Encinasola de los Comendadores

The church bell strikes noon and nothing moves. Not the tractor at the edge of town, not the woman leaning from her first-floor window to shake a rug, not even the lizard that was halfway up the sun-warmed granite wall of the Bar Centro. Encinasola de los Comendadores, population 146, has pressed pause.

At 700 metres above sea level on the western edge of Salamanca province, the village sits high enough for the air to carry a chill even in late May, yet low enough for the surrounding cereal fields to ripple like inland surf when the wind crosses the Tierra de Ledesma. Oak trunks—some older than any house—throw pools of shade that smell of moss and last autumn’s leaves. This is Spain’s slow lane, kilometres from the nearest motorway, and the locals intend to keep it that way.

Stone, Storks and the Smell of Bread at Dawn

The place takes its name from the medieval military orders—Comendadores of Santiago and Alcántara—who once collected tithes here and used the ridge as a lookout across the Portuguese border, 25 km west. Their legacy survives less in documents (most were lost in the 1755 Lisbon earthquake that rattled these walls) than in the village’s rigid grid: a single main street, Calle Real, with parallel lanes just wide enough for a mule cart to turn.

Houses are built from what lay underneath them. Granite blocks, hewn roughly so the quartz glints, rise to red-clay roof tiles held down by stones the size of loaves. Many façades still carry the original stone benches—horcas—where the elderly once sat to watch the wheat threshing. Today they host morning coffee drinkers who bring their own folding chairs because the bar opens only when the owner, Manolo, finishes feeding his pigs. Expect to wait.

The parish church of San Juan Bautista anchors the upper square. It is no cathedral: a modest nave, a timber-roofed tower patched after lightning in 1934, and inside, a single Baroque retablo gilded with American gold that never reached Madrid. The side chapel smells of candle wax and paraffin heaters; winter Mass is celebrated at 11 a.m. so sunlight through the rose window warms the pews first. Sunday doubles as the social ledger: who has returned from Valladolid for the weekend, whose grandson now speaks with a Basque accent, which farmer has finally sold his yearlings.

Storks agree with the location. Half a dozen nests crown the tower, adding their wooden-clapper call to every dawn. Bring binoculars in February when pairs repair nests; by April the chicks sound like thirsty puppies. Fewer visitors come than to nearby Sierra de Francia, so you can stand in the middle of the road—there is no traffic—and watch birds slide along thermals above the bell tower without anyone blocking the view.

Walking Rings Around a Sleeping Volcano

Encinasola’s countryside is not dramatic. That is the point. Gentle folds of dehesa—open oak pasture—alternate with barley fields so intensely green in April they seem backlit. The horizon is low enough to read weather hours ahead: a purple bruise means Galician rain by teatime; a white rim along the western hills promises the vela wind that dries laundry in twenty minutes.

Three waymarked circuits start from the picnic area at the village gate. The shortest (4 km) loops through Las Majadas, abandoned stone sheepfolds now favoured by warblers. The 8 km Ruta de la Encina Gorda reaches a single holm oak whose trunk needs three adults to encircle it; local lore claims the Comendadores hanged deserters here, though no one can agree which side they deserted from. Autumn adds mushrooms—níscalos—but you need a regional permit (€10, sold online) and a local guide unless you fancy arguing with a Guardia Civil patrol.

Paths are farm tracks, not National Trust gravel. Expect cowpats, loose flints, and the occasional boar print pressed into dried mud like a child’s clay model. After heavy rain the clay sticks to boots until each step carries half a kilo of Castille. Locals wear rubber alpargatas; visitors usually wish they had.

Summer hiking is best finished by 11 a.m.; at midday the thermometer kisses 36 °C and shade retreats to the width of a telegraph pole. Winter brings the opposite problem: nights drop to –5 °C and paths ice over. If snow arrives—two or three days a year—the village becomes an island until the grader clears the CL-517, something that happens “when the neighbour’s ready,” according to the mayor’s office.

What to Eat When There is No Menu

Encinasola has no restaurant. It barely has a shop. The ultramarinos opens Tuesday and Friday 10–12, selling tinned tuna, UHT milk and, if you ask the previous afternoon, half a chorizo made from the owner’ own pigs. Instead, food appears by invitation. Accept.

Expect caldereta de cordero—lamb stewed with bay and pimentón—served in deep cereal bowls because that is what the farm provides. Chickpeas arrive with spinach and scraps of morcilla; the blood sausage is jet-black, cumin-heavy, nothing like the dry crumbly versions sold in British delis. Bread is baked once a week in the next village, 7 km away, so slices are toasted hard to last; soften them with a splash of the local gazpacho, a tomato-garlic soup nothing like its Andalusian cousin. Wine comes in unlabelled bottles from Arribes del Duero and tastes of bruised apples; refusal is taken as an accusion of poisoning.

Vegetarians survive on eggs—revuelto de setas in season—and the excellent local cheese, Queso de Arribes, a buttery raw-milk version halfway between Manchego and Caerphilly. Vegans should pack supplies or book a self-catering cottage and hope the herb garden has survived the goats.

The nearest reliable meal outside August is in Villarino de los Aires, 18 minutes by car. Mesón El Parral grills ternera de morucha, a native dark-coated beef that grazes the dehesa; a 400 g chuletón for two costs €38, salad and greasy chips included. Book before noon or they kill nothing.

Getting Here, Staying Put, Leaving Again

No train reaches Encinasola. From the UK fly to Madrid, then take the ALSA coach to Salamanca (2 h 30 min, €22). From Salamanca’s bus station, one weekday service continues to Encinasola at 15:45, arriving 17:10 after pausing in every hamlet large enough to own a bench. The return leaves at 07:05; miss it and the next option is Tuesday. Car hire is wiser: Salamanca airport (no direct UK flights) or Valladolid (seasonal Ryanair from London Stansted, 2 h 15 min drive).

Accommodation is limited. Three village houses have been restored as tourist rentals; expect stone floors, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that falters whenever the microwave starts. Prices hover around €70 a night for two, minimum stay two nights except in August when the fiestas stretch to four. The best is Casa del Tío Venancio, whose roof terrace faces west over the fields—sunset, glass of arribes white, total silence except for the storks turning overhead like slow biplanes.

Mobile coverage is patchy. Vodafone and Orange reach the square; Movistar works if you stand on the picnic table. Data is 3G on a good day, so download offline maps before leaving Salamanca. The village petrol pump closed in 2009; the nearest fuel is in Lumbrales, 12 km away, and shuts at 21:00. After that you are sleeping here, like it or not.

Come August the population quadruples. Returning emigrants pitch tents in courtyards, the football pitch becomes a bullring for corridas without killing, and the bar stays open until the last cousin leaves—often past 3 a.m. Prices double, dust swirls, and every grandmother complains the village has turned into “Benidorm, but without the sea.” Spring or late September offers the same calendar—processions, paella the size of a tractor wheel—without the decibels.

When the visit ends, the road south drops quickly from oak plateau to the Duero dam at Almendra. Suddenly there are lorries, streetlights, a dual carriageway. Spain remembers the clock, checks the time, and accelerates. Behind you, Encinasola’s bell tower shrinks in the mirror, storks circling like unanswered questions.