Martinamor

Fifteen kilometres west of Salamanca the A-50 motorway peters out into a single-lane road flanked by wheat stubble and lone holm oaks. Keep going until the GPS loses its nerve and a pale stone church tower appears on the horizon—that’s Martinamor, population 190 if every soul is home. At 800 m above sea level the village sits high enough for the air to feel thinner and the night sky twice its normal size, yet the surrounding plateau is so flat you can watch a car leave Salamanca and still see its headlights twenty minutes later when it rolls into town.

A Plaza without a Postcard

The centre is a single rectangle of granite cobbles officially called Plaza de la Constitución but known to everyone as “la plaza”. There is no fountain, no flowerbed, no wrought-iron gazebo—just the parish church of San Martín de Tours on the north side, a bench that holds three pensioners, and a bar whose door is kept shut even in summer to stop the draught. The church is 14th-century at its core, patched so often that the buttresses look like orthodontic work. Push the heavy door at 11 a.m. and you may find the sacristan polishing candlesticks while listening to Radio Nacional on a tinny transistor. He will nod, then return to his polishing; entry is free but tips for the upkeep box are appreciated.

Walk any street radiating from the square and you are back at the edge of town within four minutes. Houses are the colour of dry biscuit, their granite window frames carved in the 1890s by masons who also doubled as the local grave-diggers. A single stone coat of arms—wolf and grapes—projects from a façade on Calle Real, reminder that someone once had money to flaunt. The rest is modest: small holdings, a tractor shed smelling of diesel, a cooperative grain store that roars into life for two weeks at harvest then falls silent again.

What the Brochures Don’t Mention

Martinamor has no cash machine, no petrol station, and, on Sundays, no shop at all. The village store opens 9–2, shuts for siesta, then re-opens 5–8 thirty, stock consisting mainly of tinned tuna, UHT milk and a freezer of ibérico sausages that double as emergency gifts. If you arrive after eight on a Saturday evening you will eat whatever you brought with you or drive fifteen minutes to the motorway exit where Cuatro Calzadas grills a chuletón the size of a steering wheel. Order it “bien hecho” if you like grey meat; the waiter will not flinch—this is Castile, not San Sebastián.

Mobile coverage is patchy on Vodafone and EE inside the stone houses; step into the street and you gain two bars, lose them again when the wind blows from the west. Fibre has reached the village, so most holiday cottages include Wi-Fi—check before booking if you need Zoom-grade bandwidth.

Walking without Waymarks

There are no signed footpaths, yet the web of farm tracks heading south towards the River Tormes is perfect for an hour’s stroll. Leave by the cemetery gate, follow the concrete slab road between wheat fields, then take the left fork when you see a lone stone hut shaped like a beehive. Ten minutes later the plateau suddenly dips; below lies the river gorge and, beyond it, the low hills of Extremadura. Turn back when the track turns to dust or keep going to Aldeatejada, three kilometres on, where a bus back to Salamanca runs twice daily except Sundays.

Cyclists can join the minor road north to Doñinos; gradients are gentle but the asphalt ripples like a tablecloth after winter frosts—road bikes best left at home. Spring brings colour: crimson poppies in the barley, bee-eaters overhead, the smell of broom that drifts through open car windows. By July the same fields are blonde stubble and the only movement is a combine harvester crawling at 4 kph, driver waving at anyone who steps off the verge to let him pass.

Winter Sky, Summer Silence

Altitude makes a difference. Night-time temperatures in January drop to –5 °C; the stone houses were built for this but their modern rental counterparts sometimes weren’t. Ask if the cottage has central heating rather than the decorative but feeble wood stove photographed on the website. Snow arrives two or three times a winter, enough to close the approach road for half a day until a council tractor arrives with a blade. Summer, on the other hand, is dry and breezy—32 °C at midday but cool enough for a jumper once the sun drops. August fiestas occupy the first weekend: inflatable castles in the plaza, a foam party that leaves the cobbles slippery for weeks, and a paella cooked in a pan two metres wide. Visitors are welcome; pay €5 for a ticket and you eat with everyone else at trestle tables under fairy lights strung between lamp posts.

Dark Enough for Orion

Light pollution maps show Martinamor in a grey-blue blob rated “rural”. Step outside on a clear moonless night and the Milky Way is a smear across the sky bright enough to cast shadows. You need no telescope—just the patience to let your eyes adjust while the village dogs argue in the distance. Shooting stars are common in early August; locals set up plastic chairs on the edge of town and stay until the chill drives them indoors. Bring a jacket even in July; the plateau wind has no obstacles between here and Portugal.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Fly London to Madrid, pick up a hire car at T1, and head northwest on the A-50. Exit 104 merges onto the N-630; ten minutes later a brown sign points right to Martinamor. Total driving time from the airport is two hours fifteen, toll-free. A direct summer charter links Bristol with Salamanca on Saturdays, but seats are scarce and the return fare often exceeds £300. Trains from Madrid-Chamartín reach Salamanca in 1 h 40; a taxi from the station to Martinamor costs €35 if you pre-book, €50 if you hail one at the rank. Buses exist but involve a change in Alba de Tormes and a wait that can stretch to two hours—hire cars win on every measure except eco-guilt.

Check-out time in the village is 11 a.m.; if your flight leaves in the evening, spend the intervening hours in Salamanca’s Plaza Mayor—coffee at €2.20, people-watching free, and the motorway back to Madrid emptier after 6 p.m. anyway.

Worth It?

Martinamor will never top a “must-see” list. It offers an afternoon of quiet, a night of stars and the chance to buy chorizo from the woman who made it. Treat it as a breather between Salamanca’s sandstone splendour and the wine country of Arribes del Duero, or as a place to finish the book you carried across the Channel. Arrive with provisions, a full tank and modest expectations, and the village gives back something no cathedral can: the sound of wind in oak trees and the feeling that, for a few hours anyway, the world has slowed to the speed of a single-cylinder tractor heading home for lunch.