Fuentes de Año

The tractor appears at dawn, headlights cutting through September haze as it rumbles past the church. By the time its engine fades into the cereal fields, Fuentes de Año has already delivered its daily drama. Ninety souls, give or take, share this pancake-flat slice of Castilla's northern plateau where the horizon stretches so wide it makes the sky feel surplus to requirements.

Welcome to La Moraña, a region that cartographers forgot to wrinkle. No mountains, no rivers, no Instagram viewpoints—just an ocean of barley stubble that ripples like water when the wind gets bored. The village sits 50 km north of Ávila, reached via the N-603 towards Valladolid then a left turn onto the AV-504, a road so straight it could have been drawn with a ruler. Last services are at Arévalo; after that, it's petrol-station roulette.

Adobe, Absence and the Art of Not Being There

Stone and adobe houses shoulder together around the Plaza de la Iglesia, their massive wooden doors designed to keep out both winter's knife-edge wind and summer's furnace blast. Peer through the ironwork and you'll spot corrals at the back—remnants of a time when families kept animals closer than relatives. Many properties stand empty, their roofs patched with corrugated iron that flaps like loose change in a pocket. This isn't abandonment; it's demographic maths. The school closed decades ago, the doctor visits twice weekly, and the youngest permanent resident qualifies for a pensioner's bus pass.

The Iglesia de San Andrés keeps watch over it all, its modest tower the only vertical punctuation for miles. Inside, rural Baroque wrestles with practicality: a gilded altar jammed against whitewashed walls, pews arranged to catch every draft. The door stays locked unless you time your visit with Sunday mass at 11:30, or track down the key-holder whose house faces the church. Donations for roof repairs sit in a jar labelled "Para que no nos caiga el cielo encima"—so the sky doesn't fall on our heads.

Walking Where Wheat Whispers

Fuentes de Año rewards those who abandon the village tarmac. Agricultural tracks radiate outward like spokes, each one offering a two-hour circuit through colour-blocked fields. Spring brings the show: acid-green wheat against chocolate-brown furrows, poppies splashing red where the plough missed. By July the palette shifts to gold and bronze; walk then and you'll share the path with combine harvesters whose drivers wave with the same hand that steers machines worth more than the entire village.

Bring binoculars, not for birds of prey—there aren't any—but for steppe specialists. Calandra larks perform their clumsy parachute displays above the barley while crested larks run along the track like wind-up toys. The real prize comes in winter: great bustards, half a metre tall and twice as shy, sometimes feed at the field edges at dawn. Approach downwind; they spook at the sound of gravel under boot.

Cycling works too, though mountain bikes feel over-dressed. A hybrid with chunky tyres handles the compacted earth fine. Just remember these tracks earn their keep—tractors have right of way, and they'll push you into the stubble without a second thought.

Calories and Other Complications

The village bar, Casa Curro, opens Thursday to Sunday, hours that shift with the owner's harvest schedule. Coffee costs €1.20, served in glasses thick enough to survive a drop-kick, accompanied by a packet of biscuits that expires sometime next decade. For anything more substantial, drive 12 km south to Arévalo where Asador El Rincón serves cochinillo (suckling pig) at €22 per quarter portion—enough for two normal appetites or one hungry tractor driver.

Accommodation? Forget it. The nearest hotel is in Arévalo, the Hostal El Parque, functional rather than fancy, doubles from €45 including breakfast that's heavy on churros and local gossip. Better value lies 20 km west at the Posada Real de Santa Ana in Sanchidrián, a converted 16th-century pilgrim hospital with rooms at €70 and a restaurant that understands rice pudding should taste of cinnamon, not microwaves.

August Heat, August Noise

Visit in August and you'll mistake the place for somewhere else. The fiesta patronal lures back emigrants from Madrid and Barcelona; the population quadruples overnight. Brass bands rehearse at volume, processions weave between parked cars, and the smell of sardine barbecues drifts across the square. It's the only time the village cash machine—installed in 2019—runs out of money. Book accommodation early; even the Arévalo hotels fill with relatives who claim they came for culture but really just want a free bed.

Winter offers the counterpoint. January days start with frost feathering the windows of abandoned houses; by 4 pm the sun gives up and mercury follows. Walk then and you'll hear your own heartbeat. The village becomes a film set waiting for actors who never arrive, all monochrome and echo. Wrap up: the wind crossing these plains has been practising on nothing for a hundred kilometres and it shows.

Practical Notes for the Curious

• Fuel: Fill up in Arévalo or Sanchidrián. The village pump closed in 2008 and locals buy diesel in jerrycans from the agricultural co-op.
• Weather: Spring and autumn deliver 20°C afternoons and cardigan-cool evenings. Summer hits 35°C by noon; start walks at 7 am or 7 pm. Winter hangs around zero—pack layers and gloves that actually fit.
• Phones: 4G arrives courtesy of a mast on the N-603 but dies 2 km outside the village. Download offline maps before you set out.
• Photography: Ask before pointing lenses at farmyards. That corrugated shed might be someone's grandfather's pride and joy.

Fuentes de Año won't change your life. It offers no epiphanies, sells no fridge magnets, and the souvenir shop closed when the owner died in 1997. What remains is a slice of Castilla stripped of marketing gloss: a place where silence accumulates like dust, where the land dictates tempo, and where the most dramatic event is still that tractor at dawn, heading out to work fields that have fed families since the Reconquista. Turn up, walk until your thoughts catch up with your footsteps, then leave before the quiet becomes too comfortable.