Montejo de Arévalo

The church bell strikes nine and the only reply is a dog yawn from a shaded doorway. Montejo de Arévalo is awake, but barely. Half-timbered houses the colour of dry earth line a single main street wide enough for a tractor and little else. Outside the panadería, two men discuss yesterday’s rainfall in centimetres, not metaphor. This is Segovia’s cereal belt: measurements matter.

At 1,100 m above sea level, the air is thinner than the tourist-fatigued streets of nearby Segovia city. Nights stay cool even in July, when the surrounding wheat has turned the shade of a £1 coin and the sky performs that relentless Castilian blue that makes sunglasses essential. Winter is the opposite story: the same altitude funnels freezing winds across the meseta, and daytime temperatures can hover just above zero from December to February. Bring a proper coat; the province holds Spanish records for cold snaps.

Adobe, Brick and the Smell of Straw

Most visitors race down the A-50, see the castle at Arévalo, and push on to Ávila or Salamanca. Turning off at junction 117 adds ten minutes and a different century. Montejo’s houses are built from what lay around: adobe blocks mixed with straw, sun-dried and set on stone plinths to keep groundwater out. The technique travelled north with Muslim craftsmen after the Reconquista; locals simply swapped limestone for brick when the railway reached Arévalo in 1860. You will spot both: russet mud walls butt against bright brick gables, all of it mellowing to the same dusty pink.

There is no visitors’ centre, no gift shop. Interpretation happens by looking up. Wooden balconies, called corredores, project over the street, thick enough to support grain sacks once hoisted in from carts below. Iron grillwork throws lacy shadows on whitewash. Some houses sag; roofs dip like tired horses. The overall effect is neither ruined nor restored—just ongoing. A resident may nod hello, then carry on hosing the dust off geraniums. Politeness costs nothing; photographs cost a smile.

The mudéjar tower of the parish church gives the only vertical punctuation. Storks clatter atop it from March to August, rebuilding the same nests telecom engineers keep dismantling. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Brick ribs spring from squat columns; the paintwork is 1970s ochre, the silence much older. Sunday Mass still draws thirty parishioners; timings are posted on a sheet of paper Sellotaped to the door.

Walking the Golden Grid

Montejo sits on a slight rise. Every side road ends at wheat, which means circular walks are simple: pick a track, keep the village in sight, and you cannot get lost. The GR-88 long-distance footpath brushes the northern limit, but most people follow the farm lanes south towards the abandoned caserío of Los Arequivos. Distance: 5 km out-and-back. Difficulty: nil—this is pancake-flat country. In mid-June the wheat whispers like rain; by late July it has been shaved to stubble and the earth smells of biscuits. There is no shade, no fountain, no bar. Carry water and a hat.

Cyclists on gravel bikes use the same grid. Tracks are graded, solid and empty; you can ride for an hour and meet only a hare. The tourist office in Arévalo (open weekday mornings) sells a €2 map showing loops of 15–40 km. Mobile coverage is patchy—download offline maps before leaving.

Lunch, If You Didn’t Pack It

Montejo itself has no restaurant. The single grocer closes at 14:00 and does not reopen. Plan accordingly. Ten kilometres east, Arévalo compensates with four asadores specialising in roast suckling lamb. Expect to pay €22–€28 for a ración big enough for two, plus wine. House reds from the Province of Valladolid are robust; asking for “something from Rueda” gets you a crisper white made from Verdejo grapes. Vegetarians face the usual Castilian challenge—most menus list huevos rotos (fried eggs on chips) as the meat-free option.

If you prefer to self-cater, buy a wheel of local queso castellano, a loaf of pan de pueblo, and tomatoes still warm from the fields. The village picnic area is a stone table under a pine planted in 1978; knives and salt are not provided.

When the Village Throws a Party

Fiestas honour the Assumption around 15 August. Former emigrants return from Madrid and Barcelona; the population triples for forty-eight hours. Events follow a script older than the euro: Saturday evening brass band, midnight disco in the frontón, Sunday morning procession, communal paella at 14:00, more disco, Monday fireworks, silence. Visitors are welcome but beds within the village do not exist—every spare room is already cousin-occupied. Book early in Arévalo or Medina del Campo, or time your visit for a different weekend if crowds of tipsy second cousins are not your thing.

Getting Here Without a Car

Public transport is thin but workable. Renfe’s regional train links Madrid Chamartín to Arévalo in 1 h 20 min (€12.90 single, off-peak). From Arévalo’s station, a taxi to Montejo costs €18–€20; book the previous day at the rank beside the ayuntamiento (tel: +34 920 28 00 05). There is no bus. Hitching is common among locals and usually safe, though British sensibilities may balk. Drivers expect conversation—dusty Spanish spiced with pues and venga is perfect.

Drivers should leave the A-50 at junction 117, follow the N-502 for 3 km, then turn left at the wind turbine sign. Parking is wherever the verge is wide enough; Saturday afternoons can fill up during fiesta week.

Where to Sleep (Spoiler: Not Here)

Montejo has zero hotels. Rural houses appear on Airbnb from €65 a night, but most are actually in neighbouring villages. The nearest proper accommodation is the three-star Hotel Castilla in Arévalo (doubles €70, decent Wi-Fi, no lift). Medina del Campo, 25 min west, offers everything from a Parador to €30 hostals opposite the station. Camping is tolerated beside the ermita outside fiestas; ask at the ayuntamiento first and leave no trace. Nights are cold even in May—pack a three-season sleeping bag.

Worth the Detour?

That depends on what you need. Montejo will not give you souvenir magnets, cathedral naves or Instagram infinity pools. It offers instead a slice of working Castile where combine harvesters rumble past 14th-century brickwork and elders still sweep their doorsteps at dawn. Come for the architecture lesson in mud and straw, for the cereal sea that glows at sunset, or simply to add silence to your itinerary. Leave before lunch if you want table service; stay till dusk if you can handle a village that folds up by ten. Bring water, manners, and realistic expectations—the rest is already here, quietly waiting under the storks.