Villafuerte

The caretaker arrives with a key the size of a bread knife. He crosses the empty plaza, nods once, and the fifteenth-century castle swings open for the first visitor of the day—probably the only one. From the roof you can see three provinces: Valladolid, Segovia, a sliver of Burgos. Storks clack on the church tower opposite, and the wheat plains roll away like a yellow sea. That’s the whole show, and it takes barely half an hour to see it, yet something keeps you up there longer than planned. Perhaps it’s the silence, broken only by the wind snapping the flagrope against the flagpole.

Villafuerte perches at 828 m on the Páramos del Esgueva, a high, wind-scoured tableland northwest of Valladolid. The village—population somewhere between 75 and 90 depending on whose cousin has gone to work in Madrid—spreads along a single ridge. Stone houses, wooden balconies, the odd geranium. No souvenir shop, no interpretive centre, not even a cash machine. Monday afternoon feels like Sunday morning everywhere else: shutters down, bar closed, the lone supermarket a metal grille and a hand-written note that reads “vuelvo en seguida” though nobody can say when that might be.

A castle you can’t sleep in

The fortress was built to guard the road between Segovia and Medina del Campo. Inside, the walls are bare; explanatory panels stop at 1998 and are already sun-bleached. Spiral stairs finish in a roofless chamber where swallows dive through arrow slits. The caretaker will accept a euro coin for his trouble, but he pockets it shyly, as though tipping were an exotic custom. Try to visit before lunchtime—after 14:00 he is likely to be in the fields helping his brother-in-law bundle straw.

Below the keep, the village folds into two short streets and a plaza paved with local sandstone that turns salmon-pink at dusk. The parish church of San Andrés is usually locked; mass is advertised for 11:00 Sunday and “other times if the priest arrives from Cuéllar”. Peer through the wicket gate and you’ll spot a faded seventeenth-century fresco of Saint Christopher wading through a river that once covered the entire apse. Restoration money ran out in 2012; damp has nibbled the giant’s left leg since then.

Walking the cereal ocean

Head east on any farm track and within five minutes house walls give way to waist-high wheat or barley depending on the season. The land is table-flat, so navigation is simple: keep the castle turret over your left shoulder to return. Spring brings a brief, almost luminous green that lasts until early June; after the harvest the stubble looks like a crew-cut on reddish clay. Shade does not exist—bring water, a hat, and the realisation that Spanish farmers still schedule work around the noon bell, not Instagram sunrise slots.

Birdwatchers arrive in April and late August when steppe species ride thermals above the plateau. With binoculars you can pick out Montagu’s harriers, the occasional black-shouldered kite, and flocks of calandra larks that sound like malfunctioning alarm clocks. There are no hides, no marked trails, just the instruction to stay on the tyre tracks and keep dogs leashed—livestock fences are electrified and farmers tolerate no nonsense.

What passes for lunch

Food options are limited to the bar-cum-shop on Calle Real. Opening hours shift with the agricultural calendar, but if the shutter is up you can order a bocadillo of local chorizo (€3.50) and a caña of lager served in a glass kept in the freezer. The owner, Mari-Carmen, keeps a chalkboard list of cold tapas: sheep’s cheese that tastes like a tangier Wensleydale, morcilla sweetened with onion, and garlic soup thickened with egg. Ask for “sopa de ajo” and she’ll check whether you understand it is broth, not solids—British expectations of minestrone have caused confusion before.

For a sit-down meal you need wheels. Ten kilometres west in Cuéllar the mesón Casa Zacarías fires roast suckling lamb in wood-burning ovens built into the wall; a quarter portion with chips and a jug of local Ribera tempranillo costs €18. The restaurant is used to day-trippers from Segovia, so turning up dusty from the paramo in walking boots raises no eyebrows.

Beds for the night

Villafuerte’s single hostal, Mirador del Valle, has seven rooms above the village pharmacy. All face south over the grain belt; on clear nights you can watch heat lightning flicker along the horizon from a roof terrace equipped with two plastic chairs and a washing machine that doubles as a table. Doubles are €65 including breakfast—coffee, packaged juice, and a plate of toast rubbed with tomato and olive oil. The Wi-Fi password is written on the key fob but the router lives behind the bar, so signal dies before the second landing. Vodafone and EE customers should expect one bar of 4G only when the wind blows north-east.

If the hostal is full (rare, but August fiestas bring back emigrants with family in tow) the nearest alternative is in Cuéllar’s three-star Hospedería de San Miguel, a converted sixteenth-century inn with stone corridors wide enough for carts. Prices hover around €80 mid-week; weekends add ten euros and you must book, because Segovian weddings treat the place like their annex.

When to come, when to stay away

April–mid-June and September–October give daytime temperatures in the low twenties and cool, star-loaded nights. Wheat is green or turning gold—photographers call it the “Castilian Tinder period” for a reason. July and August bake; thermometers touch 36 °C by 14:00 and the paramo wind feels like a hair-dryer. The village fiestas (around 15 August) inject brass bands, fireworks and temporary beer tents, but also quadruple the population and treble the decibel level. If you want solitude, avoid that weekend.

Winter is bleak, beautiful, and inconvenient. Night frost is routine, snow arrives without warning, and the N601 from the A6 can close when lorries jack-knife in cross-winds. Still, the castle battlements dusted white against a cobalt sky make the detour worthwhile—provided you carry tyre chains and a thermos of coffee.

Getting here without tears

Public transport exists in theory. Line 150 leaves Valladolid bus station at 14:00 daily, reaches Villafuerte cross-roads at 15:10, and continues to Cuéllar. The return leg passes the junction at 07:15 next morning—miss it and you are hitch-hiking. Hiring a car at Madrid airport is simpler: north on the A6, fork onto the AP61 towards Segovia, peel off at junction 87 for the N601, and follow brown castle signs. Total driving time is two hours if you resist the temptation to photograph windmills near Arévalo.

Fill the tank before you leave the motorway; the village has no fuel, and the lone pump in Aldeanueva de Esgueva 12 km east accepts cash only. Likewise stock up on water and sunscreen—pharmacy shelves are sized for 80 locals, not coach parties.

The honest verdict

Villafuerte will never compete with Segovia’s aqueduct or Valladolid’s museums. It offers half a day of stonework, sky and cereal horizons, plus the minor thrill of being the only tourist in sight. Come if you like the idea of unlocking a castle with a medieval key, chatting with farmers who measure distance in cigar-smoke time, or walking until the only sound is barley brushing your boots. Keep driving if you need souvenir magnets, boutique hotels, or someone to explain the menu in Received Pronunciation. The castle door will still be there tomorrow, and probably still locked.