Villapalacios

The morning bell strikes eight and the only other sound is a tractor grinding through barley stubble. From the mirador above Villapalacios the view stretches south across the plain of La Mancha until the land dissolves in summer haze. At your feet the village spills down a gentle ridge: white cubes, russet roofs, the square tower of the Iglesia de la Asunción poking above the pines. You are 836 m up, high enough for the air to carry the scent of resin and wild thyme instead of diesel and dust.

A Ridge Between Plain and Pine

Villapalacios sits where the grain sea of Castilla-La Mancha meets the first serious folds of the Sierra de Alcaraz. The change is abrupt. One minute the road is ruler-straight through wheat; the next it twists into holm-oak and stone-pine. The village itself is built on a modest spine of limestone, so every street tilts either toward the fields or toward the forest. The effect is that half the houses catch sunrise over cereals while the other half watch sunset among treetops.

Altitude matters. Even in July, when Albacete city swelters at 38 °C, the thermometer here rarely tops 32 °C. After dark it can drop to 17 °C—perfect for sleeping without air-conditioning, but bring a jumper for late drinks on the plaza. Frost is common from November to March; snow arrives two or three winters each decade and lingers just long enough to photograph, then melts by lunchtime. The council keeps a small plough, yet the access road is usually clear within hours.

Stone, Timber and a Door for a Donkey

Forget postcard perfection. Villapalacios is lived-in, slightly scuffed, all the better for it. Houses are single-storey or a modest two, their walls whitewashed yearly in lime mixed with cement to withstand the wind that scours the ridge. Wooden doors are wide enough for a mule; many still have the iron ring where animals were tethered overnight. Look up and you’ll see haylofts with stone chutes, now converted to extra bedrooms for returning grandchildren. A handful of façades retain medieval sandstone blocks at the corners—quiet proof that the place was never abandoned, merely patched.

The church, rebuilt in the seventeenth century after a lightning strike, is open only for mass on Saturdays and feast days. Ask at the bakery opposite and someone will fetch the key. Inside, the main attraction is not baroque silver but a set of eighteenth-century painted panels showing agricultural months: pruning, sowing, harvest, pig-killing. They read like a comic strip of the year you are about to witness outside.

Footprints of Farmers and Shepherds

There is no tourist office, no colour-coded way-marking, no gift shop. What you do get is a lattice of old drove roads that fan out from the upper cemetery. One path drops east through almond terraces to the abandoned hamlet of Los Huertos, two roofless houses and a stone trough where ibex now drink. Another climbs west into pine plantation, gaining 200 m to a fire-watch tower built under Franco; the steel staircase is intact, the views all the way to the Subbética of Córdoba.

Distances are short but deceptive. Carry more water than you think—village fountains are decorative, not potable—and expect to share the track with a farmer on a quad bike moving sheep to higher graze. Mid-week in May you might meet nobody; August weekends bring families from Albacete picking wild marjoram for barbecue marinades. If you want a longer day, link up the GR 160 long-distance footpath which passes 3 km south of the village; the stage to Alcaraz is 18 km of rolling ridge with one bar halfway.

Manchego Soup and a Glass That Refuses to Empty

Food is stubbornly local. The daily menú at Bar Central (€11, served 14:00-15:30) starts with gazpacho manchego: not the cold tomato soup of Andalucía but a hot stew of game bird, flatbread and saffron. The alternative is migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic, grapes and scraps of pancetta—good fuel for an afternoon walk. Second course might be lamb shoulder slow-roasted in a pine-wood oven whose temperature is judged by the colour of the smoke. Wine arrives in a porrón; tip it skilfully or ask for a glass and be labelled politely eccentric.

Cheese is another matter. A cooperative in neighbouring Peñas de San Pedro makes a raw-sheep milk cheese aged 60 days; Villapalacios farmers supply part of the milk, so the same wheel you buy here for €14/kg costs €18 in Madrid markets. Ask for curado if you like a nuttier bite. The shop doubles as the village off-licence, so you can also pick up a litre of house verdejo for €2.50—bring your own bottle or pay 50 cents for a plastic one that once held olive oil.

When the Village Swells by Half

August 15 brings the fiesta mayor. The population jumps from 553 to roughly 900 as grandchildren, emigrants and second-home owners return. Brass bands play on a portable stage erected beside the church; teenage cousins flirt over paper cones of roasted almonds. At midnight everyone migrates to the polideportivo for a foam party that smells vaguely of pine disinfectant. Visitors are welcome but accommodation is impossible unless you booked in March. A better plan is to arrive for the Virgen de los Remedios weekend in mid-September. The programme is smaller—procession, outdoor mass, one firework—but there are rooms free and the temperature has retreated to a civilised 25 °C.

Getting There, Staying Over, Getting Out

From the UK, fly to Alicante or Madrid, then drive. Villapalacios lies 180 km from Alicante airport, 250 km from Madrid-Barajas; both routes use the A-31, a fast dual-carriageway that empties after Villena. The final 28 km from Albacete is on the N-322, a single carriageway watched by kestrels perched on crash barriers. Petrol stations are scarce—fill up in Albacete.

There is no hotel. Instead, three village houses have been restored as tourist rentals; the largest sleeps six, the smallest two plus a cot. Expect thick walls, Wi-Fi that flickers in rain, and a roof terrace where you can watch Perseid meteors without light pollution. Prices hover around €80 per night for the whole house in low season, €140 in August. Book via the municipal website (Spanish only) or phone the ayuntamiento on +34 967 39 30 01 and ask for “casa rural”.

Public transport exists but requires patience. One Albacete–Alcaraz bus stops at the junction on the N-322, 3 km below the village, at 07:45 and 19:00. Taxis from Albacete charge €55; hitch-hiking the last stretch is common and usually safe.

Leave time for the drive out. Head north through the Sierra to Alcaraz, a medieval town with a Friday market where they still sell hand-forged sickles. Or drop east to the lagunas de Ruidera, a chain of turquoise reservoirs that appear suddenly among the corn—perfect for a swim before turning back toward the airport and the denser, noisier Spain most visitors never leave.