Monasterio

The thermometer drops six degrees between the plain at Cifuentes and the ridge where Monasterio sits. At 900 m the air thins and the pine resin smells sharper; mobile reception thins too, so download the track before the final climb. What you gain is quiet so complete that a tractor two fields away sounds intimate.

Monasterio is not a ruin, just tiny: fifteen souls on the register, three permanent dogs, one working bread oven that fires only at Christmas. Stone houses shoulder together against the wind that barrels up the Sierra de Pela; most front doors still have the family name painted in ochre, though the families now live in Madrid, Barcelona or, in one case, Inverness. They return for long weekends, light the chimneys, sweep oak leaves off the roof and leave again on Sunday night. The village belongs to the calendar, not to the clock.

Walking into empty country

Paths start where the asphalt ends. A five-minute stroll north-east brings you to the cattle grid; step over and you are in the municipal hunting reserve. Hoof prints overlap boot prints, but you will meet more roe deer than people. The obvious circuit follows the forestry track to the ruined cortijo of El Carrascal (45 min), then cuts back along the stone-littered ridge. Spring brings acid-green moss and wild red peonies; by July the grass has burnt to blond and the only shade is under the holm oaks. Carry more water than you think—at this altitude the breeze disguises fluid loss.

Longer routes drop south into the Pela crest itself, linking old drove roads once used to shift merino sheep to winter pasture. A full day’s loop to Majalijar and back is 18 km, with 650 m of ascent, no fountain and intermittent phone signal. The payoff is a horizon that stretches from the limestone teeth of the Alto Tajo to the wind turbines of La Mancha, rotating like slow metronomes.

Winter turns the lane into a funnel for snow. The provincial grader normally reaches the village by mid-morning, but if the wind drifts the road again you may be stuck until afternoon. Locals keep a sack of rock-salt by the gate and regard four-wheel drive as essential, not macho. From December to February the safest plan is to park at the lower junction at Arbeteta and walk the last 3 km—thirty minutes uphill, sledges welcome.

What passes for services

There is no shop, no bar, no petrol, no cash machine. The nearest bread is 12 km away in Sacecorbo; the nearest doctor, 25. Accommodation is limited to three self-catering cottages booked through the regional tourism board—expect stone floors, wood-burning stoves, Wi-Fi that works if the wind is in the right quarter, and tariffs around €90 a night for two. Each house has a hurricane lamp and a note explaining where the mains switch is “when” (not if) the power trips.

Food has to be carried in. Thursday sees a mobile grocer’s van in the plaza for twenty minutes; the timetable is pinned to the church door, but locals simply listen for the horn at about 11:15. If you miss it, drive down to Cifuentes where the supermarket stocks local Manchego at €14 a kilo—half the Madrid price—and a surprisingly drinkable tempranillo for €4. Game lovers should try the conejo al ajillo; the butcher will joint the rabbit for you if you ask before 10 a.m.

A church the size of a living room

The parish church of San Pedro opens only for mass on the first Sunday of the month. The key hangs in the sacristy of the neighbouring village, so unless your Spanish stretches to telephone tag with the priest you will have to content yourself with the outside. Even then it is worth pausing: the sandstone blocks are the colour of burnt butter, and the bell turret is topped with a weather vane shaped like a helmet from the Civil War—no one knows which side.

Inside, according to those who have managed to enter, the single nave is barely ten metres long. The altarpiece is nineteenth-century pine, gessoed and painted to look like marble; the priest arrives with a portable loudspeaker because without it the congregation of eight can’t hear the gospel over the wind rattling the roof slates. Photography is allowed only if each shot excludes the altar, a stipulation that makes interior pictures almost impossible.

When the village wakes up

Festivity is compressed into the third weekend of August. Emigrants roll up with Madrid number plates, cool boxes and teenage children who look bewildered by the darkness after 10 p.m. Saturday starts with a football match on the improvised pitch—goals painted on hay bales—followed by a mass that spills onto the street because the church is too small. At nightfall a sound system appears from someone’s boot, and the plaza becomes an open-air dance until the generator runs out of diesel. Fireworks are modest: one rocket, a Catherine wheel nailed to a telephone pole, and sparklers for the kids. By Monday the houses are locked again, and the only noise is the grain thresher towed back to the lowlands.

If you prefer your folklore less improvised, drive 30 km to Sigüenza for the September mediaeval market—stalls, falconry displays and English commentary on request.

Getting here, getting out

From Madrid the quickest route is the A-2 to Guadalajara, then the N-320 north to Cifuentes; after that it is 28 km of CM-210, narrowing to a single track for the final eight. Allow ninety minutes in total, add twenty if you are towing. Buses terminate at Cifuentes; onward travel requires a taxi booked the previous day (about €35) or thumbs and patience. Car hire from Barajas airport runs €40 a day for a compact with air-conditioning—worth it in July when the valley floor hits 38 °C.

Leave early if you are returning on a Sunday evening; the motorway back to Madrid clogs with weekend traffic, and the service area at km 76 does a roaring trade in overpriced tea. Better to stop in Brihuega for an ice-cream beneath the stone arcades and let the rush dissolve.

The honest verdict

Monasterio will not entertain you. It will not feed you, sell you souvenirs, or post your Instagram story. What it offers is a pocket of altitude where time is measured in firewood stacks rather than screen time. Come prepared—boots, water, downloaded map—and the sierra gives back a silence you rarely find on the Continent. Fail to plan and you will sit in an empty square wondering why you drove so far for so little. The village asks for self-reliance and rewards it with space: choose accordingly.