Tabera De Abajo

The church bell strikes noon and the only other sound is a tractor ticking over in a yard two streets away. At 850 m above sea level, Tabera de Abajo’s soundtrack is altitude-thinned: no motorway hum, no café chatter, not even a shop till. The village sits on a shallow ridge 35 km south-west of Salamanca, surrounded by wheat the colour of biscuit until late May, then suddenly emerald after the first storms. It is the sort of place the Spanish call España vacía—“empty Spain”—yet the emptiness is the point.

Stone, Adobe and the Smell of Rain on Dirt Roads

Houses here are built from what lies underneath: ochre limestone for the lower walls, adobe bricks above, roofed with terracotta half-pipes that ring like bells when hail hits. Most were finished between 1890 and 1930; a handful still have the original wooden balcony where grain was once spread to dry. There is no formal “old quarter”—the whole pueblo is the old quarter—so wandering is obligation-free. One lane narrows to shoulder width, then widens into a tiny plaza with a stone cross and a bench occupied, nine times out of ten, by the same two men in flat caps who will nod good morning whether you reply or not.

The parish church, Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, looks plain until you notice the Romanesque arch recycled into the south wall in 1543, the year silver from the New World first flooded inland. Inside, the air smells of wax and burnt paper; someone is always lighting a candle for exam results or rainfall. Mass is Sunday at 11:00, amplified by a single speaker that crackles like a 1970s transistor—loud enough to carry across the rooftops, not loud enough to wake renters who have overdone the local tempranillo.

Why You Need a Car, a Cool-box and a Phrasebook

There is no shop, no bar, no ATM. The nearest bread is 6 km away in Villares de la Reina, so visitors arrive with the boot already stocked. The Coelho family from Guildford learned the hard way: they turned up on a Sunday in August, found everything shuttered and survived on crisps and a tin of beans borrowed from a Dutch cyclist. Plan around Spanish hours—buy milk on Saturday morning or go without until Monday. The payoff is night sky so dark you can see the Andromeda Galaxy without squinting; download a star-gazing app before you leave Madrid airport Wi-Fi behind.

Public transport stops at the A-66 motorway junction, 8 km down the hill. Two buses a day run to Salamanca, but they leave at 06:55 and 14:10. After that, you are walking the farm track or phoning Taxi Paco (€25 minimum). A hire car from Salamanca railway station costs £28 a day with Europcar; the drive takes 25 minutes on the SA-20 and a country lane so straight locals use it to test wedding-car top speed.

Hiking Without Way-markers and the Pool That Opens When the Wheat Turns Gold

Footpaths start where the tarmac ends. One track heads east towards the ruins of Ermita de San Pedro, a 12th-century chapel abandoned when plague halved the village in 1599. The walk is 5 km return, entirely on red dirt that sticks to trainers like biscuit crumbs. In April the verges are purple with viper’s bugloss; in July the same plants rattle like paper. Buzzards circle overhead, and if you sit still long enough a hoopoe will land on the stone wall and inspect your sandwiches.

The municipal pool sits just below the ridge, 100 m from the last house. It opens mid-June when the council remembers to pay the lifeguard and closes the day schools return, usually 10 September. Entry is €2, towel hire non-existent. Locals arrive at 17:00, work-tired and silent, and stay until the sun drops behind the pines. Water temperature is a shock even in August—mountain springs feed it—but after a 12-km loop through wheat and oak, shock is welcome.

Meat Pies, Blue Cheese and the One Restaurant That Does Chips

Tabera itself produces nothing for sale, yet the surrounding comarca is edible from hoof to horn. In winter, villagers slaughter a pig and spend three days turning every gram into chorizo, farinato (a cinnamon-scented black pudding) and hornazo, a pie the size of a house brick stuffed with pork, hard-boiled egg and chorizo. British guests who balk at criadillas (bull’s testicles) can ask for chuletón at Casa Paca in Villares—a sharing T-bone weighing 1.2 kg, cooked over holm-oak charcoal, served with chips for the homesick. Start with queso de Valdeón, a blue milder than Stilton, then brave the stronger Cabrales only if your flight home is more than 24 hours away.

Salamanca After Dark, Then Silence Again

The city’s golden sandstone centre is 30 minutes by car, far enough that accommodation prices fall off a cliff. Spend the afternoon under the Plateresque frills of the university façade, eat ice-cream in Plaza Mayor, then drive back before the 22:30 cathedral bells. You will be in bed before the Salamanca students start queueing for clubs, and awake to the sound of a single cockerel that has no snooze button. The arrangement works: culture and tapas when you fancy, total peace when you don’t.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring brings green wheat and daytime highs of 19 °C, but nights stay cold enough that owners leave the wood-burner ready. May is ideal for walkers; wild marjoram scents the air and you will meet no one on the paths except an occasional shepherd on a quad bike. Autumn turns stubble to bronze; cranes fly over on their way to Extremadura and the light softens to honey. August is hot—32 °C at 15:00—but the pool and empty roads compensate. Winter is sharp: frost whitens the plazas, the track to the motorway ices over, and the village drops to 120 souls. Come then only if you like your silence absolute and your heating bills negotiable.

Booking, Packing and Leaving Without Regrets (or Promises)

There are two self-catering houses for tourists: La Mirada de Amelia (two-bed, wood-beamed, Wi-Fi good enough for Zoom) and El Rincón de Joaquín (four-bed, hammocks in the apple trees). Both are on the northern edge where the lane peters out into sheep pasture. Prices hover round €90 a night, dropping to €65 in February. Bring a fleece even in July, download offline maps, and remember that the bin lorry comes Tuesday at 07:30—miss it and you are driving your plastic to the container bank yourself.

Tabera de Abajo will not change your life; it has no Michelin stars, no infinity pool, no gift shop. What it offers is a pause calibrated to the agricultural calendar, a place where the loudest noise after midnight is your own kettle. Turn up expecting nothing more and you will leave—quietly, because it feels wrong to slam a car door—wondering why holidays ever needed more than wheat fields, a stone bench and a sky full of stars.