Villalba de los Alcores

The grain silo on the edge of Villalba de los Alcores works harder than the village's 383 residents. At 849 metres above sea level, it catches the wind that rolls uninterrupted across the Meseta, the high central plateau that most British visitors race past on the A-6 to Galicia. Those who divert north-west from Valladolid discover a place where the horizon is measured in wheat fields and the day's rhythm still follows the combine harvesters.

The Arithmetic of Altitude

Eight hundred and forty-nine metres changes everything. Summer mornings arrive cool and sharp, even when Seville swelters three hours south. The air thins enough to make the first climb from the car park feel noticeable, especially after the wine flight from London. Winter brings proper snow—rare in Castilla y León's provincial capital but routine enough here that the village keeps a plough on permanent standby. The difference between shade and sun is ten degrees; pack layers even in August.

The road up from Tudela de Duero gains 200 metres in twelve kilometres, switchbacking through chalk hills that locals call alcores. These limestone ridges act like natural ramparts, which explains why Villalba's medieval founders chose the summit. They were resettling territory lost to the Moors, and height meant visibility—though today the only invaders are weekend cyclists from Valladolid who come for the 6% gradients and the promise of empty roads.

Stone, Adobe and Subterranean Wine

No single monument demands attention. Instead, the village offers a lesson in rural materials: soft limestone quarried from the same ridge, adobe bricks sun-baked from plateau clay, timber beams cut from Holm oak. The parish church of San Andrés displays all three, patched and repatched since the fifteenth century. Finding it open requires detective work—ask at the bar opposite for María, who keeps the key in her apron pocket while serving coffee. She'll walk you over if she's not too busy, but don't expect commentary. The building speaks for itself: a barrel vault repaired after Civil War shelling, a Romanesque font where generations were baptised with water drawn from 90-metre wells.

Below street level, Villalba honeycombs itself with bodegas—family wine cellars hacked into the chalk. Most remain locked behind iron doors painted ox-blood red. The few that welcome visitors (ring ahead at number 22 Calle Real) descend three storeys via rough steps. Temperature holds at 12°C year-round, perfect for the local tempranillo that once travelled by mule to Bilbao, then by steamship to Harwich. Now it rarely leaves the province; ask to buy a five-litre garrafa and you'll pay €12, considerably less than the duty alone would cost to import it legally to the UK.

Walking Where the Sky Outweighs the Land

Maps here measure time, not distance. The signposted "Ruta de los Miradores" claims two hours for 6.5 kilometres, but that assumes you don't stop to watch a Montagu's harrier quartering the wheat. The path loops south-east along the ridge, dropping into a shallow valley where poppies splatter red against green in late April. By June the same fields bleach to gold; harvest starts when the grain rattles dry in the husk. Shade is theoretical—two Holm oks and a ruined stone hut—so carry more water than you think necessary. The reward comes at three natural balconies where the land falls away across the Duero basin. On clear winter days you can pick out thesnow-capped Cordillera Cantábrica 120 kilometres north-west, a sight that makes the stiff climb worthwhile.

Serious walkers can link Villalba to the Camino de Santiago's silver route via a 19-kilometre farm track. Head west to Mojados, then follow the ancient Roman road that once hauled mercury from the mines at Almadén. The path is way-marked with granite posts every kilometre, though GPS still helps when the ploughs erase winter tracks. There's no café between villages; pack chorizo and the local sheep's cheese, which tastes of thyme and rockrose.

When the Village Switches On

August transforms Villalba. The population triples as returnees arrive from Madrid, Barcelona, even Milton Keynes. The fiesta patronal runs from the 14th to the 18th, centred on the plaza de toros—actually a portable ring erected each year beside the cemetery. Events start sensible: morning mass, children's games, an afternoon procession behind the silver-adorned Virgin. By nightfall the plaza fills with plastic tables and the smell of sardines grilling over vine-prunings. The local peña—a drinking society formed in 1982—serves calimocho (red wine mixed with Coca-Cola) from dustbins. Tourists are welcome but not announced; buy a €3 wristband at the bar and you'll pass for an expat cousin.

Outside fiesta week, evening social life concentrates on Bar Avenida, open from 06:00 for farm workers' coffee to 23:00 when the last domino tile clacks down. They serve tortilla thick as a paperback, still runny in the centre, plus Lechazo—milk-fed lamb roasted in a wood-fired oven until the skin crackles like pork. A half-kilo portion feeds two hungry hikers and costs €24. Vegetarians get eggs, cheese, or eggs with cheese; the village has not embraced flexitarianism.

Getting There, Staying Over, Getting Out

No British airline flies direct to Valladolid. The practical route is Madrid: two hours fifteen on the A-6/AP-6, then exit at junction 109 for the CL-610. Car hire is essential; Villalba has neither taxi rank nor bus stop. Petrol stations close at 22:00 and all day Sunday—fill up in Medina de Rioseco twenty minutes north. Accommodation means self-catering: two village houses restored with UK plumbing standards, both sleep four and book via Spain-Holiday or direct with owner María José (she answers WhatsApp in English). Prices hover around €90 per night year-round because demand never spikes. Bring slippers; stone floors are cold even in July.

Leaving feels like switching centuries. Descend the alcores, join the motorway at Villalpando, and suddenly you're doing 120 kph past industrial estates and solar farms. The wheat fields shrink in the rear-view mirror, replaced by billboards for Zara and Burger King. Somewhere up on the ridge the wind keeps combing the grain, indifferent to whether anyone watches.