Perilla de Castro

The church door is locked. That’s the first thing you notice in Perilla de Castro—nothing is open simply because a visitor has arrived. At 730 metres above sea level, on a ridge that feels closer to the clouds than to any city, the village keeps the timetable of its 150 residents, not the expectations of travellers. Wheat stubble scratches against stone houses, a tractor idles outside a barn, and the only sound is wind moving across the Tierra de Alba.

A Plateau That Breathes

Castilla y León’s northern plateau is rarely flat for long. Here it rolls like a gentle swell, each crest revealing another horizon of cereal fields. Perilla sits on one of these natural balconies, which means the air is clearer and two degrees cooler than down in the Duero valley twenty minutes away. In July that difference matters: you can walk the lanes at midday without wilting, though sunscreen is still essential—there’s no shade once you leave the single row of houses.

Winter is another matter. When Atlantic storms track across the meseta the village catches the full force: roads glaze overnight and the weekly bus from Zamora sometimes turns back. Between December and February plan on a car; summer tyres will not cope with the ridge’s last 3 km, a narrow concrete strip that ices before anywhere else. April and late-September give you the best balance: green wheat, migrant storks overhead, and daylight that stretches past 20:30.

One Hour, One Street, Plenty of Pauses

You can cover the entire urban core in sixty minutes, but only if you refuse the invitations to linger. Start at the stone cross beside the ayuntamiento: carved in 1904 to commemorate a cholera-free year, its inscriptions are already smoothing under wind-blown grain dust. Walk east and the lane narrows to a width designed for mules, not cars. Adobe walls bulge like loaves; some houses have new roofs, others gap like broken teeth. Halfway along, a timber doorway still bears the painted legend “Trigo y Aves”—a reminder that grain and chickens were once sold from the front room.

The parish church of San Vicente appears abruptly at the village’s highest point. Fifteenth-century bones, eighteenth-century bell tower, locked unless the priest is in town. Knock at number 17 opposite the porch; Doña Milagros keeps the key and will open for anyone who asks politely. Inside, the single-nave interior smells of wax and damp stone. The retablo is provincial gilded wood, nothing like the museum-grade pieces in Zamora city, yet the panels of the wheat harvest and the wolf of St Vincent feel appropriate in a place that still lives by both.

Carry on past the last house and the lane dissolves into a farm track. This is where the cereal sea begins. Walk another ten minutes and the village shrinks to a dark stripe on the ridge; keep going and you’ll reach an abandoned cortijo at 5 km, perfect for a picnic if you brought water—there are no fountains.

Eating: Bring an Appetite, Not a Schedule

Perilla has no bar, no shop, no Sunday market. The nearest coffee arrives 12 km away in Muelas del Pan, where Bar Ruiz opens at 7 am for the tractor drivers and serves a respectable tostada with local olive oil for €1.80. If you want something more substantial, drive 25 minutes to Zamora capital and try El Rincón de Antonio (Calle San Torcuato 7). Order the arroz a la zamorana—rice slow-cooked with pork ribs and blood pudding—followed by a glass of robust Toro wine. Expect to pay €22 for the menú del día, wine included.

Self-caterers should stock up in Zamora before heading uphill. The village bakery closed in 2018, so even breakfast bread requires forethought. The payoff is night skies dark enough to see the Andromeda Galaxy; sit on the church wall with a bought-in baguette and a thermos and you’ll understand why astronomers rent village houses for the summer.

Wind, Wolves and Way-Marking

Hikers expecting signposted trails will be disappointed; farmers simply follow the tracks their grandfathers used. The most straightforward route is the old drove road that heads southwest towards the village of Coreses. Aim for the concrete silo visible on the next ridge—3.5 km each way, mostly level, surface firm enough for trainers. You’ll share the path with skylarks and the occasional 4×4; step aside and the driver will lift a hand in silent acknowledgement.

Print a map: mobile coverage is patchy and the uniform wheat can be disorientating. Locals still tell of a German rambler who wandered in circles for four hours last June; he was found by a combine driver who guided him back using the harvester’s GPS. If the wind picks up—and it does most afternoons—sound carries strangely; voices carry half a kilometre yet a lorry on the distant A-66 is inaudible. Carry a lightweight jacket even in August; 30 °C in the sun can drop to 18 °C when a cloud crosses.

When the Village Fills Up

The feast of the Assumption on 15 August triples the population. Returning emigrants pitch canvas awnings in front of their former homes, the priest says an open-air mass at midnight, and someone produces a portable bar that serves chilled beer for one euro a caña. A brass band arrives from Zamora, fireworks bounce off the stone walls, and for twelve hours Perilla feels almost metropolitan. Book accommodation months ahead—there are two rental houses, four rooms each, booked solid by March. After the final rocket the village exhales; by 20 August the silence is absolute again.

How to Arrive, How to Leave

No railway comes within 60 km. From the UK the simplest route is a Ryanair flight to Valladolid (seasonal, Stansted), then a 90-minute drive west on the A-62 and A-66. Car hire is essential: the ridge road is too irregular for taxis and Uber does not operate here. In winter carry snow chains; petrol stations are sparse—fill up in Benavente before the final 40 km.

If you must use public transport, take the ALSA coach from Madrid Estación Sur to Zamora (2 h 30 min, €22), then the once-daily Linecar service towards Pueblica de Castro, asking the driver to drop you at the Perilla junction. You still face a 3 km uphill walk; arrange a pickup with your landlord or expect sore calves.

Leave early on departure day. Morning fog can close Zamora airport with little warning; the first Ryanair check-in desk opens at 5:30 am and the security queue moves slowly. Better to spend your last night in the city, where the parador occupies a twelfth-century castle and doubles cost €120—more than the entire village rental, but insurance against missing the flight home.

Perilla de Castro will not change your life. It offers no epiphany, no Instagram peak, no boutique hammam. What it does give is a calibrated sense of scale: how big the sky can feel, how small a community needs to be, and how quietly the cereal fields continue whatever the century. Drive away at sunset and the village shrinks to a single stone notch on the ridge, almost indistinguishable from the wall that runs beside it. By the time you reach the motorway it has vanished, yet the wind you tasted up there will stay in your lungs longer than you expect.