Tamajón

The first thing you notice is the hush. At 1,130 m above sea level, sound behaves differently: no motorway drone, no aircraft hum, just the wind combing through holm oaks and the occasional clatter of a slate roof tile shifting back into place. Tamajón appears suddenly after the CM-101 has wrung itself through a last set of switchbacks; stone houses roofed in dark shale shoulder together as if bracing against the Guadalajara wind. It is the sort of arrival that makes London feel like it belongs to another planet rather than a two-hour flight away.

Slate, Timber and the Smell of wet Granite

Roughly 150 people live here year-round, enough to keep the village bar open but not enough to stop the church bells from doubling as the local timekeeper. Architecture is the chief sightseeing: walls of almost black slate trimmed with weather-silvered timber, balconies narrow enough to shake hands across the lane. A couple of 1970s breeze-block garages intrude, yet the overall palette remains stubbornly monochrome, the houses camouflaged against the ridgeline like a flock of choughs. Walk the single main street at dusk and the stone radiates the day’s heat, releasing a faint mineral scent that no souvenir shop has yet bottled.

The fifteenth-century parish church of San Andrés squats in the tiny plaza rather than towers over it; step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Restoration money arrived in drips, so each column carries a different capital—one Romanesque, one baroque, one plainly modern. Locals treat it less as a monument than as a communal sitting room; expect to see someone’s shopping parked beside the font while they pause for a chat.

Walking Tracks that Start at your Doorstep

Tamajón’s real gallery is the surrounding Sierra Norte de Guadalajara. Three waymarked footpaths leave from the last streetlamp, ranging from a forty-minute loop to an all-day crossing to the neighbouring “black village” of Valverde de los Arroyos. The ground underfoot is a mix of red clay and fist-sized quartz; after rain it colours your boots like Devon soil. October brings saffron-yellow beech copses and the first chanterelles; April carpets the paths with wild peonies. Summer hikers appreciate the altitude—temperatures sit five degrees lower than on the Meseta—but should still carry water: the only fountain on the ridge tastes delicious yet dribbles at the rate of a reluctant office kettle.

Maps: the 1:50,000 Adrados series (ISBN 978-842413-243-8) is sold at the Guadalajara bookshop but rarely here, so print the free IGN scan before you leave Britain. Mobile coverage is patchy once you drop into the valley; GPS works, but only if you’ve cached the route.

Calories and Cash: what to Eat and how to Pay

There is no supermarket. The grocery cupboard of the combined bar-shop stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, excellent local honey (€6 a jar) and little else. Stock up in Guadalajara’s Mercadona before you head up the mountain. Mealtimes are negotiable: the family-run Posada de Tamajón opens its kitchen only if you phone before 11 a.m.; otherwise you’ll be making sandwiches. When it is open, expect pisto manchego (a thick courgette-and-pepper stew topped with egg), cordero a la pastora (mild lamb, spoon-tender) and queso de cabra that tastes of thyme and rock salt. Vegetarians survive on pisto and the region’s oversized asparagus; vegans should self-cater.

Prices feel stuck in the nineties: a three-course menú del día runs €14, house wine included. Tipping is courteous but not obligatory; rounding up to the nearest five is fine. Cash only. There is no ATM: the nearest sits 24 km back down the mountain in Tortuero, so fill your wallet in Guadalajara or at the airport on arrival.

Seasons and the Rental-Car Clause

Spring and autumn reward drivers with empty roads and hillsides either blooming or burnished. Winter is beautiful but serious: snow can arrive overnight and the CM-101 is treated as an afterthought by the gritting lorries. Chains go on at the first flurry; without them you may spend the night in the car listening to Spanish talk-radio. Summer weekends see Madrileños escaping the furnace of the capital; the village triples in volume, restaurant tables become gold-dust and the silence fractures into hatchback stereos. Mid-week July stays quiet, but book accommodation all the same—there are only twelve rooms in the entire pueblo.

Staying Over: Beds under Beams

Accommodation is split between the six-room Posada de Tamajón (restored 1820 house, slate staircase worn into scoops, €70 B&B double) and a handful of village rentals let through the regional tourist board. Heating is by pellet stove; hosts deliver a bucket of fuel each evening like a scene from a Dickens novel. One cottage, Casa del Hortelano, throws in a telescope—night skies here register a Bortle class 3, meaning the Milky Way genuinely looks milky. Expect creaking timber, patchy Wi-Fi and the odd mouse; if you need blackout curtains and a gym, stay in Guadalajara.

Getting There without the Drama

Fly to Madrid-Barajas from any major UK airport (two hours, dozens of daily options). Pick up a hire car in Terminal 1, join the A-2 east, exit 61 toward Brihuega, then follow the N-320 and CM-101 north for 55 km. The final 28 km twist through pine and abandoned bodegas; allow ninety minutes from the airport if you travel after 9 p.m. when lorries thin out. Public transport is technically possible—ALSA coach to Guadalajara, then a single school bus that reaches Tamajón at 15:05 on weekdays only—but the return leg leaves at 07:00, making a mockery of a relaxing break. Taxi from Guadalajara is €60 if pre-booked; Uber won’t come this far.

Parting Shot

Tamajón will not hand you blockbuster sights or cocktail-bar glamour. What it offers is altitude-induced clarity: the sense that days can still be measured in kilometres walked, pages read, and spoons stirred through lamb stew rather than emails answered. Come prepared—cash, petrol, chains in winter—and the village repays with silence so complete you’ll hear your own pulse. Forget that at your peril; this is not a place for spontaneous city habits, but it might just be the antidote to them.