Castrillo-Tejeriego

The wind arrives before you do. It sweeps across the Páramos del Esgueva, flattening the wheat stubble and rattling the few hawthorns that manage to keep a foothold in the chalky soil. Castrillo Tejeriego appears suddenly—a tight cluster of ochre walls and terracotta roofs that looks less like a village than a defensive square drawn against the immensity of the plateau. At 840 metres above sea level, the air is thin enough to make a Londoner puff on the short slope from the single road to the stone cross that passes for a centre.

A Plateau That Refuses to Pose

This is not the Spain of postcards. There are no citrus groves, no whitewashed alleys dripping with bougainvillea. Instead, the horizon behaves like a stubborn dinner guest: it refuses to budge. Fields of barley and chickpeas roll away in every direction, their colours shifting from silver-green in April to the baked-biscuit blonde of July. The only vertical punctuation is the church tower, and even that struggles to reach 18 metres—barely the height of three London buses stacked end-on.

The village’s 150 permanent residents live in houses that grew rather than were built. Adobe walls three-feet thick keep December chill at bay; tiny windows, originally meant to stop stray sheep wandering in, now frame skies the size of counties. Walk the single main street at 14:30 and you’ll meet more tractors than people. The bar opens only at weekends, unless someone’s birthday demands earlier service. Mobile reception flickers between one bar and none, which the locals treat as a civic virtue.

What Passes for Sights

The 16th-century parish church of San Miguel won’t charge you admission, chiefly because the key holder is usually in the fields. If you do catch her—María, recognisable by the Wellington boots regardless of weather—she’ll unlock the door and show you a single-nave interior where the paint peels in satisfying curls. The retablo is a provincial take on Renaissance, gilded not with gold leaf but with the yellow ochre ground from nearby Villalar. Photography is fine; flash is pointless, there being no electricity inside.

Beyond the church, the village is the sight. Cobbled lanes taper to footpaths that dissolve into the farmland within three minutes. Keep an eye out for stone doorways carved with the original owner’s initials and the date—1756, 1823, 1899—each one a quiet boast that the family had survived another century of drought, war, or pestilence. One house still has a medieval dovecote tacked above the stable; the pigeons have been replaced by stocky storks whose clacking provides the dawn chorus.

Walking Where the Maps Grow Vague

Serious hiking boots are overkill; stout trainers suffice for the farm tracks that radiate out like spokes. Head south-east and you’ll reach the valley of the River Esgueva in 40 minutes, though the word “valley” flatters what is essentially a shallow crease. The river itself is a modest trickle by late summer, more algae than water, but the steep banks hide bee-eaters and the occasional otter print in the mud.

For a longer circuit, follow the GR-14 long-distance path which clips the village northern edge. The way-marking is sporadic—cairns of white stone appear every kilometre or so—so download the track before you leave Valladolid. A six-kilometre loop brings you to the abandoned hamlet of Villasur. Roofless houses merge back into the soil; a stone bread oven, blackened but intact, sits like a sculpture in the middle of what was once the square. Return at sunset and the wheat stubble glows orange, the same colour as the fox that will almost certainly cross your path.

Eating When There’s No Restaurant

Castrillo Tejeriego itself offers no formal meals, though the bakery van calls on Tuesday and Friday mornings, horn blaring like a Civil Defence warning. For supplies, drive eight kilometres to Mota del Marqués where the Co-operative supermarket sells local lentils at €2.40 a kilo and vacuum-packed lechazo (milk-fed lamb) ready for the oven. The neighbouring Bar la Plaza does a three-course menú del día for €12; the wine comes from a plastic barrel and tastes better than it should.

If you’re self-catering, buy queso de oveja from the fridge in the garage at Villanueva de los Caballeros. The cheese is wrapped in waxed paper, costs €8 a wedge, and has the sheepy tang that makes British visitors wonder why we ever bothered with cheddar. Pair it with the rock-hard pears sold from a honesty box at the gate of Finca Torremilanos; they soften after three days on a sunny windowsill and taste like honeyed wine.

Weather That Wants to Be Taken Seriously

Spring arrives late and leaves early. Frost is possible until mid-May; by June the thermometer can touch 35 °C at noon. The compensation is the light—clear, shadow-less, and so intense that colours seem over-saturated. Autumn is the kindest season: mornings sharp enough to make coffee taste heroic, afternoons warm enough to eat outside. Winter is not picturesque. The wind cuts straight from the Meseta’s frozen heart; snow is rare but when it comes the village is snowed in for days. Unless you relish the idea of sharing a bar with the same six farmers for 72 hours, visit between late March and early June, or September to early November.

Beds for the Curious

There are no hotels. Instead, three village houses have been restored as casas rurales, booked through the Valladolid provincial website. Casa de la Tía Pascula sleeps four, has Wi-Fi that works when the wind blows from the south, and costs €90 a night with a two-night minimum. Heating is by pellet stove; instructions are in Spanish but the owner, José Luis, will demonstrate via WhatsApp video if necessary. Bring slippers—stone floors are beautiful until 07:00 in February.

If you prefer company, Posada Fuente de la Higuera in nearby San Miguel del Arroyo offers seven rooms around a courtyard where swallows nest. Dinners feature roast peppers from the garden and lamb that grazed within sight of the window. Doubles from €85 including breakfast; request the east-facing room if you want sunrise over the barley.

The Part They Don’t Put in Brochures

Silence here is not poetic; it’s industrial-strength. On a still night you can hear the blood in your ears. The Milky Way looks like someone spilt sugar on slate. Mobile blackouts last long enough to make you calculate how fast you could drive to A&E if it came to it (25 minutes to Arroyo de la Encomienda, 40 to Valladolid University Hospital). The village petrol pump closed in 2008; the nearest fuel is 14 kilometres away, so arrive with a full tank. Sunday lunch options shrink to zero within a 30-kilometre radius unless you booked ahead.

And yet. Stand at the edge of the fields at dusk when the harvest dust hangs in a bronze haze and the sky turns the exact colour of a bruised peach, and the plateau’s refusal to charm feels oddly honourable. Castrillo Tejeriego offers no souvenirs, no guided tours, no Instagram frames. What it does offer is the chance to calibrate your sense of scale: 150 souls, one church, infinite sky. Measure yourself against that and the journey home—when the wind finally drops—feels temporarily optional.