La Mierla

The church bell tolls eleven times, yet nobody stirs. At 957 metres above sea level, La Mierla keeps its own timetable—one dictated by sunrise over the oak ridges rather than any schedule a visitor might bring. Forty permanent residents, stone houses the colour of weathered wheat, and absolute silence beyond the wind. This is Guadalajara's high country at its most distilled.

Approach roads coil upward from the provincial capital, 70 kilometres away, shrinking from dual carriageway to single-track lane somewhere after the village of Tamajón. British drivers will recognise the feeling of crossing into Northumberland or mid-Wales: suddenly the verges are wilder, the temperature drops a degree, and phone reception becomes theoretical. Winter visits can end in a white-out; locals keep snow chains in the boot from November to April. In high summer the same asphalt shimmers, but even then evenings demand a fleece—altitude trumps Spanish stereotype here.

Stone, Slate and Silence

No guidebook monument announces itself. Instead, the village is the attraction: a tight knot of masonry that grew organically between the 17th and 19th centuries, never quite reaching the 20th. Rooflines sag in gentle harmony, tiles the warm red of burnt Sienna. Granite cornerstones bulge; timber doors have tightened over centuries until some no longer close completely. Walk the single main street—Calle Real, barely three metres wide—and you complete an architectural circuit in under ten minutes. Yet the details reward slower inspection: hand-forged iron studs, a stone sink fed by a roof spout, a bread-oven mouth still blackened from last winter's firing.

The parish church, Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, fits its congregation precisely. A squat tower, one bell, whitewashed interior walls that amplify midday heat in July and hold it through December services. Sunday mass at eleven draws a congregation of twelve on a good week; festival days inflate numbers to perhaps fifty. Visitors are welcomed, though photography during the Eucharist is discouraged. The priest arrives from the neighbouring village of Valdepeñas de la Sierra; if the mountain road ices over, villagers simply wait until next week.

Walking the Empty Ridges

Paths strike out from the upper edge of the village as if the houses were an afterthought to the transhumance routes that pre-date them. One track, marked only by the occasional cairn, contours eastward to the abandoned hamlet of Palancares—three kilometres of gentle gradient, ideal as a morning leg-stretch. Expect to see nobody, but keep an eye out for wild boar excavations among the holm oaks. A stiffer option climbs south to the Carambolo summit (1,320 m) where the view opens across the entire Serranía: wave after wave of rounded granite, the odd village perched improbably on a spur, and on exceptionally clear days the distant blue spike of the Cuenca ranges.

Spring brings a brief, brilliant flush of wild peonies and orchids; autumn saturates the oaks in copper and rust. Summer walkers should start early; by two o'clock the thermometer can still touch 32 °C, and shade is intermittent. Carry more water than you think necessary—there are no cafés to top up bottles. Winter hiking rewards with crystalline air and the chance of ibex tracks in fresh snow, but daylight is scarce; a head-torch belongs in every rucksack.

What to Eat and Where to Sleep

La Mierla has no shops, bars or restaurants. Zero. The last grocery closed in 2003 when its proprietor retired; villagers now drive weekly to Tamajón or chequer their requirements against the mobile bakery van that calls on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Self-catering is therefore essential. Guadalajara's central market (open Wednesday and Saturday) stocks Manchego cheeses aged for eighteen months, morcilla spiced with pine nuts, and local honey that actually tastes of thyme. Bring supplies, then light the open hearth of your rented cottage—most conversions include a basic but functional kitchen, and firewood is sold by the crate at the entrance to the village for eight euros.

Accommodation consists of three privately owned casas rurales, totalling perhaps twelve beds between them. El Portón de la Sierra occupies a former threshing barn; thick stone walls mean Wi-Fi reaches the kitchen table only on windless days. Week-long stays in low season start around €350, including one deep-clean mid-week. Book early for August, when descendants of emigrés return and the population quadruples overnight.

For a meal out, the closest reliable option is Mesón de la Sierra in Valdepeñas, fifteen minutes by car. Expect robust country cooking: cordero asado (lamb slow-cooked in a wood oven), migas (fried breadcrumbs with garlic and grapes), and the local wild-mushroom scramble when rainfall has been kind. A three-course lunch with wine runs to about €18; portions assume you have walked eight kilometres first.

When the Village Wakes Up

Fiestas patronales begin on the nearest weekend to 15 August. Suddenly the plaza fills with folding tables, elderly women dish out caldereta (mutton stew) from three-legged pots, and a sound system materialises playing everything from pasodobles to 1980s Madrid pop. A single ride—a ferris wheel barely taller than the church—operates for the children, powered by a generator that competes with conversation until midnight. Outsiders are welcome, but accommodation within the village is booked a year in advance; base yourself in Tamajón and taxi in for the evening. By Tuesday morning the square is swept, the population has halved, and silence reasserts itself.

Practicalities without the Bullet Points

Driving from Madrid-Barajas airport takes roughly ninety minutes: A-2 east to Guadalajara, then N-320 towards Cuenca before turning off at signs for Tamajón. Petrol stations become scarce after Brihuega; fill up. Car hire is essential—public transport reaches the area only on schooldays, and the bus stops at the main road four kilometres below the village. Mobile coverage is patchy; download offline maps. Bring cash: the nearest ATM is in Tamajón and it still occasionally runs out of notes on Sunday evenings. Finally, remember that silence here is currency. Speak softly, walk gently, and the mountains will answer with views, tracks and a pace of life Britain misplaced sometime in the last century.