La Olmeda de Jadraque

The sheep outnumber people here by roughly five to one. At 943 metres above sea level, on the southern flank of the Sierra de Pela, La Olmeda de Jadraque is less a village than a stubborn collection of stone houses that refused to die when the last proper shop shut in the 1980s. Fourteen registered inhabitants, one church, zero bars, and a view that stretches clear across the Henares gorge—this is rural Castilla-La Mancha stripped of Don Quijote souvenir tea-towels.

Getting There Without Running Out of Biscuits

From Madrid-Barajas it is a straight 135-kilometre dash up the A-2, then a wriggle along the GU-956 that Google euphemistically labels a “county road”. The tarmac narrows, the verges sprout feather grass and abandoned threshing circles, and phone bars vanish precisely at the moment you realise you should have filled the tank in Sigüenza. There is no public transport; the weekday bus to Jadraque stops ten kilometres short and refuses to climb higher. Hire cars are therefore essential, and a carrier bag of emergency water and crisps is strongly advised—once you reach the village, the nearest bar is a fifteen-minute drive back down the hill.

What Passes for a Centre

The settlement clusters around a modest church whose bell still marks the hours for fields that are mostly fallow. Houses are built from warm ochre stone and river-chestnut timber; roofs wear the curved, cinnamon-coloured Arab tiles that survived every winter storm because locals weighted them with stones. There is no plaza mayor, no interpretation centre, no craft shop flogging fridge magnets. Instead, lanes taper into footpaths within two minutes, and the loudest sound is the wind combing through holm oaks on the ridge above.

Walk fifty metres east and you are already among wheat stubble and boulders speckled with lichen. Walk fifty metres west and the land drops away, revealing a sweep of ochre badlands that glow like brick dust at sunset. Photographers tend to set up tripods here at dawn, when the valley fills with a milk-white thermal fog and only the church tower pokes free, an accidental island.

Walking Tracks That Used to Be Somebody’s Commute

The GR-86 long-distance path skirts the village, following an old drovers’ trail that once took cattle south to winter pastures in La Mancha. Today it works as a half-day circuit: head north along the ridge, fork right at the ruined shepherd’s hut, and you drop into a narrow ravine where ivy drapes the limestone. Spring brings purple orchids and the faint smell of wild thyme crushed under boot. The return leg climbs gently through abandoned terraces; stone walls now harbour lizards and the occasional rabbit that eyes you with more suspicion than the villagers do.

Sturdier hikers can continue north-east to the salt pans of Salinas de la Olmeda, a ghostly rectangle of clay pits and crumbling adobe storehouses. Salt hasn’t been harvested here since 1958, but the boardwalk still creaks, and the shallow lagoons turn pink with brine shrimp after heavy rain. Bring binoculars: the site attracts itinerant flamingos in April, a surreal flash of Caribbean colour against the dun plateau.

Eating: Bring It With You

There is no shop, no bakery, no Saturday market stall. Self-catering guests should stock up in Sigüenza’s covered market (open till 14:00, closed Monday). Local treats that travel well include Manchego curado, jars of mountain honey, and a fist-sized loaf of pan de chapa that keeps for three days without turning to cardboard. If you crave a proper meal, drive nine kilometres to Hiendelaencina where Restaurante La Perla serves roast Segovian lamb for €22; ring ahead because they buy the animal only when six or more diners are booked.

Where to Sleep Without Regretting It

Accommodation within the village itself is limited to one restored farmhouse rented by the week; it sleeps six, has wood-burning stoves, and costs around €650 in low season. Most visitors base themselves down in the valley. Casa Rural El Vagón de Baides, built around an antique railway carriage, earns consistent praise on English-language Camino forums for its thick stone walls (cool in July) and blackout shutters (vital when the local cockerel is confused by street-lighting that doesn’t exist). The Parador de Sigüenza, fifteen minutes away, offers the dependable luxury of a four-star chain but loses the night sky—choose according to whether your priority is a fluffy towel or the Milky Way.

Seasons: When to Come and When to Stay Away

April and May turn the hills an almost Irish green; wild peonies pop up beside the track and daytime temperatures sit comfortably in the low twenties. September repeats the trick, adding the smell of fermenting grapes from a couple of small plots that still supply Jadraque’s cooperative. Mid-winter is another matter: the GU-956 can ice over, electricity fails during the frequent nortes, and the only heating is whatever you can feed into a cast-iron stove. Summer, conversely, is dry and largely bug-free, but day-trippers from Madrid drift in for the silence, then discover they have nowhere to buy a cold drink and drive off again in frustration.

The Honest Verdict

La Olmeda de Jadraque is not “unspoilt” in the chocolate-box sense; it is simply too small to spoil. Visitors who need a latte at eight, a souvenir at ten and a tapas trail by noon will hate the place. Those content to watch cloud shadows slide across the sierra, listen to bee-eaters overhead, and read three chapters before remembering to check the time will feel the village’s quiet pull. Come prepared, lower expectations to match the population count, and the reward is a front-row seat to a landscape that has forgotten the twenty-first century—even if you haven’t.