Anguita

One hundred and twenty-one stone houses, one bar, no cash machine. Anguita perches at 1,130 metres on the western lip of the Serranía de Guadalajara, high enough that even in August the night thermometer can dip to 9°C. From the mirador beside the cemetery the land falls away in pleated ridges the colour of dry tobacco; on a clear evening you can pick out the slate roofs of Cogolludo, 18 kilometres distant, and count five more villages strung along the skyline like dropped beads.

The road up from the A-2 is a lesson in scale. After the flat roar of the meseta, the CM-201 twists through juniper and thyme, climbing 400 metres in twelve minutes. Stone walls appear, then the first timber balconies, painted that particular Castilian green that looks black in shade. Park by the fountain—there is only one—and you will hear nothing but the click of cooling metal and, somewhere overhead, the thin cry of a booted eagle.

Stone, Wind and the Smell of Rain

Anguita’s streets are barely two metres wide. Builders used whatever the ground gave them: mottled limestone for corners, gypsum chippings as mortar, oak beams hauled from the beech woods of Tamajón. Most houses keep their original wooden doors, iron-studded and small—people were shorter, and firewood was precious. Look up and you will notice the drain-spouts: slabs of slate jutting like tongues, designed to hurl winter rain clear of the walls. It works; many façades are 300 years old and still plumb.

Inside the single grocery shop, opened three mornings a week, a packet of Cola Cao costs €3.20 and the owner wraps cheese in paper torn from an exercise book. She will ask where you are walking and, if you admit you have no map, produce a photocopied sheet drawn by the village schoolchildren in 1997. The trail marked in red felt-tip climbs to the Ermita de la Soledad, a two-room chapel locked since 1936, then drops into the Rio Mesa gorge where griffon vultures ride the thermals. Allow two hours, take more water than you think—the return is uphill and shade is scarce.

When the Snow-Gate Closes

Winter arrives suddenly. The first snowfall can come in late October, and by December the council fits metal gates across the CM-201 at kilometre 62. If the drifts push in from the north-east, Anguita becomes a cul-de-sac until the plough fights through. Residents like the isolation; they stock freezers with lamb from their own flocks and keep 25-litre cans of drinking water in the porch in case the pump freezes. Visitors are less enthusiastic. A Bedfordshire couple who booked a rural cottage one February had to abandon their hire car at the barrier and sled their luggage in a plastic basin. They still talk about the stars—no streetlights for eight kilometres—and the way the stone houses held the cold “like old fridges”.

From March onwards access is straightforward. There is no railway; the nearest bus leaves Guadalajara at 14:15 on Tuesdays and Fridays, reaches Anguita at 16:03, and turns round after the driver has smoked one Ducado. Having a car is simpler, but not essential once you are there. Everything worth seeing begins at the fountain.

A Parish Church with Whales’ Ribs

The Iglesia de San Juan Bautista went up in 1542 on the site of a mudéjar mosque. No one remembers the imam’s name, yet his orientation survives: the apse points south-east, not east, so dawn light slants through the clerestory at a diagonal, illuminating the dusty organ pipes like polished bone. The north wall holds a surprise: six vertebrae of a fin whale, brought from Santander in 1785 and nailed to the stone as a warning against blasphemy. Children touch them for luck; adults wonder how they stayed put through the Civil War. Mass is sung once a month, on the third Sunday; the rest of the time the key hangs in the bar opposite, next to a dusty bottle of Orujo de Hierbas last poured in 2019.

Food that Tastes of the Previous Day

Anguita keeps no restaurants, only a bar that opens at seven for coffee and closes when the owner feels like it. Order a beer and you will be asked whether you want “something to eat”. Say yes and she disappears upstairs, returning with a plate of migas—breadcrumbs fried in garlic and pig fat—plus a fork that has seen thinner days. The migas are yesterday’s bread; the fat comes from the annual matanza held each January in the square. If you arrive that week, expect invitations to watch, but don’t romanticise it: the temperature hovers at 2°C, blood steams on the cobbles, and the smell lingers for days. Vegetarians should bring supplies. There is a small supermarket in Tamajón, 19 kilometres away, open daily except Monday.

Walking without Waymarks

The village lies on the GR-86, a long-distance footpath that nobody signs. Farmers have removed many of the old granite milestones to build field walls, so navigation relies on instinct and the position of the sun. Head south along the track past the cemetery and you will reach the abandoned hamlet of Valdeconcha in 45 minutes—six houses, no roofs, a threshing circle colonised by lavender. Continue another hour and the path dips into oak woodland where wild boar root for acorns; their prints look like small cloven hearts pressed into the mud. Circle back via the fire-break road and you emerge opposite the bar, dusty just in time for a second beer. Total distance: 8 kilometres; ascent: 300 metres; likelihood of meeting another walker: negligible.

Where to Sleep and How Not to Freeze

Accommodation consists of three privately owned cottages, booked through the provincial tourist office in Guadalajara. Prices hover around €90 a night for two, including firewood—essential after October. The houses retain original beams; some still have the stone basin where grain was once trodden by mules. Heating is by wood-burning stove; kindling is provided, but you will split your own logs with an axe that weighs more than cabin baggage allowance. Bring slippers; stone floors are unforgiving. Mobile coverage is patchy: Vodafone picks up one bar if you stand on the balcony at 23:00 when the wind blows from Cuenca; EE users are advised to write postcards.

Leaving Before the Bells

Anguita is not for everyone. The silence can feel accusatory, the nights endless, the practicality of Spanish mountain life unvarnished. Yet for those willing to trade nightlife for starlight, the village offers something increasingly scarce: a place where the clock still measures seasons, not seconds. Drive away at dawn and you will meet shepherds moving sheep across the road, their dogs ignoring you completely. Half a mile further on, the snow-gate stands open, waiting for the next storm. Behind you, the church bell rings once—no congregation, just habit—then the wind takes over again.