and wildflowers splashing colour across the limestone. Autumn offers mushroom hunting and the Fiesta de la Natividad, when emigrants return and the population swells to perhaps 400. They come for processions that haven't changed since their grandparents' time, for communal meals where tickets cost €8 and nobody counts the wine bottles, for the bittersweet pleasure of finding their childhood home exactly as they left it—only smaller, shabbier, more precious.

The Gastronomy of Making Do

Food here follows the mountain tradition of using everything except the bleat. In September, families gather to slaughter pigs; the resulting chorizo hangs in kitchens all winter, developing a mould that's wiped away before slicing. The local gazpacho manchego bears no relation to Andalucía's cold soup—it's a hearty stew of game birds, rabbit or sometimes just onions and peppers, thickened with flatbread and eaten communally from the same pot.

But visitors shouldn't expect restaurants. Masegoso has none. The bar opens at irregular hours, serving coffee, beer, and perhaps a tortilla if María Jesús feels like cooking. Smart travellers stock up in Alcaraz before the final climb: crusty bread, local cheese made from Manchega sheep's milk, jars of honey harvested from hives tucked into cliff faces where the bees feed on rosemary and thyme. Picnic spots abound: the ruined ermita above town offers 50-kilometre views toward the plain of La Mancha, while the fuente de la Teja provides cold, sweet water that tastes of limestone and snowmelt.

The Weight of Altitude

Winter arrives early at 1,100 metres. From November onward, clouds often swallow the village whole, reducing visibility to metres and turning the stone alleys into rivulets. Temperatures drop below freezing; snow falls occasionally, isolating the village for days until the plough fights its way up from the valley. Heating comes from wood-burning stoves fed by pruned pine, and hot water requires forward planning—those satellite dishes connect to ageing electric systems that groan under the load.

Yet this hardship preserves something increasingly rare: a village that tourism hasn't gentrified into weekend-home territory. Property prices remain low—a three-bedroom house might cost €40,000, though renovation could double that—but jobs are scarcer than snow in July. The primary school closed in 2008; children catch the 7:15 bus to Alcaraz, 45 kilometres of winding road each way. Young people leave for university and return only for fiestas, creating a demographic time-bomb that no amount of rural development grants seems to defuse.

Practicalities for the Curious

Getting here requires commitment. Beyond Alcaraz, petrol stations vanish; fill up completely and check tyre pressures—the altitude change affects readings. The final 12 kilometres take thirty minutes minimum, longer if you meet a truck carrying hay bales or sheep. Parking exists in a rough square by the church; don't block doorways—residents won't hesitate to wake you at dawn.

Accommodation means renting village houses, usually via word-of-mouth or increasingly, Airbnb. Expect thick walls, tiny windows, furniture that predates democracy and Wi-Fi that works only when the wind blows from the southeast. Bring cash: there's no ATM for 40 kilometres, and María Jesús won't accept cards for coffee. Mobile coverage varies by provider; Vodafone users fare best, O2 customers should prepare for digital detox.

Masegoso won't suit everyone. Those seeking Michelin stars, nightlife or indeed any organised activities should stay on the coast. But for travellers who measure value in silence, in paths where human footprints mix with wild boar tracks, in conversations that begin with directions and end with invitations to share wine, this high village offers something increasingly precious: Spain as it existed before tourism, before smartphones, before we all became too busy to sit in a plaza watching shadows creep across stone walls as the church bells mark time that nobody particularly minds keeping.