Valdemierque

The cereal fields end abruptly at a ridge 920 m above the plain, and the only building that breaks the skyline is the stone bell-tower of Valdemierque’s parish church. From up here you can watch weather systems drift in from the Sierra de Béjar long before they reach Salamanca half an hour away. In winter that means snow flurries that close the final 4 km access road; in July it means a breeze cool enough to make you reconsider the need for air-conditioning.

British visitors tend to arrive with Madrid airport still on their clothes and the A-50 motorway humming in their ears. The turn-off at Alba de Tormes is easy to miss—one roundabout, one filling station, then the road narrows to a single track that climbs through wheat and sunflowers. Phone reception drops out around kilometre eight; by kilometre twelve you have passed more storks than cars. When the tarmac levels out, the village appears: forty-odd stone houses, one church, no bar, no shop, no noise except the wind.

What passes for a high street

Valdemierque is small enough to walk from end to end while your kettle boils. The houses are built from local ochre stone and roofed with terracotta tiles handmade in Tamames, 25 km to the north. Some still have wooden balconies—tiny, barely large enough for a chair—where residents lean out at dusk to judge the weather for the following day’s harvest. There is no interpretive board, no gift shop, no parking meter. The village’s single public phone box lost its glass in 2009 and now functions as an unofficial noticeboard for tractor parts.

The church of San Miguel keeps the only reliable clock. The door is usually unlocked; inside, the temperature drops ten degrees and the air smells of wax and grain dust. A single bulb hangs over the altar, powered by a timer that gives you four minutes before you are left in darkness. The priest visits twice a month; on other Sundays the congregation follows the service on a crackling radio link from Alba de Tormes.

A base, not a destination

Guidebooks that try to list “attractions” in Valdemierque generally give up. The appeal is the altitude: nights are cold even in August, and the Milky Way is bright enough to cast shadows. British families book the village’s only holiday rental—Casa Rural Doña Manuela, five bedrooms, six bathrooms, underfloor heating—then use it as a staging post for day trips. Salamanca’s sandstone cathedrals are 32 minutes south-east by car; the ski station at La Covatilla is 35 minutes west. In between lie empty roads where red kites outnumber vehicles.

The owners of Doña Manuela leave a welcome basket: a loop of mild chorizo, a wedge of local sheep’s cheese and a loaf that is still warm if you arrive before noon. They also warn guests that the nearest supermarket (Carrefour in Alba de Tormes) shuts at 14:00 on Sundays and does not reopen until Monday morning. Forget to stock up and you will be eating toast made from the previous day’s bread and whatever you can forage from the garden’s walnut tree.

Walking without waymarks

There are no signed footpaths, but farmers will wave you through their gates if you ask. A thirty-minute stroll west brings you to the ruins of a Roman threshing floor; continue another twenty and you reach an abandoned hamlet where swallows nest in the schoolhouse. Spring arrives late at this height—wild crocus appear in April, followed by crimson poppies that stain the wheat garnet. By June the fields have turned gold and the nights are short enough to sit outside until midnight without a jacket.

Cyclists appreciate the gradients: the road from the Tormes valley climbs 400 m in 8 km, enough to make thighs burn, but once on the plateau you can ride for an hour without touching the brakes. Bring two water bottles; there are no fountains and the July sun is fierce despite the breeze. In winter the same road is gritted only after 10 cm of snow has fallen, and only if the farmer who owns the tractor is not busy with his pigs.

Eating (or not) in the village

Valdemierque has no restaurant, no café, no tapas bar. The closest place to sit down is Mesón del Gallo in Alba de Tormes, ten minutes away, where grilled chicken arrives with chips rather than patatas fritas and the waiter will produce an English menu if you look apologetic enough. In Salamanca the cafés around Plaza Mayor will serve toast with tomato and olive oil for €2.30—comfort food for homesick Brits who can’t face another plate of judiones.

Back in the village, cooking becomes part of the evening ritual. The house kitchen has a five-burner gas hob and a paella pan wide enough for twelve. Local trout from the Tormes costs €8 a kilo at the Saturday market in nearby Candelario; ask the fishmonger to clean them and ten minutes later you are grilling them on the terrace while the sun drops behind the Sierra. If you crave something stronger, the owners have left a bottle of arrope—grape must reduced to a treacly syrup that turns cheap red wine into a passable winter punch.

When the fiesta is louder than the wind

For three days around 15 August the village doubles in size. Emigrants return from Madrid and Barcelona; grandchildren who have never harvested wheat race quad bikes between the wheat stubble. A sound system appears in the square, powered by a generator that rattles until dawn. The church bell rings at 07:00 to summon the faithful to a outdoor Mass; afterwards everyone queues for caldereta, a lamb stew thickened with bread and served in enamel bowls. Visitors are welcome, but there is no programme in English and no card payments—bring cash and a willingness to dance in dust.

The rest of the year silence reasserts itself. On 1 November residents walk to the cemetery with chrysanthemums; at Christmas they light a bonfire of vine prunings in front of the church and roast chestnuts. These are not tourist events—there are no stalls, no mulled wine—but if you happen to be staying you will be handed a paper cone of chestnuts and expected to join in.

Leaving without a souvenir

There is nothing to buy except what you have eaten or drunk. The only shopfront is a vending machine outside the church that dispenses batteries and tampons; it accepts coins only and jams if you insert a €2 piece. Instead you take away the altitude-sharp air in your lungs, the memory of night skies so dark that you can see the Andromeda galaxy with the naked eye, and the realisation that rural Spain still exists beyond the souvenir tea-towels of the costas.

Drive back down the hill and the first bar appears after 7 km. Order a coffee and the barman will ask where you have been. Tell him Valdemierque and he will nod: “High up, isn’t it? Good for the chest.” Then he turns the television back on, the espresso machine hisses, and the silence you borrowed is gone.