Cotillas

The church bell strikes noon, yet nobody appears. Not a soul emerges from the white-washed houses clinging to the hillside at 952 metres above sea level. This is Cotillas, population 131, where lunch happens when the shepherd returns and the tomatoes have reached proper ripeness—not when the clock says so.

The Mountain That Shaped Everything

Cotillas sits where the Manchegan plateau begins its fractured ascent towards the Sierra de Alcaraz, 80 kilometres south-east of Albacete. The village drops away from the main road like an afterthought, its single thoroughfare narrowing until it becomes a footpath into pine forest. Houses built from local stone and quicklime stack against the slope, their terracotta roofs overlapping like fish scales. Some sparkle with fresh paint; others stand hollow, their wooden shutters hanging at odd angles.

The altitude changes everything. Summer mornings arrive fresh, with dew that wouldn't exist on the plains below. Winter brings proper cold—occasional snow, certainly frost that turns the stone walls white. The surrounding woods of pine and holm oak aren't decorative; they're the reason this settlement exists at all. Timber, charcoal, wild mushrooms, game: for generations these resources paid rent and bought seed corn when wheat crops failed.

Walking Into the Past

There's no visitor centre, no guided tour, no gift shop selling fridge magnets. The village is the attraction, and the best approach is simply to walk. Calle de la Iguela climbs past houses where old women still whitewash their front steps each spring. A left turn onto Calle del Medio reveals the 18th-century church, its modest baroque tower patched with cement where stone has crumbled. The building's plain interior—whitewashed walls, simple wooden pews—speaks of communities that spent money on harvest festivals rather than gilded altars.

From the church plaza, cobbled lanes fan out like spokes. Follow any uphill and you'll emerge onto dirt tracks where the real Cotillas begins. These are the caminos that linked hill farms long before asphalt arrived. They lead to abandoned threshing floors, stone huts where shepherds sheltered, and viewpoints where buzzards ride thermals at eye level. The GR-130 long-distance path passes nearby—serious walkers can follow it south towards the Segura range, though you'll need proper boots and water for six-hour sections between villages.

The Empty Season

Visit between November and March and you'll witness Cotillas at its most honest. Half the houses stand shuttered—their owners, like generations before them, have migrated to Albacete or Madrid for winter work. The bar might open only at weekends. The village shop, if it hasn't closed entirely, stocks tinned goods and little else. This is when you understand why local cooking relies on preserved meats, dried beans, and whatever grows in the vegetable patch.

Yet winter has its rewards. Clear days bring views across fifty kilometres of sierra. The air carries resin from sun-warmed pine bark. Wild boar tracks cross muddy paths; their prints look surprisingly delicate for such destructive animals. If you're lucky—and quiet—you might spot Spanish ibex picking across crags above the tree line.

When the Village Returns

August transforms everything. Families return from cities, cars line the single street, and children's voices echo off stone walls. The fiesta patronale arrives—dates vary but usually span the second weekend. Suddenly there's a sound system in the plaza, processions at dawn, and elderly men arguing over card games that last until 3am. The village butcher works overtime; every house seems to host relatives from the coast.

This is when you might taste proper gazpacho manchego—not the cold tomato soup foreigners expect, but a hearty stew of game (usually rabbit) with flatbread soaked in rich stock. Local women prepare migas ruleras, frying breadcrumbs with garlic, peppers, and whatever meat needs using. The village wine, brought up from the plain in five-litre plastic containers, tastes better when drunk from a chipped ceramic bowl at 1am while someone's uncle explains the finer points of almond cultivation.

Getting There, Staying Put

The drive from Albacete takes ninety minutes on a good day. Take the A-30 towards Murcia, exit at Villapalacios, then prepare for mountain roads where GPS signals fade. The final approach involves sharp bends and occasional single-track sections—reverse to passing places when you meet oncoming traffic. Public transport exists in theory: one bus daily except Sundays, arriving mid-afternoon, returning at dawn next day. In practice, you need a car.

Accommodation means Casa Rural La Resinera, three kilometres outside the village proper. The converted farmhouse offers three bedrooms, a pool that overlooks the valley, and silence so complete you'll hear your own heartbeat. At €80-120 per night depending on season, it costs less than a Travelodge but comes with mountain views that five-star hotels can't match. Alternative: stay in Alcaraz (25 minutes drive) and visit Cotillas as part of a wider sierra tour.

The Honest Truth

Cotillas won't suit everyone. There's no mobile signal in parts. The nearest proper restaurant is a twenty-minute drive. Rain turns streets to mud. Summer weekends bring motocross bikes that shatter the silence. Some visitors leave after one night, spooked by the emptiness or frustrated that nothing happens according to schedule.

But for those who stay, who adjust to mountain time, the village offers something increasingly rare: a place where human life continues in proportion to its landscape. Where dinner conversations last three hours because nobody has anywhere else to be. Where the night sky still overwhelms with stars. Where you might arrive seeking traditional Spain and find instead something more valuable—a reminder of how recently all our lives followed seasons rather than smartphones.

Come prepared. Bring walking boots, a Spanish phrasebook, and patience. Leave expectations at the city limits. Cotillas offers no postcard views, no curated experiences. Just a village that has survived centuries by adapting to what the mountain gives and takes away—still here, still real, waiting for those willing to match its pace rather than impose their own.