Segurilla

The petrol gauge flirts with empty as the A-5 peels away from Madrid’s suburbs. Forty minutes later, at exit 104, a single signpost points towards Segurilla. The road climbs gently through olive groves until granite houses appear, clustered on a ridge 560 m above the plain. At first glance it looks like any Castilian village: church tower, castle ruin, geraniums on balconies. The difference is the quiet. No coach parties, no multilingual menus, just the faint clink of a tractor crossing the plaza.

Segurilla sits on the eastern lip of the Sierra de San Vicente, the first proper uplift before La Mancha flattens into endless horizon. That position gives it an edge—literally. Dawn temperatures can be six degrees cooler than Toledo on the valley floor, and when the Meseta’s summer heat hits 38 °C, the village catches a breeze that smells of thyme and hot granite. In January the same ridge traps cold air; frost lingers until ten and the castle path can be sheet ice. Pack accordingly.

Stone, Oil and Sunday Echoes

Granite dictates the architecture. Houses rise straight from grey bedrock, their ground floors once stables or olive stores, now garages or shuttered workshops. Timber doors are studded with iron nails the size of ten-pence pieces; knock and you’ll hear the hollow boom of centuries. The main street follows the contour, so every side lane drops away steeply—handy for drainage, murder on calf muscles. Mid-morning, elderly residents shuffle to the bread van, clutching plastic bags and exact change. By 14:00 the only sound is a dog yapping at the church shadows.

The parish church of San Esteban Protomártir is open roughly when the priest remembers. Inside, a 16th-century retablo glints with gilt paint rather than gold leaf—modest, honest, provincial. Climb the tower (ask the sacristan’s wife; she keeps the key under a flowerpot) and the view stretches south across silver olive tops to the Montes de Toledo, a saw-tooth line that turns mauve at dusk. British visitors usually mutter “bit like the Shropshire hills” and then reach for their cameras.

Below the tower, Plaza de España is a rectangle of granite setts polished smooth by market stalls. On Tuesdays a single fruit lorry and a clothes rail appear; that counts as commerce. The serious shopping is done in the neighbouring polígono where Quesería La Mancha offers 12-, 18- and 24-month Manchego. Ask for a sample of the curado; it’s nuttier and less salty than the pre-packed wedges in UK supermarkets. Buy a quarter-wheel and the cheesemaker will vacuum-seal it for the flight home—just remember to leave room in the hold luggage.

Walking the Edge

Segurilla’s best asset is the sierra at its back. A way-marked path leaves from the cemetery gate, climbing 250 m in three kilometres to the Puerto de la Sierpe. The gradient looks gentle on the map, but the granite tread is slippery and summer sun ricochets off the stone. Allow ninety minutes and take twice the water you think you need. At the pass, black vultures circle overhead; their wingspan matches a Labrador’s length, their shadow sweeps the path like a searchlight.

From the Puerto a loop continues along the ridge, dropping into a cork-oak hollow where wild boar root for acorns. You’ll hear them before you see them—an impatient snort, the crack of twigs. Stand still and they melt away. The full circuit back to the village takes four hours and delivers 600 m of cumulative ascent—respectable by UK hill standards, yet you’ll meet perhaps two other walkers all day. In October the undergrowth bursts with saffron milk caps; locals carry bread knives for harvesting, but unless you can tell Lactarius deliciosus from its vomit-inducing cousin, admire and move on.

Winter walking is a different game. January rain turns the path to a sluice, and the wind that felt refreshing in September becomes a blade. The castle viewpoint is still accessible—squeeze through the broken railing on the north side—but wear boots with grip; the granite blocks are polished like a cathedral floor. When snow falls (two or three days most years) the village road is gritted by a farmer with a trailer and a shovel. If you’re staying overnight, park facing downhill and pack a rectangle of old carpet for the tyres. The Brits in motorhomes who treat the free aire as a December stopover swear by it.

Calories and Carbohydrates

Evenings centre on food, but adjust expectations. Segurilla is not Padstow; there are no tasting menus or natural-wine lists. What you get is volume, thrift and history. Mesón de Segurilla, the only full-time restaurant, serves a parrillada for two that arrives on a miniature charcoal grill—half a kilo of pork, chicken and chorizo with chips underneath to catch the fat. It’s £18 and could feed three. The caldo de pescado is a clear broth flavoured with cobias (a local white fish); think bouillabaisse without the saffron or the price tag. Vegetarians face the usual struggle: ensalada mixta or revuelto de setas (scrambled egg with mushrooms). Veganism is still regarded as a medical condition.

Breakfast is taken standing at the bar: café con leche and a mollete (soft roll) drizzled with local olive oil and crushed tomato. The oil is peppery, green, nothing like the bland supermarket blends sold as “Spanish” in the UK. Ask for aceite temprano (early harvest) and the barista will fetch a plastic bottle from under the counter, filled by a cousin who presses olives in November. Decent Rioja starts at €4.50 a glass; the house white is La Mancha Airén, crisp enough to cut the oil but unlikely to win Decanter awards.

Beds and Brinkmanship

Accommodation is thin. Casa Rural Villa Vivendi has three bedrooms, a pool and under-floor heating—popular with extended families who book a year ahead for Semana Santa. Mid-week in February you might bag it for €90. Otherwise the nearest hotel is ten kilometres away in Torrijos, a functional three-star whose bar shows Champions League matches at full volume. The village’s other option is the motorhome aire: flat gravel behind the industrial units, potable water, grey-waste drain, zero charge. Lights out by 23:00 is enforced by the local police, who arrive on a moped, switch the torch off once and everyone gets the message.

Internet is patchy. The library offers free Wi-Fi but opens only when the part-time librarian remembers her key; average success rate is one in three attempts. Vodafone 4G reaches two bars on the plaza, enough to upload a photo if you stand by the fountain and hold your phone above head height. Consider it digital detox with cheese.

When to Bail Out

August fiestas transform the village. Population quadruples, second-cousins sleep in vans, brass bands rehearse at 08:00. The castle viewpoint becomes a beer terrace and the silence is replaced by reggaeton echoing off granite. If you came for solitude, re-route to the Sierra de Gredos. Likewise, Easter week brings processions that squeeze through lanes barely three metres wide; devotion is sincere, photography tolerated but not encouraged. Turn up on those dates expecting rustic calm and you’ll leave disappointed.

Come in late April instead. The sierra is lavender-blue with Salvia officinalis, storks clatter on the church roof and day-trippers are outnumbered by sheep. Temperatures hover either side of 20 °C—T-shirt weather at midday, fleece by sundown. The olive groves glow emerald after spring rain and the castle railings still haven’t been fixed, so sunset photos remain gloriously unobstructed. Just remember to fill the tank before 14:00—because when the garage shutters roll down, Segurilla slips back into its granite silence, and no amount of British politeness will reopen them until the siesta ends.