Villasexmir

The church bell strikes noon, yet only six people wander the single street. At 753 metres above sea level, Villasexmir sits high enough for the air to carry a sharp edge, even in May. The limestone plateau of Montes Torozos stretches in every direction, a rollercoaster of wheat and barley that ripples towards distant farmsteads. Seventy-odd souls call this home—fewer than the sheep grazing beyond the last adobe wall.

A Village That Refuses to Pose

No ceramic souvenir shops, no tasting menus, no boutique hotel fashioned from a convent. What exists is a tight knot of earth-coloured houses, their walls built from the very ground they stand on. Adobe, tapial and rough stone soak up the afternoon light and return it as a muted glow. Some roofs have collapsed; others sport satellite dishes that tilt like drunk sentries. The effect is neither pretty nor dramatic—simply honest.

Start at the plaza, barely twenty paces across. The parish church rises with a tower you can count the bricks of: early Gothic bones, sixteenth-century shoulders, a patched-up twentieth-century hat. Try the heavy door; if it yields, step inside to smell candle wax and centuries of grain dust blown in on the wind. If locked, walk the perimeter instead and notice how masons recycled Roman blocks into the base course, their inscriptions worn to ghostly scratches.

From the plaza three streets radiate; the longest takes three minutes to exhaust. Along it, grander houses from the 1700s hide behind wooden gates iron-studded like castle doors. Knock softly and you might glimpse an internal patio where a fig tree grows against the wall, its roots hunting cracks in the limestone cellars below. Many of these bodegas are dug straight into the bedrock, cool enough to keep wine steady through summer highs that top 35 °C.

Towers for Birds, Not Lords

Circle the village on the dirt track used by the combine harvesters and you’ll spot dovecotes—palomares—rising from the fields like misplaced castle keeps. Cylindrical or square, built from brick the colour of dry blood, they once supplied fertiliser and Sunday meat. Some stand perfect, their upper holes plugged with straw to discourage kestrels; others sag, stones dribbling out like loose teeth. Farmers will wave if you photograph them; few will speak English, yet “¿de Inglaterra?” followed by a grin needs no translation.

The best approach is on foot. Park by the cemetery gate and follow the signed Cañada Real—an old drove road—north-east. Within ten minutes the village shrinks to a smudge, and skylarks replace engine noise. The path dips into a shallow valley where stone terraces once grew lentils; now only thyme and poppies disturb the stones. In April the ground is a pointillist canvas of yellow and mauve; by July everything turns to biscuit brown. Carry water—shade exists only where clouds feel generous.

Seasons That Make Their Own Rules

Spring arrives late at this altitude. Farmers sow wheat in March, when night frost still whitens the ridges. Come May, green shoots comb the wind, but mornings stay cold enough for a wool jumper. Summer is a different country: 30 °C by eleven o’clock, cicadas drilling the air, dust sticking to lip balm. Afternoons become siesta-shaped; even the dogs postpone barking until dusk. Autumn brings stubble fires whose smoke drifts low and smells of burnt toast; migrant storks ride thermals overhead, heading for the Strait of Gibraltar. Winter can lock the village in fog for days, the thermometer dipping to –8 °C. When snow arrives—rare but not unknown—the only road from the A-62 is closed until a plough feels like appearing.

Access, then, is seasonal. From Valladolid, 45 minutes south-west on the A-62, take exit 148 and thread fifteen kilometres through wheat ocean. The tarmac is narrow; wheat brushes both wing mirrors in a wet year. Buses exist on Tuesday and Friday, timetable scribbled on the bar wall in San Pedro de Latarce; otherwise it’s hire car or taxi, €50 each way. Fill the tank before leaving—the village has no petrol station, and the nearest supermarket is twenty minutes back down the hill.

Eating What the Wind Allows

Forget tasting menus. The only public catering is Bar La Plaza, open weekends and fiesta days. Order a beer and you’ll get a plate of chorizo carved by the owner’s wife; ask for sopa castellana and she’ll reappear with garlic broth, stale bread and a poached egg bobbing like a foreigner. A menu del día costs €9 and runs to roast lamb if someone slaughtered recently. Vegetarians get eggs, cheese and resignation. Bring cash—card machines view the village as outer space.

Self-cater instead. Valladolid’s morning market sells quesitos de Villalón, tiny sheep cheeses wrapped in chestnut leaves, and jars of judiones—fat white beans that swell into winter stews. Stock up, add a bottle of Cigales rosado, and picnic among the threshing floors on the hill. Evening light here deserves the overused word “photogenic”, but nobody will crowd your shot.

When Silence Isn’t Golden

Silence can tip into absence. Young people have left for Valladolid or Madrid; empty houses outnumber occupied ones. The primary school closed in 2009, its playground swallowed by weeds taller than the basketball hoop. Visitors seeking rustic charm may find the reality—elderly residents, shuttered windows—unsettling. There is no repointing fund, no artisan bakery run by returned expats. What keeps the place alive is stubbornness and the annual fiesta on 15 August, when emigrants return, a sound system appears, and the population quadruples overnight. Book accommodation months ahead if you insist on coming then; otherwise choose late April or mid-October for mild weather and zero crowds.

A Practical Footnote

Stay in Medina de Rioseco, fifteen minutes away, where Hotel Avenida offers doubles for €55 and heating that works. Hostal Villasexmir, despite the name, is in the next village—ring first, English spoken if Juan’s daughter answers. Bring walking boots with ankle support; limestone tracks roll ankles and thistles bite through canvas. Mobile signal flickers: Vodafone survives, EE gives up. Download offline maps before arrival, pack a light fleece even in July, and remember that closing times are approximate—if the bar shutter is half down, the day has simply ended early.

Leave before dusk for the drove road one last time. The sun drops behind the Torozos, wheat heads glow like matchsticks, and the village bell counts the hour to fields that outnumber listeners by a thousand to one. Nothing dramatic happens—no eagle swoops, no shepherd quotes García Lorca. Yet the place sticks, a small burr of earth-coloured memory, proof that Spain can still do ordinary without the brochure.