Topas

The church bell strikes seven, and every dog in Topas joins in. From the village edge, wheat fields stretch northwards like a rumpled yellow duvet, rippling in winds that have already shaped this plateau for two millennia. At 822 metres above sea level—higher than Ben Nevis's base-to-summit climb—you feel the altitude in your lungs before you see it in the view.

A Village That Measures Time in Harvests

Topas sits fifteen kilometres northwest of Salamanca, close enough for a university lecturer to commute yet far enough for mobile-phone reception to play hide-and-seek behind granite walls. The 512 inhabitants still set their calendars by barley stubble burning gold under July sun and by the first frost that turns clay roofs white around All Saints'. Winter arrives early up here; snow can carpet the meseta as soon as late October, and when it does the single access road from the A-66 is the last to be cleared. Come April, however, the same altitude gifts crystalline dawns where skylarks rise above a soundtrack of tractors.

Stone houses with timber gates the colour of weathered whisky barrels line three short streets. Many still have their original bodegas—cool, subterranean rooms reached by stone steps where families once trod grapes from tiny backyard plots. A few owners will unlock them if asked politely at the Bar Castillo (coffee €1.20, almond tart €2), though they will also warn you the steps are worn smooth and there is no handrail. Health-and-safety certificates have not yet reached interior Castile.

What Survives When Nobody Is Watching

The fifteenth-century Iglesia de San Miguel Arcángel squats at the top of the rise, its tower more defensive than decorative. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and centuries-old incense; the priest arrives only twice a week, so the heavy wooden door is kept locked between services. Ask for the key in the ayuntamiento across the square—open mornings except Tuesday—and they hand it over without paperwork, trusting you to lock up and drop it back through the letterbox. Such routines survive because, for most of the year, nobody is selling anything.

Wander eastwards and lanes dissolve into footpaths that ribbon between cereal plots. Public way-marking is sporadic; the local walking map, printed on a single A4 sheet and pinned in the bar, suggests a two-hour circuit to neighbouring Villares de la Reina. The path is dead-level, but at kilometre five you pass the Arroyo de las Culebras, a dry streambed that can turn into a thigh-deep torrent after spring storms. Waterproof boots are advisable until late May.

Eating What the Fields Provide

Topas has no restaurant. If you arrive outside fiesta weeks, food means Bar Castillo or your own supplies. The menu is short: migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic and pancetta—caldereta de cordero, and tortilla thick enough to stun a hungry hiker. House wine arrives in a glass that costs less than a London bus fare and tastes better than it should. For anything fancier, drive ten minutes to the industrial estate outside Salamanca where Atrio, a Michelin-starred temple of Extremaduran cuisine, will relieve you of €130 for the tasting menu. Between these extremes lies nothing, which is precisely the point.

Saturday morning brings a white van selling fish from the Cantabrian coast—hake, octopus, razor clams—parked beside the bakery from 09:00 until sold out. Queue early; by 10:30 only squid rings remain. The bakery itself produces hornazo, a meat-stuffed egg bread locals eat on picnics. Buy one the size of a rugby ball for €8 and you have lunch for two days.

When the Village Remembers How to Party

Fiestas begin on 29 September with the feast of San Miguel. Temporary bars constructed from plywood and enthusiasm serve botellones of ice-cold beer while a sound system that could service Glastonbury pumps out Spanish reggaeton until the Guardia Civil suggest 04:00 is quite late enough. The following morning a brass band marches through a haze of sleep deprivation and aniseed liqueur to celebrate the mass. If you prefer smaller crowds, the August summer fiesta offers foam parties in the polideportivo and a paella cooked in a pan two metres wide. Both events triple the village population; book accommodation early or be prepared to sleep in your hire car.

Altitude, Attitude and Practicalities

British Airways flies direct to Madrid from Heathrow; Salamanca is a two-hour drive northwest on the A-50 and A-66. Car rental is essential—public transport reaches Topas twice daily on schooldays only, and the bus has been known to skip runs when the driver is needed for harvest duties. Winter tyres are not compulsory, but the final kilometre climbs at ten per cent; carry chains December through February.

Staying overnight means one of three options. Casa Rural La Torre offers two bedrooms in a converted grain store (€70 per night, minimum two nights). Owner Lola speaks rapid Spanish and no English, so bring translation software or a phrasebook. Slightly smarter, Hotel Rural Casa de los Soportales in nearby Villamayor adds a pool and charges €95 including breakfast. Campers can pitch by the sports field for €5 a night; the ayuntamiento provides a cold-water tap and little else.

Phone signal improves dramatically if you walk fifty metres up the dirt track behind the cemetery. Sunset from there stretches orange across fifty kilometres of wheat, the distant towers of Salamanca cathedral catching the last light like pins on a map. You will probably be alone; Topas has not yet appeared on the digital radar of coach-tour operators. Enjoy the silence while it lasts—winter wheat is already germinating beneath the soil, and next summer’s harvest will bring combine harvesters, grain lorries and the low hum of commerce to this sky-high slice of Castile.