Encinas de Esgueva

The afternoon sun hits the cereal fields at 820 metres, turning the stalks gold against a sky that seems to stretch beyond reason. At this altitude, the air carries a clarity that makes every distant church tower sharp as a blade. Encinas de Esgueva sits here, 35 minutes north of Valladolid, where the Meseta's vast tableland begins its gentle roll towards the Cantabrian mountains. Two hundred souls call it home, plus a handful of weekenders who've swapped Madrid flats for crumbling adobe walls.

This is cereal country. Wheat and barley alternate with fallow plots in a pattern older than the A-62 motorway that now whisks travellers past the turning. The village's name gives away its past: encinas means holm oaks, though you'd need local knowledge to spot the few remaining specimens among the regimented crops. Those ancient trees once provided acorns for pigs and shade for shepherds; now they survive mainly in boundary hedges and the occasional grandfather's garden.

Stone, Earth and Adobe

The houses tell their own story. Lower walls are local limestone, pale and weathered. Above, adobe bricks swell and contract with the seasons, creating gentle undulations in the streetscape. Terracotta roof tiles sit at improbable angles, held in place by centuries of gravity rather than modern engineering. Many stand empty. Their owners left for Valladolid factories in the 1960s, locking doors with the intention of returning for fiestas that somehow never happened.

The church tower rises from this organic jumble, its stonework patched with mismatched repairs. Inside, the single nave feels cool even in August, when outside temperatures touch 35°C. The difference is more marked in January, when night frosts can drop to -8°C. That 40-degree swing between seasons defines life here. Farmers plant wheat in October, trusting winter cold to break down stubble and spring moisture to germinate seeds. They harvest in July, before the real drought begins.

Beneath some houses, cellar doors drop into man-made caves. These bodegas subterráneas maintain 14°C year-round, perfect for wine when every family made their own. Most are padlocked now, their owners' descendants preferring supermarket rioja to the sharp, light reds that once flowed here. A few still operate. Ask at the Bar Casa Paco and someone might produce a key, though conversation will be entirely in Spanish. The bar itself occupies a former grain store, its thick walls keeping punters cool at midday when the village falls silent for siesta.

Walking the Páramo

The real attraction starts where the tarmac ends. Farm tracks radiate across the plateau, following boundaries older than the Castilian reconquest. A circular walk of 7km takes you past the reservoir at El Carrascal, where locals swim during July's furnace heat. The water's 2km from the village centre, close enough for children to cycle there after school, far enough that you'll meet more cattle than people en route.

Bring Ordnance Survey levels of preparation. These aren't manicured footpaths. Waymarking is sporadic at best, mobile signal vanishes in every dip, and shade is theoretical rather than actual. What you get instead is space. Uninterrupted views stretch 30km to Valladolid's suburban edge on clear days. Red kites wheel overhead, searching for carrion among the stubble. On spring mornings, calandra larks deliver their mechanical song from invisible perches in the wheat. The only other sound is wind across barley beards.

Cyclists find the going easier. The gravel tracks are smooth enough for hybrid tyres, gradients barely register, and you can loop south to Peñafiel's famous wine caves in under two hours. That's assuming the wind cooperates. At this altitude, it often doesn't. Spring brings 40km/h gusts that sand-blast exposed skin. Autumn can be perfect: 20°C temperatures, golden light, fields newly ploughed into geometric perfection. Winter is brutal. When Siberian air descends, the landscape turns monochrome and walking becomes an endurance test. Snow isn't uncommon, though it rarely settles more than a day.

What Passes for Gastronomy

Food options are limited to Casa Paco and whatever you've brought. The lamb here isn't the pink supermarket stuff familiar to British shoppers. It's milk-fed, slaughtered at four weeks, roasted in wood-fired ovens until the skin crackles like pork. One portion feeds two comfortably, particularly when preceded by the local sheep cheese. Think manchego but sharper, aged six months in mountain caves, served with membrillo jelly that tastes of proper quinces rather than supermarket sweetness.

Wine comes from Cigales, 25 minutes east. The rosados suit this landscape: pale, dry, designed for drinking at cellar temperature rather than chilled to death. They cost €12-15 in the village bar, roughly half London prices. White drinkers should try the local verdejo, though be warned: at 13.5% ABV, it punches harder than most New Zealand sauvignon. Order by the glass unless you've arranged accommodation within staggering distance.

Vegetarians face slim pickings. This is Spain's carnivore heartland, where 'ensalada' means tuna and egg rather than anything green. The village shop stocks tinned asparagus and little else. Better to self-cater from Valladolid's Mercadona before arriving, or time your visit for Saturday morning when a bakery van sells decent bread from 10am.

Practicalities Without Pampering

Getting here requires wheels. The daily bus from Valladolid departs at 2pm, returns at 7am next day, and doesn't run Sundays. Hire a car at the airport instead. Madrid's terminals are 1 hour 45 minutes south via the AP-61 toll road. Valladolid's airport is closer but flights from the UK are seasonal and pricey. Once here, parking is wherever you can squeeze between crumbling walls. The streets weren't designed for modern vehicles; some are barely 2 metres wide.

Accommodation is scattershot. Three rural houses offer rooms, none with reception desks. You collect keys from the baker, the bar owner, or occasionally a neighbour who's been delegated because the actual proprietor lives in Palencia. Expect stone floors, tiny windows, and heating that works on Argentinean time. Book Saturday nights well ahead: Madrid families arrive for countryside lunches, turning the place briefly sociable before Sunday evening's exodus.

Cash is king. The nearest ATM is in Mojados, 12km back towards the motorway. Cards work in Casa Paco, though the machine sometimes claims the phone line is 'occupado'. Bring euros, particularly if you're self-catering. The village shop opens erratically, closes for lunch at 1.30pm sharp, and stocks precisely what the owner thinks locals might need: tinned tuna, washing powder, value-brand Rioja.

The Long View

Stay past sunset and Encinas reveals its trump card. At 820 metres, the night sky delivers stars normally reserved for Dartmoor or the Highlands. The Milky Way arches overhead with a clarity that makes light-polluted Britain feel like another planet. Owls call across the cereal sea. Somewhere in the distance, a farmer starts his tractor for tomorrow's 5am departure. The temperature drops 15 degrees within an hour; you'll need that jumper you dismissed at midday.

This isn't a destination for tick-box tourism. The castle remains locked, museums don't exist, facilities barely qualify as such. What Encinas offers instead is calibration. A reminder that human settlement can still feel provisional against geography's long game. That wheat and barley, stone and sky, constitute a landscape worth travelling for even when nothing much happens. That sometimes, particularly in early May when green shoots carpet the plateau and the air smells of rain on dry earth, nothing much happening is precisely the point.

Book that Saturday night. Bring walking boots and Spanish phrases. Expect to leave understanding why Castilians measure distance in hours rather than kilometres, why the siesta persists despite northern disdain, and why some villages survive while others crumble into picturesque ruin. Encinas de Esgueva won't change your life. It might, however, adjust your sense of scale.