Almodóvar del Campo

The 11 a.m. bell from the tower of La Asunción doesn’t just mark the hour; it empties the Plaza de España. Shopkeepers pull down metal shutters, waiters flip chairs onto tables, and the last stragglers hurry inside for the menú del día before the kitchen closes at two. Almodóvar del Campo, 656 m above the parched plain of La Mancha, still keeps the timetable its grandparents swore by. For visitors fresh from London’s 24-hour rhythm, the effect is half sedative, half time machine.

A Square That Looks Like a Film Set (But Isn’t)

British newcomers often mutter “Almodóvar” and expect scarlet dresses or Penélope Cruz round the corner. The name is pure coincidence; Pedro’s family roots lie farther west. What you do get is a rectangle of arcaded ochre buildings, newly scrubbed so clean the stone glows butter-yellow at sunset. Elderly men in checked caps occupy the same bench every evening; their wives trade gossip in the chemist’s queue; teenagers circle on bikes bought online but assembled by Dad. It is ordinary life, photographed daily by tourists who can’t believe how tidy it all looks. The effect lasts until Friday morning, when the market barges in: tarpaulin alleys of cheap trainers, cured ham, and churros that smell like seaside doughnuts. Move your car before 7 a.m. or you’ll be boxed in by a stall selling melons.

Heat, Height, and the Art of Doing Very Little

Summer here is a serious business. Thermometers touch 40 °C by early July; the stone walls radiate warmth until midnight. Sensible sightseeing happens before coffee or after 6 p.m. Climb the castle hill at 10 a.m. and you’ll share the path only with a shepherd and two panting dogs. The fortress itself is a ruin, but the 360-degree view explains the town’s strategic mood: a green-and-brown patchwork of dehesa oak stretching toward the Sierra de Alcudia, the same hunting ground Cervantes rode through while the tax office chased him. In winter the altitude pays off: night frosts silver the roofs, but the air is so clear you can pick out the wind turbines on the next ridge thirty kilometres away. Snow is rare enough to cause excitement; schools close at the first flake.

Eating With the Week, Not the Clock

Spanish inland cooking is built on whatever the land yielded after a drought. Order the caldereta de cordero and you get a clay bowl of mild lamb stew—closer to Irish hotpot than anything spicy. Vegetarians survive on pisto topped with a fried egg; the local goat cheese, aged six months, tastes like a gentler Cheddar with a nutty finish. Portions are built for ploughmen; split a ración unless you’re hiking. Wine comes from Valdepeñas, twenty minutes south, and the house rosado arrives in an ice bucket even when the pavement is freezing. Monday is the danger day: every bar kitchen shutters at lunchtime. Stock up on Sunday evening or you’ll be making sandwiches from the Spar.

Walking It Off Without Getting Lost

The tourist office—one room opposite the town hall—hands out a single English leaflet with three circular routes. The shortest (6 km) drifts past hundred-year-old holm oaks and a stone chozo where shepherds once spent the night. Signposting is sporadic; download the free Wikiloc map before you leave the hotel Wi-Fi. Longer tracks push into the Sierra de Alcudia, but distances deceive under the empty sky. Carry a litre of water per person from April onwards; the only fountain is in the cemetery, and the tap is meant for flowers. Cyclists find smooth pistas but should avoid August: the bitumen softens and tacks to tyres.

When the Village Comes Home

Mid-May brings the fiesta of San Isidro, patron of farmers. Tractors are polished until the green paint flashes, and the statue of the saint is carried past fields that have belonged to the same families since the 19th century. August’s bigger fair is louder: foam parties in the sports pavilion, bull-running at dawn, and a pop cover band murdering Oasis until two. These are the nights when the town doubles in size; cousins fly back from Madrid or Barcelona, Airbnb prices double, and the cash machine (a single Santander on the main drag) runs dry by 22:00. If you crave silence, book for September instead.

Getting Here, Staying Put, Leaving Again

Almodóvar sits 35 km south of Ciudad Real. The AVE high-speed train from London-St Pancras to Paris, then Barcelona, then Madrid, finally Ciudad Real, takes roughly eight hours door-to-door with tight connections. Hire a car at the station; the last direct bus left in 2019. Driving time is thirty minutes on the N-420, a road so straight it feels like a runway. Accommodation is limited: two small hotels in restored manor houses and a handful of village rentals. Expect £55 a night for a double room with beams, Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind blows, and a breakfast of tostada plus orange juice strong enough to wake the dead. Check-out is 12:00 sharp; the receptionist will remind you at 11:45.

Evening returns to the square. Elderly women fan themselves; children chase pigeons until the streetlights hum on. By half past ten the only sound is the clack of the bakery’s metal shutter rolling down. There is no rooftop cocktail bar, no artisan gelato, no sunset yacht trip—just the smell of warm oregano drifting from a kitchen window and the certain knowledge that tomorrow the church bell will ring at seven, and the town will do it all again. Some travellers find that baffling; others change their train tickets and stay an extra night.