Montemayor del Río

The castle gate clangs shut at dusk. That’s not tourism theatre—it’s simply when the keeper walks home for supper, and if you’re still inside the curtain wall you’ll be walking back down the lane in the dark. At 677 m above sea level, darkness falls quickly in Montemayor del Río; the Sierra de Béjar soaks up the last light and the temperature drops like a stone. Bring a jumper, even in July.

A village that refuses to grow down the hill

Two hundred and sixty souls live permanently beneath the fifteenth-century fortress, and the numbers are not rising. Houses are built upwards, not outwards, clinging to the same granite outcrop the knights chose. The result is a place you can cross on foot in seven minutes yet spend half a day photographing: every alley tilts at a different angle, every roofline fights the slope. Expect thigh-level work if you park at the bottom; the medieval street plan never heard of disabled access, and the council hasn’t retrofitted it.

The river that gave the village its name—the Cuerpo de Hombre—slides past 120 m below, hidden by chestnut woods. From the castle parapet you can track its glint through the trees, but down in the lanes the water is only a murmur, a reminder that the flat agricultural land is tantalisingly close yet psychologically miles away. Montemayor turns its back on the plain and faces the mountains; winter arrives earlier here than in Salamanca, 70 km to the north, and lingers longer. Snow is common by December, and if the EX-392 bends ice over, the village can be cut off for a day or two. Summer, by contrast, is dry and breezy; nights stay cool enough to sleep without air-conditioning, a relief after the furnace of the Meseta.

What passes for a sight

There is no ticket office, no audio guide, no gift shop selling foam swords. The Castillo de los Duques de Béjar is simply there, towers punched against the sky like broken teeth. The keep is open Saturday and Sunday 11:00–14:00 and 16:00–18:00; outside those hours you fetch the key from Bar Cristina on Calle Castillo, leave a two-euro donation in the margarine tin, and let yourself in. Inside is bare stone, swallow-level nests, and a 360-degree view that stretches south to the highest ski runs of La Covatilla. On hazy days the villages below dissolve into blue-grey brushstrokes; on clear ones you can clock the cathedral spire of Béjar, 15 km away.

Opposite the castle gate, the parish church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción keeps the same hours as the keeper’s mother-in-law: unpredictable. If the door is ajar, step inside for five minutes of dim baroque and the smell of beeswax. The retablo is nineteenth-century, over-restored, but the carved stone font is twelfth-century and still filled with holy water every Sunday. No postcards, no postcards rack.

The rest of the monumental route is the village itself: granite houses roofed with weather-beaten slate, wooden balconies wide enough for a chair and a geranium, chimneys that puff wood-smoke at dawn. Notice the iron door-knockers shaped like hands; locals touch them for luck when they pass, an unconscious habit that predates Instagram.

Walking without way-markers

Montemayor is not a theme-park of sign-posted trails. Footpaths exist because farmers still use them. One dependable route starts beside the old laundry trough, drops past vegetable plots, then follows the river for 3 km through sweet-chestnut coppice to an abandoned water-mill. The return climb is 180 m of elevation—enough to remind you that you’re in the foothills, not on the Camino flat. After rain the stones are slick; boots, not flip-flops.

A stiffer circuit continues upstream to the Chorreras waterfalls (5 km, 350 m ascent). In May the water volume is theatrical; by September it’s a trickle, but the granite pools still invite a paddle cold enough to numb ankles. Carry water—there are no cafés en route—and remember that mobile coverage dies the moment you leave the tarmac.

Eating what the day brings

There are two bars and one bakery; that’s the entire food infrastructure. Both bars serve the same short menu because they buy from the same abuela who stews the lentils. Order revolconas—mashed potatoes shot through with smoked paprika and shards of pork belly—plus a glass of local arribes red for €6. The dish tastes like campfire comfort and sticks to ribs for an afternoon’s walking. Chorizo al vino tinto is sweeter than the fiery Asturian stuff British delis import; ask for it a la plancha and the fat caramelises into sticky purple glaze.

If you want to eat dinner, say so before 16:00. The kitchen closes when the last regular finishes his coffee; after that the cooker is switched off until tomorrow. Vegetarians get tortilla, salad, or tortilla—no-one’s being difficult, that’s simply what grows here.

The bakery (open 08:00–13:00) sells a brick-shaped loaf that keeps for a week, sheep-milk cheese wrapped in waxed paper, and jars of mountain honey labelled by the beekeeper’s grandson. Ring a day ahead and Señora Rosa will vacuum-pack half a kilo of her own chorizo so it survives the flight home in hand luggage. She doesn’t take cards; neither does anyone else. There is no cash machine—bring euros or you’ll be washing dishes.

When to come, when to stay away

Spring is the sweet spot: wild marjoram on the paths, daylight until 20:30, and daytime highs of 20 °C without the Saharan winds that roast the plateau in July. Easter week is busy by local standards—perhaps four coachloads of Spanish pensioners—but they leave by teatime and rooms drop to €35 again.

August is hot, dry, and oddly silent; half the village decamps to the coast, leaving only the castle keeper and the baker cycling through empty streets. Bars run reduced hours; one may simply lock up for the week. Similarly, winter is gorgeous if you own a 4×4 and enjoy the creak of snow on granite. Otherwise the single access road ices over, the castle is shut, and the bakery hibernates. Come in October for chestnut-picking, or late February if you fancy photographing the castle above a sea of low cloud—just pre-book a room in Béjar because Montemayor itself has no legal tourist accommodation; the nearest beds are 12 km away in Puerto de Béjar, and the village’s one informal casa rural opens only when the owner’s cousin isn’t using it.

Getting here without tears

Fly to Madrid, collect a hire car, and head northwest on the A-50 and A-66. After 170 km leave at junction 375, follow the EX-392 for 11 km of switchbacks, and park where the road flattens out beside the stone cross. The drive takes 2 h 15 min from Barajas, assuming you don’t meet a logging lorry on the bends. Public transport is fiction: the railway stops at Béjar, taxis are mythical, and the Monday-to-Friday bus from Salamanca arrives at 14:30 and leaves at 15:00—barely time to finish your coffee.

Petrol? Fill up in Béjar; the village pump closed in 1998. Phone signal? Patchy. English spoken? One barman can manage “hello” and “thank you,” then reverts to expressive hands. Bring a phrasebook or surrender to mime; the latter is more fun.

The bottom line

Montemayor del Río will not change your life, but it might slow it down for 24 hours. Come if you like your castles unrestored, your walking trails unsigned, and your lunch timetable dictated by someone’s grandmother. Leave the souvenir hunt for elsewhere; the only thing worth taking home is Rosa’s vacuum-packed sausage—and perhaps the memory of a place where the evening quiet is so complete you can hear the castle walls cooling after sunset.