Peñas de San Pedro

The first thing that hits you is the wind. It barrels across the plain from Albacete, gathers speed through the passes of the Sierra de Alcaraz, and slams into limestone cliffs at just over 1,000 m. Up on the ridge, the twelfth-century castle sways into view—no poetic licence, the whole hamlet really is glued to a rock. Below it, white houses pile up like collapsed dominoes, their chimney pots smoking with almond shells because olive wood costs extra.

Peñas de San Pedro rarely appears on the British radar. The village sits half an hour beyond the last motorway exit most holidaymakers bother with, and the road that follows (CM-3203) narrows to a single lane each time a lorry meets a tractor. Those who do persevere arrive with ears popping and tempers frayed, then step out into air so clear that the cathedral spire of Albacete—75 km away—sometimes glints on the horizon.

A Fortress That Refused to Fall

The Almohads built the castle for good reason. From the battlements you can track every goat path across the meseta and spot smoke from a barbecue long before you smell the sausages. Inside, only the outer wall and two horseshoe-arch towers remain upright; masons' marks from the Order of Santiago are still visible if you scramble up the rubble on the eastern side. Entrance is free, opening hours are "whenever the gate isn't locked", and the guardrail is a single strand of frayed rope. Health-and-safety executives would have palpitations, yet local children treat the place as an adventure playground every evening once homework is done.

The climb takes fifteen minutes if you're fit, twenty-five if you stop to photograph the swallowtail butterflies that hover over wild marjoram. Mid-July temperatures touch 36 °C; bring water because there is no kiosk, no vending machine, and the nearest bar lies a steep ten-minute descent back in the village. Winter is a different story: sleet whips across the battlements, the path turns to grease, and the castle gate is often chained shut to stop ice breaking the hinges.

Directly beneath the fortress, the Iglesia de Santa María squats on its own rocky shelf. Sixteenth-century builders grafted a Renaissance nave onto a late-Gothic tower, then let the town plaster the whole thing white except for the volcanic-red sandstone doorway. Inside, the highlight is a Baroque altarpiece paid for by Merino sheep money; look for the tiny carving of San Pedro wringing water from a fisherman's net—an incongruous reminder that this landlocked province once bankrolled overseas empires.

Streets That Tilt the Calves

Peñas de San Pedro's historic core is officially a Conjunto Histórico-Artístico, though you will search in vain for gift shops or multilingual panels. Instead, expect stone staircases that double as drainage gullies, front doors painted the colour of paprika, and elderly residents who address the stray British rambler as "güerito" whether you sunburn or not. The Plaza Mayor measures barely 30 m across; its timber arcades shelter two bars, one butcher, and a pharmacy that still stocks smelling salts.

The morning routine starts at 07:30 when the panadera unloads crusty barras from a white van. By 09:00 the aroma of strong coffee drifts from Bar Castillo, mingling with bleach from the nightly pavement wash. A cup of coffee and a buttered tostada costs €2.20 if you stand at the counter, €2.70 at an outside table—prices that have risen 20 cents since the last municipal election and are still lamented loudly.

Afternoons belong to the wind. It rattles the TV aerials, slams shutters, and fills the narrow lanes with a low hum like distant aircraft. Locals claim the phenomenon has a name—el poniente de Alcaraz—and that it keeps mosquitoes away. What it certainly does is discourage lingering over a paperback on the bench outside the town hall; paperbacks have been known to end up in the almond groves two streets down.

Lamb, Thyme and the Occasional Mushroom

Regional cooking is built on what can survive the extremes: salt-cured Manchego lamb, breadcrumbs fried in garlic and flecked with chorizo, and hot gazpacho pastor that has nothing to do with Andalucía's chilled soup. The version here arrives as a thick stew of game stock, flatbread and poached egg, designed to fuel shepherds at dawn. Order it at Bar El Peñón (Calle San Pedro 9) and the owner, Manolo, will ask if you want it "fuerte o medio". Choose fuerte only if your arteries are in good order.

Meat aside, the sierra supplies wild thyme, rosemary and, after autumn rains, saffron milk caps that villagers sell from buckets on the doorstep. A kilo of mushrooms fetches €8, cash only, and the seller will expect you to know how to brush off soil. Cheese is another matter: goat's-milk rounds wrapped in chestnut leaves and matured in local caves. They taste of moss and stone, cost €14 a kilo, and travel badly in a warm hire car—pack them next to the chilled water or expect a sour aroma by the time you reach the airport.

Vegetarians can assemble a decent meal from grilled padrón peppers, local olives the size of marbles, and gachas—a sweet porridge of flour, anise and sugar once rationed to day labourers. Do not ask for quinoa; the word is met with polite bewilderment.

Trails, Cliffs and the Hush of Vultures

Walking tracks radiate from the castle like spokes. The shortest loop, the Senda de la Umbría, circles the crags in 45 minutes, ducking through holm-oak scrub that smells of resin after rain. Proper boots help; limestone flakes underfoot and the descent includes a 1 m drop that shorter legs will negotiate backwards.

Keener hikers can follow the PR-A 252 south-east to the abandoned village of El Llano, a 12 km round trip that gains then loses 400 m of elevation. Spring brings orchids and the distant clonk of cowbells; October paints the maples crimson and sends wild boar rustling through the undergrowth. Carry at least a litre of water per person—streams dry up by June—and remember that mobile coverage vanishes the moment you drop off the ridge.

Rock-climbing sectors exist, but bolts are sporadic and some cliffs host nesting griffon vultures protected by regional law. The tourist office—a single desk inside the ayuntamiento—keeps a photocopied sheet of allowed routes; ring the bell twice because the clerk also manages the municipal swimming pool and is often across the square adjusting chlorine levels.

Bird-watchers should head to the mirador below the castle at 09:00 when thermals start to rise. Binoculars will pick out short-toed eagles, peregrines and, if you're lucky, a solitary bearded vulture that circles in from the Cazorla range once or twice a month. Silence is essential; the slightest clatter of carabiner sends every bird streaming westward.

Getting There, Staying Over, Getting Stuck

No train reaches Peñas de San Pedro. From Alicante airport, the drive takes two hours: A-31 to Almansa, then CM-3203 into the hills. Petrol stations thin out after Albacete, so fill up. Winter tyres are not mandatory, but the final 8 km climb to 1,050 m can ice over overnight; carry snow chains between December and March.

Accommodation is limited. The Hostal El Peñón offers eight rooms above the bar, all with en-suite showers and views either of the castle or of someone's back garden. Doubles start at €55 including breakfast (strong coffee, orange juice from a carton, and a buttered baguette). There is no lift, and the staircase tilts 5° downhill—an architectural quirk blamed on settling foundations. The only alternative is a clutch of rural casas rurales scattered outside the centre; expect wood-burning stoves, patchy Wi-Fi and the neighbour's hunting dogs tuning up at dawn.

The village fiesta in late June triples room prices and fills the single roundabout with traffic direction that owes more to goodwill than highway code. Book ahead or sleep in Albacete and day-trip. Conversely, January sees half the bars close and the bakery operate on reduced hours; arrive then and you may find nowhere open for dinner on a Tuesday.

When to Cut Your Losses

Peñas de San Pedro will never manufacture souvenir tea towels. If you need artisan ice-cream, late-night taxis, or a cash machine that accepts Monzo without grumbling, stay on the coast. What the village does offer is wind-scoured authenticity: a place where castle stones wobble underfoot, where lunch is whatever the owner shot yesterday, and where the view from 1,000 m stretches clear to tomorrow's weather. Turn up expecting rustic perfection and the gale will whisk away your hat along with your illusions. Arrive prepared for steep lanes, variable opening hours and the smell of wet limestone, and you might—once the ears pop and the calves stop burning—understand why 1,500 people still call this aerie home.