Pozohondo

The church bells strike midday, but the bars are still serving coffee. In Pozohondo, time runs about thirty minutes behind the rest of Spain. This small Albacete village, perched at 870 metres where La Mancha's plains dissolve into the Sierra de Alcaraz, hasn't rushed for anyone since the Moors planted their first almond trees here.

At 1,551 inhabitants, Pozohondo feels smaller than it is. The streets climb gently from the central plaza, narrow enough that residents leave their car keys in the ignition when they pop into the bakery. Whitewashed houses lean together for support, their wooden doors painted municipal green or the particular blue that every Spanish paint shop stocks for precisely this purpose. Some facades have been restored with municipal grants; others retain their original stone, weathered to the colour of local soil.

The Working Landscape

This isn't postcard Spain. The surrounding countryside rolls in gentle waves of cereal fields, olive groves and patches of pine forest that the locals simply call "el monte". Everything grows at the mercy of rainfall that might reach 400mm in a good year, or half that in a bad one. The agricultural calendar still dictates village rhythm: March brings almond blossom, June means wheat harvest, and September sees families gathering pine nuts from the forest floor.

Water shapes the village in unexpected ways. Ancient fountains punctuate street corners, their stone troughs once used for washing clothes and watering livestock. The Fuente de la Mora, restored in 2018, flows continuously even during summer droughts. Local women still fill plastic bottles here, insisting the water tastes better than the treated supply. Follow the water channels uphill and you'll find the remains of Moorish irrigation systems, their precise engineering still directing runoff after eight centuries.

The Sierra de Alcaraz rises modestly here, more hills than mountains. From the Ermita del Calvario, twenty minutes' climb above the village, the view stretches across kilometres of patchwork fields to the white clusters of neighbouring villages. Golden eagles ride the thermals overhead, visible to anyone patient enough to scan the sky for fifteen minutes. Bring binoculars: there are no designated viewpoints, no information boards, just the landscape as it exists.

What Passes for Entertainment

Walking constitutes the main activity, whether along agricultural tracks to abandoned farmhouses or following the old path to Casas de Benítez, three kilometres of gradual descent through olive groves. The GR-160 long-distance path skirts the village, but most visitors prefer the informal network of farmer's tracks that radiate outward. These aren't marked routes – locals navigate by knowledge of which field belongs to whom.

Mountain biking works better here than the rough terrain suggests. Dry earth tracks connect scattered cortijos, creating loops of 15-30 kilometres with enough gradient to raise a sweat. A basic GPS app prevents getting lost among identical olive groves. After rain, the clay soil turns treacherous; November's mud can trap a cyclist pushing their bike.

Birdwatching rewards early risers. Beyond the raptors, stone curlews call from ploughed fields at dusk, and woodlarks sing from pine plantation edges. The lack of intensive agriculture helps: farmers still maintain field margins thick with broom and rosemary, providing cover for Dartford warblers and other scrub species. Spring migration brings bee-eaters and hoopoes, their calls echoing off stone walls.

Eating According to the Day

The bar in the Hotel-Restaurante El Paraíso serves coffee from seven, filling with farmers discussing rainfall statistics over tostadas. By ten, the same tables host retired men playing cards. The menu del día costs €12 and runs to solid country cooking: migas fried with garlic and grapes, partridge stew when in season, and the local version of gazpacho that arrives as a thick game stew rather than the cold soup British visitors expect.

Weekend specials depend on what's available. Rabbit appears regularly, often served with ajo arriero, a garlic and pepper sauce that originated with muleteers crossing these ranges. Wild boar features after successful hunts – the local hunting society posts results on the municipal noticeboard. Vegetarians make do with escalivada (roasted peppers and aubergine) and the excellent local cheese, cured in olive oil.

Sweet things follow seasonal patterns. Flor manchega, deep-fried dough dusted with cinnamon sugar, appears during fiestas. The bakery on Calle La Paz makes rollos de aguardiente, spiral pastries flavoured with aniseed, only on Fridays. Order by Thursday or miss out.

Timing Your Visit

Spring delivers the village at its best. Temperatures hover around 20°C in April, wildflowers carpet the hillsides, and the agricultural activity provides constant interest. Almond blossom paints the valley white in March; by May, the wheat stands high enough to ripple in waves across the slopes.

Summer hits hard. At 870 metres, nights cool to 18°C even when daytime peaks reach 35°C, but August empties the village as residents flee to the coast. What remains is authentic but limited: one bar stays open, the bakery reduces hours, and finding dinner requires forward planning.

Autumn brings activity. The grape harvest in September, olive picking through October and November, and mushroom foraging when conditions allow. The village fills with returning families for the fiestas of the Virgen de Cortes in September. Accommodation books up months ahead.

Winter surprises with its severity. Frost whitens the fields most mornings from December through February; snow falls perhaps twice each winter, isolating the village for a day until the council clears the road. The bars install gas heaters, conversations move indoors, and the landscape reveals its bones under sparse vegetation.

The Practical Reality

Pozohondo sits 65 kilometres from Albacete along the N-322, then a twelve-kilometre branch road that winds uphill. The journey takes seventy minutes by car, longer by the twice-daily bus that connects through Letur. Hiring a car becomes essential for exploring the surrounding sierra.

Accommodation remains limited. The Hotel-Restaurante El Paraíso offers fifteen rooms at €45-60 per night, functional rather than luxurious. Two rural houses provide self-catering options, booked through the regional tourism board. During fiestas, residents rent spare rooms informally – ask at the bakery.

Cash still matters. The village ATM runs dry at weekends, and several establishments don't accept cards. Bring euros, pack walking boots, and abandon any schedule. Pozohondo works on agricultural time, and after a day or two, you might find yourself checking your watch against the sun rather than Greenwich Mean Time.

The village won't change your life. It offers something more valuable: the chance to observe Spain as it actually functions when tourists aren't watching. Sit in the plaza long enough and someone will explain why the olive harvest starts later here than in neighbouring villages, or which fountain provides the best drinking water. Listen, and you'll understand this isn't the "real Spain" – it's simply Spain continuing, as it has for centuries, at its own deliberate pace.