Santo Domingo de las Posadas

The church bell strikes noon, yet only a handful of swallows dart across the plaza. At 930 metres above sea level, Santo Domingo de las Posadas feels closer to the clouds than to any motorway. Seventy souls call this scatter of stone houses home, and most are nowhere to be seen at midday; they are out in the shimmering cereal fields that roll away in every direction, or sheltering behind thick walls until the sun loses its bite.

This is La Moraña, the high, wind-scoured tableland of southern Ávila. The village sits on a gentle rise, enough to give a commander’s view of wheat, barley and fallow land stitched together by dry-stone walls and poplar windbreaks. There is no dramatic gorge, no cliff-top hermitage, just horizon—an almost unsettling amount of it. British visitors used to hedged-in lanes may find the openness initially unnerving; after a day or two it becomes addictive.

A name that once meant shelter

“Posadas” refers to the medieval inns that lined the drove-roads of northern Castile. Travellers on foot or with mule trains could count on a bed of straw and a bowl of cocido after a 40-kilometre stage from Ávila. The guesthouses disappeared centuries ago, yet the impulse to offer respite survives. Knock on any door in summer and someone will appear with a plastic bottle of cold water and directions to the nearest shade. Just don’t expect a gift shop, a menu in English, or even a bar that keeps regular hours. Infrastructure here is measured in neighbours, not amenities.

What you will (and won’t) find

The parish church of Santo Domingo is locked unless mass is due—usually Sunday at eleven. Arrive ten minutes early and you can slip inside with the faithful to see a modest Romanesque nave later clipped with Baroque plaster and nineteenth-century blue-and-white tiles. The priest arrives from a neighbouring village, so times can shift without notice; check the sheet of paper taped to the door on Saturday evening.

Beyond the church, the settlement is three streets wide. Stone houses shoulder adobe outbuildings; many doors still carry the family name painted in oxide red. A few façades have been sand-blasted and fitted with Scandinavian wood-burners by weekenders from Madrid, creating a patchwork of pristine and crumbling that photographers seem to love. One crumbling example: the old school, shuttered since 1984, its playground swallowed by thistles and a single determined fig tree.

There is no petrol station, cash machine, or supermarket. The last grocery, a front-room affair selling tinned tuna and laundry powder, closed when the proprietor died at ninety-two. Bring everything you need, or plan a 22-km run to Arévalo for supplies. Mobile coverage is patchy; Vodafone works on the church steps, Orange in the cemetery. Data addicts should prepare for cold turkey.

Walking the chessboard

Silence is the village’s main attraction, and the best way to sample it is on foot. A grid of farm tracks forms a rough chessboard, each square either green with shoots or gold with stubble depending on the month. Distances feel elastic: the hamlet of El Castellano looks a short stroll away, yet the track dips and rises for 4 km before you reach its single farmhouse. Take water—there are no fountains—and a hat; shade from the scattered holm oaks covers roughly one sheep at a time.

Spring brings calandra larks tumbling over the fields; late May turns the plain into a swaying green ocean. By mid-July the wheat is knee-high and the air smells of warm bread. After harvest the landscape scrubs itself beige, revealing ruined watchtowers and boundary stones you would never notice otherwise. Winter is brutal: the thermometer can drop to –8 °C and the wind whistles through every crack. Roads become glassy; unless you have a 4×4 or chains, park at the bottom of the hill and walk up.

Night skies and noisy food

Light pollution is non-existent. Step outside on a clear night and the Milky Way feels close enough to snag your sleeve. Shooting stars are so frequent you stop pointing them out. August coincides with the Perseid shower; locals drag mattresses onto roofs and count satellites between meteors.

Daytime calories require planning. The village itself offers zero catering, but a ten-minute drive (or a brisk cycle across the plain) brings you to El Tiemblo, where Asador La Bellota serves roast suckling lamb at €22 a quarter. Closer, in El Tiemblo’s main square, Bar Morana dishes out judiones—buttery giant white beans stewed with chorizo—for €9 a portion. Vegetarians should head for Arévalo and La Casona de la Sin, happy to swap meat for pimentón-spiked potatoes on request.

Festivals that double the head-count

Fiestas patronales happen around 4 August, when emigrants return and the population swells to perhaps 200. A sound system appears in the plaza, children chase each other through grain-dust, and the evening ends with a communal paella cooked over vine prunings. The event is emphatically for locals; outsiders are welcome but no programme is translated. If you crave fireworks and souvenir stalls, try Ávila’s mediaeval fair instead.

Getting there (and away)

From Madrid, take the A-6 to Arévalo, then the CL-501 north for 18 km. The turn-off is signed—just—but GPS often underestimates the final 7 km of single-track road shared with tractors. Buses run twice weekly from Ávila except in August, when the service is suspended. Car hire from Madrid-Barajas starts at around £30 a day for a Fiat 500; make sure the tank is full, as the region’s only 24-hour fuel pump is on the AP-51 toll road.

Accommodation is scattered: a handful of casas rurales owned by Madrid families who appear only at Easter. Expect stone floors, wood-fired heating you must light yourself, and nightly rates around €70 for two. Casa Rural La Moraña (book via the Arévalo tourist office) has thick walls, no Wi-Fi, and a roof terrace that stares straight into sunrise.

Worth the effort?

Santo Domingo de las Posadas will never feature on a “Top Ten Spanish Villages” list, and that is precisely its appeal. Come if you want horizons that make your problems feel small, if you are content to swap entertainment for emptiness, and if you remember to bring your own biscuits. Arrive expecting souvenir tea towels and you will last an hour. Stay for three days and you may find yourself timing your walks to the wheat’s changing colour, arguing about cloud shapes with a farmer who last saw a tourist in 1997, and wondering why every other place suddenly feels crowded.