Villares de Jadraque

The church bell tolls eleven, yet only two chimneys smoke. Forty-odd houses of honey-coloured stone climb a ridge at 1,050 m, and the loudest sound is a tractor grinding gears somewhere below the drop to the river Dulce. This is Villares de Jadraque, a village so unconcerned with passing traffic that the road in simply stops at the last house, turns to dirt and becomes a sheep track.

Stone, wind and altitude

Everything here is built for height and weather. Limestone walls are two feet thick, doors pint-sized to trick the north wind, roofs weighted with hefty Arabic tiles that have survived since the 1700s. Notice the wooden eaves—blackened chestnut beams that project far enough to keep snow off the walls. The pattern is repeated in every alley: stone, timber, sky, then more sky. Because the population hovers around forty, there is no café row, no souvenir shop, no tasteful restoration. Just houses that are either inhabited, semi-ruined, or quietly mending themselves under the owners’ weekend visits from Madrid.

Start at the tiny plaza where the GU-147 dies. The parish church of San Juan Bautista sits two steps above the street, its tower the only vertical punctuation for kilometres. The door is usually open; inside, a single bulb dangles over a baroque altarpiece that arrived by mule from Guadalajara in 1892 after the earlier roof collapsed under a drift. Light a candle if you wish—coins go in the box marked “farolas”—then step out and face the sweep of the Sierra de Pela. On a clear April morning you can pick out the quartzite glint of the Moncayo massif, 120 km distant.

Walking without waymarks

Maps call the surrounding terrain “paramo” – a word that sounds romantic until you discover it means wind-scrubbed plateau where only thyme, juniper and the occasional eagle feel at home. Paths exist because villagers still use them: to check sheep, reach almond groves, or visit the cemetery in neighbouring Jadraque. None are sign-posted; all are public. A useful loop heads south-east from the last street lamp, drops into the Barranco del Maderero, then climbs gently to an abandoned grain threshing floor. Allow ninety minutes, take water, and start early—by noon the sun is brutal even in May, and shade is theoretical.

If you prefer company, ask at the bar (it doubles as the village shop) for Julián, the retired shepherd who supplements his pension guiding hikers. Twenty euros gets you a half-day circuit with commentary on edible herbs, vulture flight patterns and why every stone wall has a “toad hole” at ground level. He’ll also explain the difference between the summer village and the winter one: from November to March only seven neighbours remain, and the snowplough arrives—if at all—two days after a storm.

Food that assumes you’ve walked

There is no restaurant in Villares itself. The bar serves coffee, tinned tuna and ice cream, full stop. Instead, drive ten minutes down the corkscrew CM-1001 to Larrea de Jadraque where Mesón Albarcas fires a wood oven at weekends. Order cordero lechal—milk-fed lamb roasted in clay dishes so shallow the meat half-sits in its own juices. Portions are built for field labourers; two Brits can split a half-ración and still waddle. Vegetarians get a thick vegetable grill (insist on “sin jamón”) and a slab of local sheep’s cheese that is younger and creamier than the better-known Manchego. House red comes from the Uclés cooperative: soft, almost Beaujolais in style, and mercifully low in alcohol when you still have a mountain road to climb back.

Stock up before you reach the village. The last supermarket with reliable opening hours is in Sigüenza, 32 km west. Buy breakfast essentials, a litre of milk that hasn’t travelled from Zaragoza, and petrol—after Sigüenza the pumps are closed on Sundays.

Night skies and silence

By nine o’clock the village is dark enough to read star charts. Light pollution is rated “Bortle 2” on the astronomers’ scale—comparable to mid-Atlantic. August Perseids and December Geminids are the headline acts, but any clear night will do. Stand on the dirt track beyond the church, let your eyes adjust for twenty minutes, and the Milky Way becomes a three-dimensional spill of sugar. Shooting stars appear every few minutes; satellites even faster. If you’re photographing, a tripod and a 20 mm lens at f/2.8 will capture the church silhouette with Orion climbing behind it—no need for a tracker mount at this altitude.

Bring a jacket. Even in July the thermometer can dip to 10 °C once the wind swings north, and the rural house owners switch off heating at midnight to save propane.

The downsides, honestly told

Accessibility is the obvious one. There is no bus, no taxi rank, no mobile coverage for the final 12 km. If the hire car coughs, you’re waiting for a tow from Guadalajara (€120 and a three-hour queue on Saturdays). Winter visits require snow chains above 900 m; the GU-147 is officially “no prestable” after heavy falls, which means the council isn’t obliged to clear it before the farmers complain.

Accommodation is limited to a single three-bedroom cottage, Casa Rural El Alto, booked solid at Easter and throughout October mushroom season. Rates hover around €120 a night, cheaper than the Parador at Sigüenza but still steep for a house where you’ll stoke your own log burner. Alternative beds are 25–32 km away—fine unless you’ve planned a star-watching session that ends at two in the morning.

Finally, manage expectations. Villares will not entertain you. It offers space, stone and weather. If that sounds bleak, stay in medieval Sigüenza and do a day-trip. If it sounds like breathing room, bring walking boots and arrive before the village decides winter has started and locks the bar until spring.