Las Berlanas

The church bells ring at noon across wheat fields that stretch flat as a billiard table to every horizon. In Las Berlanas, 946 metres above sea level and 35 kilometres west of Ávila, the sound carries for miles because nothing rises higher than the single-storey houses and the squat stone tower of the parish church. This is La Moraña, the breadbasket of Castilla y León, where the wind has time to gather speed before it meets anything more substantial than a haystack.

Three hundred and thirty-eight people live here permanently. They recognise every car that passes, know whose dog is barking, and can tell the day of the week by the direction of the tractors. Visitors arrive less for sights than for the sensation of space: a high, dry plateau where the sky feels oversized and the soil produces wheat, barley and the white beans that end up in winter stews throughout Madrid’s tapas bars.

Adobe, Stone and the Summer Oven

The village architecture is a patchwork of ochre adobe and grey granite, some walls dating back to the nineteenth century, others patched with cement in the 1980s. Narrow streets funnel the breeze, providing shade in July when temperatures brush 36 °C and the earth radiates heat like a storage heater. Winter reverses the deal: January nights drop to –5 °C, and the same streets become wind tunnels that drive the cold through zips and buttonholes.

There is no ticket office, no interpretive centre, no souvenir stall. The church opens when the sacristan arrives; if the wooden door is ajar, step inside to see a sixteenth-century font carved from a single block of granite and fresco fragments that survived the Civil War by being whitewashed over. Donation box on the right, no set price.

Outside, the main square holds a stone cross, a bench and a single bar that serves coffee from 07:30, draught beer until 22:00, and little else. Order a café con leche and you will be asked “¿Normal?” – meaning a glass, not a cup, and milk heated until it threatens to climb out of the jug. Price: €1.20. Sandwiches are made to order; expect processed cheese, jamon serrano and a drizzle of olive oil on baguette that has driven up from Ávila that morning. Nothing fancy, everything exactly what the harvest crews eat before climbing back into their combines.

Walking the Grid

Las Berlanas sits on a perfect agricultural grid. Farm tracks run north–south and east–west, dividing the plain into kilometre-square plots. You can set off in any direction; after twenty minutes the village shrinks to a smudge and the only sound is wheat rustling like dry paper. Bring water – there are no shops once you leave the houses behind, and the flat terrain tricks you into thinking distances are shorter than they are. A circular loop south to the abandoned ermita of San Pedro and back is 7 km; allow two hours in spring, longer when the path turns to sandy loam after harvest.

Birdlife is subtle rather than spectacular: crested larks flick between furrows, and on windless evenings you might hear stone curlews calling like asthmatic ghosts. Photographers come for the cielo – the enormous sky that turns peach, then copper, then bruised violet as the sun drops. The plateau is so level that sunset lasts longer than it has any right to; the sun lingers half-submerged, as if reluctant to leave a place with so few vertical features.

Beans, Wind and the Nearest Menu

Las Berlanas itself offers no restaurant. Lunch options are either the bar’s bocadillos or a ten-minute drive to Arévalo, where Asador Castilla serves roast suckling lamb (€22 a quarter) and the local white beans stewed with chorizo (€12). If you are staying overnight without transport, ask at the bar – the owner often rings her cousin who makes extra portions of cocido and will deliver a Tupperware to the square for €8. Cash only, no menu del día.

Vegetarians should adjust expectations: even the green beans come with jamón. Coeliacs fare better – the region’s staple is meat and pulses, not bread, and most kitchens understand the concept even if they lack official certification.

When to Arrive, When to Leave

April and May turn the surrounding fields emerald; poppies splinter the green with red, and temperatures sit in the low twenties. September brings the harvest: combines work under floodlights after dark, and the smell of straw drifts into the village. Both seasons are ideal for walking and cycling, though pack a windbreaker – the plateau can flip from balmy to brisk in the time it takes to finish a sandwich.

August is fierce. By midday the asphalt softens, dogs hide under cars, and sensible locals retreat indoors for the siesta that tourism brochures pretend no longer exists. If you must come in midsummer, walk at dawn and again after 18:00. Mid-winter is equally extreme: skies are cobalt, the air knife-clean, but night-time temperatures can kill car batteries. Chains are not required on the main road from Ávila, yet hire cars equipped only with summer tyres will struggle on frosted side streets.

A Bed for the Night (and Other Complications)

There is no hotel, hostel or official guesthouse inside Las Berlanas. The nearest accommodation is in Arévalo (12 km) or Ávila (35 km). Private rooms occasionally appear on Spanish booking sites under “casa rural” – expect modest furnishings, unpredictable Wi-Fi and the need to message the owner an hour before arrival because key collection is often at their cousin’s bakery. Prices hover around €60 a night for two people, breakfast not included. Campers should note that wild camping is tolerated on uncultivated land provided you pack out rubbish and pitch after dusk, but water sources are scarce and the Guardia Civil patrol at harvest time to prevent fires.

The Festival No One Advertises

The village’s main fiesta honouring the Virgen de la Asunción happens around 15 August. There is no programme in English, no online ticket sales, no brass band imported from Asturias. Instead, residents cook paella in a pan two metres wide, children chase each other through firecrackers, and at midnight the square turns into an open-air disco with a sound system run off a tractor generator. Outsiders are welcome if they observe two rules: buy drinks vouchers from the elderly couple at the plastic table (proceeds fund next year’s fireworks) and do not photograph the teenage dancers without permission. The party winds down at 04:00; if you are still upright, someone’s uncle will insist you try his aguardiente – firewater that tastes of anise and regret.

Leaving the Plain

Drive away at sunrise and Las Berlanas shrinks in the rear-view mirror until only the church tower distinguishes it from the grain silos. What remains is the sensation of having stood in the middle of an enormous, breathing map – a place where human time is measured in planting seasons and the horizon is far enough away to remind you how small most urgencies really are. Come for that, not for monuments, and bring your own entertainment. The village will not provide, but it will not obstruct either – which, in an age of curated experiences, feels almost radical.