Campillo de Azaba

The stone cottages appear suddenly after thirty-five kilometres of cork oak pasture, their lime-washed walls reflecting the high-altitude light that makes everything look over-exposed. At 650 metres above sea level, Campillo de Azaba sits high enough for the air to carry a faint Atlantic chill even in May, when the surrounding dehesa glows emerald and the River Azaba below runs full enough to drown out the single village tractor.

This is not countryside that announces itself. The road from Ciudad Rodrigo narrows to a lane so abruptly that drivers instinctively brake, assuming they’ve taken a wrong turn. They haven’t. The village simply begins where the tarmac stops pretending to be important. One hundred and forty-six inhabitants, a church, a bar that opens when the owner returns from her fields, and houses built so close together that neighbours can pass a borrowed ladder without leaving their doorways.

Stone, Adobe, and the Art of Staying Put

Campillo’s houses are the colour of local wheat straw mixed with river sand, their roofs weighted down by stones older than any living memory of rainfall patterns. Adobe walls two feet thick mean bedrooms stay at eighteen degrees whether August pushes thirty-five or January drops to minus five. British visitors who arrive expecting rustic discomfort find themselves taking notes on passive solar design instead; the south-facing windows are small enough to keep summer heat out yet angled to catch the low winter sun.

The church clock strikes quarters whether anyone is listening or not. Mid-morning, the only other sound comes from swifts nesting under the eaves of the former schoolhouse, closed since 1998 when pupil numbers dropped to two. Walk twenty paces beyond the last cottage and the village simply stops. Pasture takes over, dotted with holm oaks that have been producing acorns for Iberian pigs since before Wellington’s troops marched through these hills en route to Portugal. Footpaths exist because villagers still walk them: to check a water trough, to reach a plot of lettuces, to visit a cousin who refuses to move to Salamanca city. No way-marking panels, no charity-shaped kissing gates. Just follow the track that looks most used and trust that the dogs barking behind every third gate are tethered.

Walking Without a Hashtag

The serious hiking lies west towards the Portuguese border, where the sierra rises another four hundred metres and eagles use thermals to gain altitude without flapping. Closer to home, a ninety-minute circuit follows the Azaba downstream to a ford where Roman legions once crossed, then climbs gently back through cork oak plantation. The going is easy; boots are optional after May when the clay dries to a pale biscuit that brushes off trainers. In winter the same path turns greasy enough that locals wear wellingtons and carry a stick for testing depth. Either way, carry water: the only bar shuts at two and may not reopen if the owner’s granddaughter is visiting from Zamora.

Birdwatchers do better here than in the famous Monfragüe parks. Golden eagles hunt the ridge at dawn; black vultures arrive later to clean up. Neither species has learned to fear people, so a pair of £40 binoculars is enough. Sit on the stone wall opposite the cemetery gate, back to the wind, and wait. Something large and feathered usually appears within twenty minutes, riding the updraft created by the escarpment immediately south of the village.

What Passes for Lunch

There is no restaurant. There is no shop. The bakery van arrives Tuesday and Friday at eleven, honking twice so pensioners know to emerge. Buy a loaf and whatever pastries haven’t sold by the time the driver reaches the far end of the single street. Cheese appears the same way: a cousin of the mayor drives over from a farm outside Gallegos de Azaba with wheels of raw-milk sheep cheese sealed in olive oil. €12 a kilo, cash only, wrapped in wax paper that once held medical supplies. The flavour is sharp enough to make a Cheddar-lover blink, perfect with the local red that costs €3 a bottle if you bring your own container to fill from the cooperative in El Bodón.

Those needing a menu head to Ciudad Rodrigo, twenty-five minutes east. The mesón there serves patatas revolconas—mashed potato whipped with paprika and pork fat—followed by grilled ibérico pluma, the cut from between shoulder and loin that British butchers usually mince. Order coffee and the waiter brings a bottle of orujo with it, no extra charge. Drive back carefully; the Guardia Civil like to sit just after the speed limit drops at the Campillo turn-off.

When the Village Doubles in Size

Fiestas happen in mid-August, timed to coincide with the return of anyone who ever left. The population swells to perhaps four hundred. A sound system appears in the square, powered by a generator that competes with the cicadas until three in the morning. Visitors are welcome but not catered for: bring your own tent, your own beer, and—crucially—your own toilet paper. The single public lavatory copes badly with demand once the dancing starts. By Sunday night the last cousins have driven back to Madrid, the generator is returned to the agricultural co-op, and the village shrinks again to its usual quiet. The only evidence is a rectangle of worn grass where the paella pan stood.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

Salamanca’s airport receives precisely zero scheduled UK flights. The sensible route flies into Madrid, picks up a hire car, and drives two hours northwest on the A-62 towards Portugal. Leave the motorway at Ciudad Rodrigo; the CM412 south-west is a good fast road until the final twelve kilometres, where it narrows to single-track with passing places. In winter this last section freezes before dawn; if the car thermometer drops below three degrees, consider waiting for sunlight before continuing.

Accommodation means either Casa Rural Los Barreros just outside Ciudad Rodrigo (three bedrooms, wood-burner, €90 a night) or persuading someone in Campillo to rent you a spare room. Enquire at the bar when it’s open; the owner keeps a mental list of villagers with clean sheets and second keys. Expect to pay €25 a night including breakfast, but don’t expect a receipt. Electricity comes from the village generator; phone charging is best done in the car.

Leave early on departure day. The morning mist that makes the dehesa look enchanted at seven o’clock can thicken into fog dense enough to hide the road edges by eight. Once back on the motorway the first service area appears after forty kilometres; the coffee is awful and the croissants are frozen, but the Wi-Fi works. Download your photos while you can. By the time you reach Madrid the silence of Campillo already feels like something you might have imagined.