Villalba De Los Llanos

The church tower at Villalba de los Llanos rises exactly 37 metres above the surrounding wheat fields, a stone compass visible from every approach road. In a landscape where the horizon stretches uninterrupted for kilometres, this modest height becomes a landmark. Drivers navigating the CL-517 from Salamanca city—65 kilometres to the north—use it to gauge how much farther they must endure the hypnotic undulation of golden stubble.

Plains, Pigeons and Provincial Life

Villalba sits at 790 metres on Spain’s northern plateau, high enough for winter frosts to silver the clay-tiled roofs but too low for dramatic mountain views. What you get instead is space: cereal steppe that flips from emerald in April to biscuit-brown by July, then dark chocolate after the plough. The name itself translates roughly as “white town of the plains,” a nod both to the chalk-washed façades and to the bleached cereal stalks that crackle underfoot.

Stone dove cotes, called palomares, punctuate the fields—some cylindrical, some square, all hollow-eyed. They once supplied fertiliser and Sunday lunch; now they serve as perches for kestrels and as improvised hides for photographers stalking the area’s little bustards. A five-minute walk east of the Plaza Mayor brings you to one of the best-preserved examples, its entrance lintel still carved with the date 1892. Bring a wide-angle lens: nothing else obstructs the shot.

The town grid is a compressed rectangle of single-fronted houses, their lower walls in granite, upper sections in adobe whose original ochre shows through flaking whitewash. Wooden balconies—more Galician than Castilian—project just far enough to let residents shake rugs without leaving the house. Traffic is light enough that grandmothers set plastic chairs on the asphalt to catch the last November sun, moving inside only when the church bell strikes six.

What Passes for Sights

Guidebooks struggle here. There is no ticket booth, no audioguide, no medieval fortress repurposed as a Parador. The 16th-century parish church of San Pedro Apóstol holds the field. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; wax, incense and stone dust mingle in a scent every Spanish schoolchild recognises. The retablo is gilded but not lavish; the font is a repurposed Roman capital, probably dragged from nearby Ledesma. Sunday Mass at 11:30 is the easiest way to see the interior; otherwise ask for the key in the ayuntamiento (open weekdays 09:00–14:00, expect a wait while someone finishes coffee).

Beyond the church, the pleasure is architectural minutiae: hand-forged iron hinges shaped like stylised lilies, a 1920s pharmacy cabinet still advertising Agua de Colonia, the stone basin where women once washed sheets before the arrival of running water in 1973. One house on Calle Real displays a blue-and-white tile showing a 1960s Guardia Civil officer directing sheep; Franco-era road-safety propaganda has rarely looked so quaint.

Walking, Cycling and the Art of Doing Very Little

Four farm tracks radiate from Villalba, all flat, all stone-hard from August to October. The most interesting heads south-east towards the abandoned hamlet of Navahondona, 6 km away. Halfway there you cross the Arroyo de Valdecasa, usually a trickle ankle-deep but capable of flooding after spring storms—carry sandals between March and May. Expect to see Montagu’s harriers quartering the wheat, and, if you’re quiet, a hare the size of a cocker spaniel.

Road cyclists appreciate the same openness. The loop south to Salamanca airport and back (95 km, 350 m total ascent) is popular with city clubs on windless Sundays; Villalba’s Bar Central does a respectable tortilla to fuel the return leg. Mountain bikers will be under-employed: the nearest hill worth the name is 30 km west in the Sierra de Francia.

Night brings compensation. Light pollution is negligible; the Milky Way arches from dove cote to dove cote like a monochrome rainbow. August nights average 18 °C—carry a light jumper and lie on the football pitch behind the cemetery. Shooting stars from the Perseid shower peak around 12 August; local teachers set up two battered telescopes and invite whoever is passing.

Lentils, Liver and the Friday Menu

Villalba’s two bars both open at 07:00 for farmer’s breakfasts: coffee with a thimble of anis, and toast rubbed with tomato and lard. By 14:00 the same bars serve a menú del día—three courses, bread, wine, water, €11. Expect lentejas (lentil stew with chorizo and morcilla), chanfaina (rice and offal, heavy on liver), and for pudding, leche frita—cinnamon-dusted custard squares. Vegetarians can cobble together eggs, cheese and pisto (Spanish ratatouille) but should confirm stock isn’t meat-based; vegan options scarcely exist.

Saturday is hornazo day: a pie of pork loin, chorizo and hard-boiled egg baked in saffron bread. Buy before 11:00 at the Panadería San José on Calle del Medio; they sell out fast. For self-caterers, the little Dia supermarket shuts at 14:00 and reopens 17:30–20:30—plan around siesta or you’ll be heating tinned asparagus.

Serious wine drinkers should drive 35 km north to the Arribes del Duero, where small bodegas work with Juan García and Bruñal grapes. Villalba itself offers one wine co-operative; their young white is perfectly drinkable but travels badly—bring a cool box.

When to Come, Where to Sleep, How to Leave

Spring (mid-April to late May) turns the plain into an emerald chessboard dotted with crimson poppies; temperatures hover around 22 °C and night frosts have usually ended. Autumn brings harvest activity and the smell of burnt stubble; mornings can start at 5 °C, afternoons still reach 25 °C—pack layers. July and August are hot (35 °C is routine) and very quiet; many locals head to the coast, leaving half the bars shuttered. Winter is for birders: cranes overfly in January, but short days and a mean temperature of 6 °C limit appeal.

Accommodation is limited. The Casa Rural La Plaza has five rooms (doubles €65, including decent coffee and churros) in a 19th-century grain store. Two further village houses take paying guests through Airbnb; expect Wi-Fi that falters when the wind is from the east. Salamanca city offers everything from hostels to five-star paradores if you prefer a 45-minute commute.

Getting here without a car requires patience. There is one daily bus from Salamanca at 15:15, returning 07:00 next day—fine for a long weekend, useless for a day trip. A taxi from the airport (currently served only by Ryanair from London Stansted, Tuesdays and Saturdays) costs €90; pre-book through the town hall website and they will pool passengers. Drivers should fill up before leaving the A-62; the village garage opens sporadically and only sells unleaded.

Leave Villalba as you found it: without expectations, with room in the boot for a hornazo and a memory card full of empty horizons. The plains will still be here next year, the church tower still counting the hours, the dove cotes still standing guard. Some places reward effort with spectacle; Villalba rewards stillness.