Almendra

The water arrived in the 1970s and never left. One morning, Almendra's farmers watched their valley fill with five billion cubic metres of water, swallowing orchards, wheat fields and the old road to Portugal. Today, the village perches above Spain's second-largest reservoir like a spectator at its own flooded past, granite houses staring out across fifty kilometres of artificial coastline that shouldn't exist.

This isn't a story of lost paradise. The dam brought electricity to half of Castilla y León and transformed Almendra from a struggling agricultural hamlet into something stranger: a reservoir town without boats, a fishing destination without shops, a place where weekenders from Madrid arrive with kayaks strapped to rental cars and discover there's nowhere to buy bait.

The Village That Refused to Drown

Walk downhill from the church plaza at 11am and you'll understand the new geography. The original village centre sits 150 metres above the waterline, close enough that storm winds carry the smell of algae and carp through medieval streets. Farmers who once walked to their fields now drive twenty minutes to reach new plots on higher ground, passing the drowned foundations of their grandparents' farms visible through clear water when levels drop in August.

The architecture tells this story backwards. Granite houses with wooden balconies face inland, backs turned to the reservoir like proper Castilian villagers pretending the water isn't there. New builds face the other direction, all glass and terraces, owned by families from Salamanca who come for weekend fishing and leave Monday mornings with boots caked in reservoir mud. Between them, the 16th-century church of San Pedro keeps watch over both populations, its bell tower still the highest point for miles.

Local bar El Cruce serves coffee at €1.20 and functions as the unofficial information centre. Ask about fishing permits here, not at the non-existent tourist office. The owner, whose family lost three hectares to the dam, will explain which reservoir access roads require a 4x4 after rain, and why the best swimming spots change monthly depending on electrical company water releases. He keeps a laminated map behind the bar marked with crosses where cars have slid into the reservoir over the years.

Fishing for Carp, Finding the Past

The serious anglers arrive before dawn, headlights picking out the narrow road that switchbacks down to the dam wall. They're after black bass and carp that grow fat on the reservoir's agricultural runoff, fish that shouldn't exist here any more than the water should. Spanish fishing licences cost €8.50 online but check the seasonal restrictions – the local police patrol in unmarked cars and fines start at €200.

Between the official access points, unofficial paths lead to better spots. Follow the track past the abandoned millstone visible only during drought years, then scramble down through thorn bushes to where concrete foundations emerge like stepping stones. This was the old Almendra-Portugal railway, submerged for fifty years, now revealed when water levels drop below 45 percent capacity. Sit on the rusted tracks with your rod and you're literally fishing above a village's former lifeline.

The reservoir demands respect. Sudden winds create two-metre waves that swamp kayaks, and the water's brown depths hide drowned forests where branches snag swimmers. Three people died last summer, their photos still taped inside the bar as warnings. Come prepared with proper equipment or don't come at all – there's no rescue service, just a mobile number scrawled on the dam wall that connects to the civil guard in Salamanca, forty minutes away by road.

Walking Through What Remains

Above the waterline, the real Almendra persists in the details. Follow Calle de la Cruz past houses where granite doorways still bear the carved initials of 19th-century masons, past the communal bread oven now used for village barbecues during August fiestas. The agricultural co-op sells local honey for €6 a jar and chorizo made from pigs that grazed on the same dehesa oak forests their ancestors did, just higher up the slopes now.

Walking tracks head south from the village along ridge lines that escaped flooding. The GR-14 long-distance path passes through on its way to Portugal, marked by yellow and white stripes painted on fence posts. Follow it for forty minutes to reach the Ermita de San Blas, a 12th-century hermitage that became a peninsula when the waters rose, accessible only by footpath since the old road disappeared. Inside, medieval frescoes survive the damp thanks to villagers who sealed the door each winter with sheep fat and prayer.

Autumn brings migratory birds following the reservoir's new flyway. Griffon vultures ride thermals above the dam wall while herons stalk the shallows where wheat fields once grew. Bring binoculars and patience – the best observation point is from the cemetery, where graves of drowned farmers face their former land and the stone angels have watched the water advance and retreat for five decades.

Eating What the Water Couldn't Take

Restaurant options remain limited to two establishments, both serving variations on the same local ingredients. Mesón Almendra does proper portions of cocido stew for €12, thick with chickpeas and the village's own chorizo. Their specialty is carp from the reservoir, served fried with garlic despite locals pretending they don't eat the fish they're trying to catch. The menu changes with dam levels – when water's high and access difficult, more pork appears; during drought summers when boats can launch anywhere, fish dominates.

The Saturday market fills the plaza with four stalls: local cheese at €8 per kilo, honey from dehesa bees, seasonal mushrooms foraged from the remaining oak forests, and occasionally wild boar shot by farmers protecting new crops. Buy supplies here rather than expecting restaurants – most visitors self-cater in rented apartments, eating grilled fish on balconies while watching reservoir sunsets that turn the water copper against all logic.

Getting Here, Getting By

The drive from Salamanca takes just over an hour via the N-122, a route that passes through three other reservoir towns with similar stories but less dramatic geography. Car hire runs €35 daily from Salamanca train station; public transport involves a bus that runs twice weekly, dropping passengers at the crossroads with no onward connections. The village has no petrol station – fill up in Vitigudino, fifteen kilometres back towards civilisation.

Accommodation means self-catering apartments rented by families whose children left for Madrid offices. Expect €60 nightly for two people, weekly discounts available outside August fiesta week when prices double and availability disappears. Book directly through the bar – they'll phone owners who collect keys from kitchen drawers and explain which reservoir access roads currently require wellington boots.

Almendra won't suit everyone. The reservoir dominates everything yet provides no beach facilities, no watersports centres, no promenades. The village offers calm rather than convenience, stories rather than services. Come understanding that you're visiting a place still negotiating its relationship with an artificial sea that arrived uninvited and never left. The farmers adapted, the fish arrived, the tourists followed. Whether this constitutes progress depends entirely on which side of the water you choose to stand.