Antigüedad

The wheat fields shimmer like hammered gold while a single harvester crawls across the horizon, its diesel thrum carrying for miles through the thin air. At 830 metres above sea level on the Palencia plateau, Antigüedad operates on agricultural time: the village clock is accurate, but everyone checks the sky first.

This is El Cerrato country, a region of rolling steppe where the land swells and dips like a gentle ocean frozen mid-roll. The village sits midway up one such rise, low stone houses arranged around a church tower that has oriented locals since the twelfth century. Populations are modest here—340 registered souls, swelling to perhaps 500 when grandchildren return for August festivals—and distances generous: the nearest proper supermarket lies 25 minutes away in Palencia city, while a pint in the closest bar requires a five-kilometre drive to Villahán.

Stone, Adobe, and the Winter Wind

Buildings were never meant to impress outsiders. Thick adobe walls shoulder against the cierzo, the north-west wind that can knife through denim at twenty knots. Doorways are narrow, windows small and high, roofs weighted with terracotta tiles that have darkened to the colour of wet tobacco. Wander the three main streets and you will see the architectural family tree: medieval stone at the base, eighteenth-century brick repairs in the middle, twentieth-century concrete patches up top. Nothing is picturesque; everything is practical.

The Church of San Juan Bautista follows the same utilitarian code. Romanesque bones support a Gothic ribcage and Baroque skin grafts. Inside, the air smells of beeswax and centuries of incense; outside, swallows nest in the eaves and leave white commas on the sandstone. Mass is held Sundays at eleven, attendance variable, volume guaranteed. The bell still marks deaths, weddings, and when the priest is running late.

Wine Cellars beneath the Wheat

Walk five minutes past the last house and the ground suddenly sprouts stone chimneys no taller than your knee. These are the zarceras, breathing tubes for an underground city of wine cellars hand-carved into the soft limestone. During the nineteenth century almost every family maintained a cave here: constant twelve-degree temperature, perfect for bulk tinto made from local tempranillo. Most entrances are padlocked now; a few owners will fetch the key if asked politely, revealing bottle-lined tunnels that smell of damp earth and blackberries. Bring a torch—electricity never reached this subterranean suburb.

Walking the Skyline

The best map is the horizon. A lattice of farm tracks radiates from Antigüedad, linking grain silos, sheep folds, and neighbouring villages spaced six to eight kilometres apart. Underfoot the soil is chalky and pale, crumbling like stale bread; after rain it sticks to boots in heavy, grey slabs. There is no shade—only the occasional holm oak—so early starts are sensible. Summer temperatures touch 35 °C, but a dry breeze prevents the air from stewing. In winter the plateau ices over; northerlies can drop the mercury to –8 °C and drift snow across unsurfaced roads for days.

For a straightforward circuit, follow the gravel road south-west towards San Cristóbal de Boedo. The climb is gentle, 120 metres over three kilometres, and the reward is a 270-degree sweep: wheat to the left, barley to the right, and the first ridges of the Cantabrian Mountains bruising the northern sky. Buzzards quarter the fields; crested larks rise vertically, singing like faulty radio transmitters. The return leg passes an abandoned cortijo whose roof beams have been scavenged for firewood, leaving only finger-jointed stone walls and a pomegranate tree that fruits for no one.

Roast Lamb and Other Calorific Necessities

Local cooking was designed to replace calories lost tossing hay bales. The signature dish is lechazo, milk-fed lamb slow-roasted in a wood-fired clay oven until the skin lacquers into a brittle, smoky sheet. A quarter-kilo portion arrives with a simple salad of iceberg lettuce and tomatoes that taste of actual sunshine rather than chilled storage. Expect to pay €18–20 at the only restaurant that opens year-round, Casa Cayo in nearby Hornillos de Cerrato (ten-minute drive, booking advisable weekends). Vegetarians can fall back on sopa de ajo, a paprika-red garlic soup into which a poached egg is broken at the table, or setas gathered from the pine plantations south of Palencia when autumn rains permit.

When to Come, How to Leave

Public transport is theoretical. One bus leaves Palencia at 13:15 on Tuesdays and Fridays, returning at 06:30 the following morning. Otherwise you will need wheels. A hire car from Valladolid airport—an hour south on the A-62—costs around €35 per day for a compact with air-conditioning essential in July and August. Roads are empty but narrow; grain lorries take the centre line and pheasants have a death wish.

Accommodation within the village is limited to two self-catering cottages restored by families who emigrated to Bilbao in the 1960s. Both have wood-burning stoves, thick quilts, and Wi-Fi that falters when the wind swings north. Expect €70–90 per night for two people, minimum stay two nights in high season. There is no hotel, no swimming pool, no cash machine; the nearest petrol pump is 14 kilometres away in Baltanás.

Spring and autumn provide the kindest light. In late April green wheat ripples like plush carpet, and the air smells of chamomile crushed under tractor tyres. Mid-September turns the stubble fields bronze and brings migrant bee-eaters arrowing overhead on their way to sub-Saharan Africa. August belongs to the fiesta: three days of processions, brass bands, and outdoor dancing that finishes when the sun rises over the grain silos. Book early if you insist on coming then; everyone has cousins.

The Upshot

Antigüedad will never tick the boxes of a glossy travel supplement. There are no boutique hammams, no Michelin stars, no infinity pools overlooking ravines. What you get instead is a working fragment of Spain’s agricultural backbone—honest, weather-beaten, and indifferent to whether you post it on social media. Turn up with sturdy shoes, a sense of temporal elasticity, and a willingness to drink wine poured from an unlabelled jug. The harvester will still be crawling across the horizon when you leave, and the church bell will still ring at eleven on Sunday. Some things recalibrate the traveller better than souvenirs.