Atienza

The wind hits first. It barrels across the meseta, gathers speed through the pinewoods below, then slams into Atienza's sandstone walls with enough force to make the church bells shift in their towers. At 1,169 metres, this is not a village that apologises for its weather; it simply builds thicker walls and taller chimneys. Most visitors arrive after the two-hour drive from Madrid, step out of the car, and feel their ears pop as if they've landed at a minor Alpine resort rather than a Castilian hill town.

That altitude explains everything. Summer afternoons peak at 28 °C instead of the 38 °C that fries the capital, while winter brings proper snow that turns the cobbled lanes into toboggan runs. The locals—barely 430 of them—keep blankets over the doorways of stone houses and burn encina oak in fireplaces big enough to roast a whole pig. Come in April or late September and you'll catch the sweet spot: daylight warm enough for a fleece, nights cold enough to justify the region's hearty stews.

A Ridge that Refused to Surrender

The ruined castle isn't picturesque; it's defiant. What remains looks less like a building and more like a broken tooth grafted onto the crag. Reached by a fifteen-minute calf-burner from Plaza de España, the trail weaves between broom and thyme before depositing you on a slab where the only guardrail is a sheer 200-metre drop. From here the geography lesson is instant: the village tumbles down a single ridge, terraced houses gripping the rock like limpets, while the Salado valley unrolls northwards in bleached wheat and steel-green olive.

Inside the castle's skeletal keep you can still trace the Romanesque chapel of San Pedro and the slot where the drawbridge chains once sat. Interpretation boards are refreshingly blunt: "Partial collapse 1812 during Napoleonic retreat; masonry looted for local housing." In other words, the cottages you photographed on the way up probably contain chunks of the very walls you now lean against. Bring grippy shoes; the basalt rubble is loose and there is no café at the top, only wind and the smell of wild rosemary.

Fourteen Churches, Three Open Doors

Medieval Atienza boasted fourteen parishes, a boast that now feels almost comic in a place with one baker and intermittent phone signal. Three churches remain unlockable, their keys kept by neighbours who will appear if you loiter long enough looking hopeful. San Bartolomé, started in 1140, has the honest, stocky proportions of early Romanesque: round arch, thick pillars, a carved tympanum showing the saint being flayed alive with the same calm expression you might wear while quevering at the post office. Inside, the Museo de San Gil displays Flemish panels and a sixteenth-century processional cross that still leaves the building once a year for the Caballada festival.

Santa María del Rey, five minutes downhill, reveals why "Gothic" became shorthand for vertical ambition: its nave shoots up so sharply that swallows circle beneath the roof beams. The third option, La Trinidad, opens only on Saturday evenings for vespers sung by a congregation of eight. Arrive early; they lock the door once the first hymn starts, more from habit than hostility.

Lunch at the Edge of Emptiness

There are two proper restaurants, both on Plaza del Trigo. Mesón de la Villa does a fixed-price menú del día (€14) that begins with garlic soup and ends with cuajada, a sheeps-milk junket drizzled with local honey. The lamb here is certified Lechazo de Castilla—milk-fed, pink, roasted in a wood oven whose smell drifts halfway to the castle. Vegetarians can ask for migas: breadcrumbs fried with grapes and peppers, tastier than it sounds and substantial enough to fuel the stiff walk back to your car. House wine comes from Cuenca province; order it by the quarter-litre or you'll be poured a half before you can protest.

If the square is full of Madrid day-trippers (weekends, essentially), walk three minutes to Bar Arco where the menu is shorter, the television louder, and the proprietor happy to make a sandwich of Manchego cheese so thick you need to dislocate your jaw. Close the meal with a carajillo—coffee laced with rum—because altitude makes alcohol go to your head faster and the descent to the car park feels steeper after pudding.

Walking the Wool Road

The old Camino de la Laña, the medieval drovers' route that once carried fleeces to Mediterranean ports, passes straight through Atienza. Waymarks with a wool-bale symbol lead south-east along a grassy track towards the village of Palazuelos; allow two hours there, two back, across rolling upland grazed by black-headed Manchega sheep. In May the verges are painted crimson with poppies; in October giant puffballs appear overnight, edible if you know your fungi. The path is mostly flat but exposed—carry water and a windproof even on balmy days because the weather can flip within minutes.

Shorter loops circle the base of the castle ridge. One 45-minute circuit drops into the Salado gorge, crosses an iron footbridge and climbs back through umbrella pines. Evening light turns the stone walls amber, and Griffon vultures wheel overhead, wings fingered like theatre curtains. You will meet more livestock than people; say "Buenas" to the shepherd on his quad bike—he's probably the mayor's cousin.

When the Village Lets its Hair Down

Third Sunday of June: Atienza multiplies by ten. The Caballada festival commemorates a thirteenth-century ruse when local knights galloped out at dawn, bells clanging, to convince the Moors besieging nearby Sigüenza that fresh troops had arrived. Today's version starts at 5 a.m. with a candle-lit procession, mass in San Bartolomé, then sixty horses thundering up to the castle and back. Outsiders are welcome to join the walk uphill; riding is discouraged unless you fancy explaining a broken collarbone to your insurer. Book accommodation in Sigüenza—Atienza's handful of rooms fills months ahead.

September's Honey Fair is quieter: stalls line the main street selling thyme honey, beeswax candles and herbal cough remedies that taste like liquid hay. The beekeepers speak slow, deliberate Castilian; nod, sample, buy a jar. It costs half the price of the supermarket version and weighs exactly enough to use as a doorstop when you get home.

Beds, Banks and Basic Survival

Sleeping in the village itself means the Antiguo Palacio de Atienza, seven rooms carved out of a fifteenth-century manor. Expect stone walls half a metre thick, Wi-Fi that flickers like a faulty fluorescent tube, and breakfast featuring the proprietor's own quince jelly (doubles €85, cheaper mid-week). Alternative: stay 25 km away in Sigüenza's Parador, a converted twelfth-century castle with four-poster beds and full heating, then day-trip. Petrol stations are scarce after Marchamonta—fill the tank before you leave the A-2. Cash machines? One, beside the town hall, and it sometimes runs dry on market day. Bring euros.

Leave before dusk if you're driving back to Madrid; stags wander onto the road at dusk and the Guardia Civil fine heavily for speeding on the GU-112. Otherwise linger for the astronomical payoff—no street-lighting means Milky Way views you last saw on a school poster. The wind drops, the village lights blink on one by one, and the castle ruin becomes a jagged silhouette against stars thick as salt on a pub table. Close the car door quietly; in Atienza the night belongs to stone, sky and the occasional bell clinging to a goat's neck as it picks its way home.