Valdepeñas de la Sierra

Dawn above the pines

At first light the village is a charcoal sketch: slate roofs, stone chimneys, and the church tower catching the earliest glint of sun. By 07:30 someone has already rattled open the metal shutters of the only grocer, wood smoke drifts from two houses, and the tractor that belongs to the Martín brothers coughs into life. Valdepeñas de la Sierra never looks busy, yet nobody seems idle. With only 147 permanent residents and an altitude just shy of 900 m, life moves at the pace lungs and weather dictate.

The road in sets the tone. From Guadalajara you climb the N-110 for 110 km, the last 25 km a switch-back ribbon where stone walls replace crash barriers and black pines lean over the tarmac. Google promises 90 minutes; after dark, or when the CM-1006 glints with frost, plan for two. The payoff is instant on arrival: air that feels filtered, Milky Way nights, and a silence so complete you notice your own heartbeat.

Stone, slate and the smell of wet earth

Forget the whitewashed cubes of Andalucía. Houses here are dressed in local pizarra – thick slabs of grey-purple slate that drink in the colour of storm clouds. Walls are a metre wide, windows the size of shoe-boxes, roofs weighted with stones against the gales that sweep the Sierra Norte. Some façades have been restored by weekend Madrileños, others slump gently against their neighbours, wooden balconies sagging like old armchairs. The overall effect is honest rather than pretty, a village that has never needed to audition for visitors.

There is no formal tourist office. Parking is wherever the verge widens enough; the single cash machine inside the grocer dispenses €50 notes and attitude. Yet the place is welcoming in the matter-of-fact Spanish way: dogs bark, grandfathers on the plaza glance up, then return to their dominoes. Ask for directions and you may be walked to the path yourself.

Tracks made for boots, not brochures

The surrounding Parque Natural spreads over 60,000 ha of pine, oak and juniper threaded by drove roads older than any map. From the last streetlamp a web of routes fans out, way-marked just enough to reassure, not enough to crowd. The easiest outing follows the Arroyo de Valdepeñas for 4 km to an abandoned stone mill; pools deep enough for a bracing dip break the summer heat, and otter prints sometimes appear in the mud. More committed walkers can link shepherds’ paths to Campillo de Ranas, 12 km east, gaining 400 m of ridge with views clear to the Moncayo massif on cloudless days.

In autumn the same tracks become improvised mushroom corridors. Locals set out at dawn with wicker baskets and the confidence of people who learnt their fungi at grandmothers’ knees. Visitors are welcome to tag along, but heed the etiquette: never trespass on fenced pastures, carry a knife to cut stems cleanly, and if in doubt leave it – the hospital in Guadalajara is 90 minutes away. Boletus edulis (penny bun) and saffron milkcaps fetch good money in Madrid markets; here they end up sautéed in olive oil and frozen for winter stews.

Winter brings a different set of rules. Snow usually arrives by mid-December and can isolate the upper houses for a day or two. Temperatures dip to –8 °C at night, but skies are cobalt and the pine trunks glow red like stove bars. The council grades the main street, so ordinary cars cope; side lanes become sled runs for village children who career past on plastic trays, cheeks bright as pomegranates. January’s fiesta de San Antón is timed for the cold: huge pyres of vine prunings roast chestnuts in the plaza while the priest sprinkles holy water over dogs, goats and the occasional pet ferret.

What passes for cuisine at altitude

Do not expect tasting menus. The single bar opens when the owner rises and closes when cider runs out – sometimes the same afternoon. Order a caña and you will be handed a plate of migas: breadcrumbs fried in pork fat with garlic, grapes and the local chorizo that tastes of smoked paprika and rosemary. Main dishes arrive in soup bowls because they are stews: cordero al chilindrón (lamb shoulder simmered with peppers), or patatas con costilla, a rib-and-potato concoction thick enough to support a spoon upright. Prices hover around €9; bread and a half-litre of young red wine are included. Vegetarians get eggs – scrambled, fried, or broken into a pisto of tomatoes and aubergine.

Cheese is another staple. Queso de oveja curado spends six months in mountain caves where the rind picks up hints of thyme and forest floor. Buy a wedge from the grocer (€14/kg) and it will keep for weeks in a rucksack, perfect trail fuel. If you are self-catering, market day is Saturday: one trestle table sells honey, another offers misshapen vegetables grown within sight of the church. Arrive before 11:00; by noon produce is packed away and the vendor is playing cards inside.

Nights meant for stars, not clubs

Electric lighting is modest, and the council dims streetlamps after midnight to save money. The result is darkness deep enough to satisfy serious astronomers. On moonless nights the Milky Way arches from the pine silhouette above the cemetery to the opposite ridge like a silver bridge. Bring binoculars and you can split the Pleiades; a phone app helps trace Perseus, but the real map is the sky itself, clear enough to navigate by. Even in August temperatures fall to 14 °C after 02:00 – pack a down jacket.

Back indoors, accommodation is limited. There are eight rental cottages, all converted village houses: wood-burning stoves, terracotta floors, and Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind swings north. Nightly rates range €70–€110 for two, cheaper mid-week outside fiesta. Booking is direct with owners who answer WhatsApp faster than email. The nearest hotel is 18 km away in El Cardoso – fine if you enjoy driving mountain roads after dinner.

When to come, when to stay away

April and May deliver the kindest introduction: daytime 18 °C, nights cool enough for sleep, wildflowers along the tracks, and migratory hoopoes calling from telegraph poles. September repeats the formula with added mushrooms. July and August are hot by day (30 °C) but breathable thanks to altitude; the August fiesta multiplies population five-fold, fills every cottage, and replaces silence with all-night village discos. Book then only if you crave people more than pines. November can be sublime if a high-pressure cell parks over the plateau – golden oak against black slate – but carry chains; the first snow often catches drivers wearing shorts.

Parting thoughts

Valdepeñas de la Sierra offers no postcard epiphanies, no infinity pools, no boutique souvenir shops. It gives instead what much of Spain has traded for speed: a village still negotiating its future with the mountain, not with the market. Come prepared – with boots, map, cash and a flexible sense of time – and the Sierra will return the favour: clean air, honest food, and the realisation that 147 people can keep a place alive very well, provided the rest of us visit lightly and leave before we outstay our welcome.