Pedraza de Campos

The church bell strikes nine and the only other sound is a tractor turning earth somewhere beyond the last house. In Pedraza de Campos, 70 souls share 35 square kilometres of pancake-flat cereal country with bustards, harriers and the occasional passing cyclist who has taken a wrong turn off the Canal de Castilla. It is not picturesque, not hidden, not a secret—just a working village that happens to have stayed the same size since the 1950s.

A Grid of Adobe and Silence

Leave the car by the cemetery gate; the tarmac stops there. From the edge of town the view is a ruler-drawn line: wheat, barley, fallow, wheat again, repeated until the sky folds over itself. Inside the single-storey labyrinth of adobe walls the streets have no footpaths; locals step straight from doorway to compacted earth. House numbers run haphazardly—13 sits next to 44—because plots were enlarged or split when cousins married out. Most façades still carry the original brick stamp: “Fábrica de Ladrillos M. Garrido, Palencia 1928”. A couple of 1970s breeze-block garages intrude, but the palette remains ochre, dust and rust.

The Iglesia de San Miguel occupies the highest point, a modest 12-metre rise that counts as a hill here. The door is unlocked only for Saturday-evening mass; otherwise the key hangs on a nail inside the baker’s van, which is usually parked outside number 22. Visitors who ask politely are lent it without formality, provided they return it before the owner heads off to deliver bread in Paredes de Nava at half past eleven. Inside, the nave is a timeline of whatever stone was cheapest: twelfth-century limestone columns, sixteenth-century brick arches, nineteenth-century plaster saints with peeling paint. The bell rope dangles temptingly; resist it—the last tourist who gave it a yank was charged €60 for a new bell-clapper.

Walking the Agricultural Chessboard

Tracks radiate from the village like spokes, wide enough for a combine harvester and signed only with the occasional spray-painted number used by the cooperative. There is no leaflet, no app, no yellow arrow. Instead, memorise two rules: keep the church tower at your back to return, and do not step into the crop. Within a kilometre the hamlet shrinks to a brown smudge and skylarks replace sparrows. In late April the wheat is ankle-high and emerald; by mid-July it turns the colour of old pennies and whispers like dry rain. Harriers quarter the fields at eye level, while bustards stand so still they look like boulders until they unfold prehistoric wings.

A comfortable circuit heads south-east to the abandoned railway halt of Ólmos de Ojeda, 5 km out and dead flat. The platform clock stopped at 14:37 sometime in 1987; the waiting room is now a barn for a farmer who will wave if you peer over the wall. Turn left at the level crossing and you are back in Pedraza within two hours. Early mornings smell of wet soil and diesel; evenings bring hot stone and chamomile. Take water—there is no bar on the route and shade is measured in single tree shadows.

Eating (Elsewhere)

Pedraza itself has no restaurant, no shop, no cash machine. The socio-cultural centre opens Friday nights for cards and crisps; beer is €1.20 and you are expected to write your name on the ledger. For a square meal, drive eight minutes to Becerril de Campos. There, Casa Macario serves lechazo—milk-fed lamb slow-roasted in a wood-fired oven until the rib bones can be snapped between thumb and forefinger. A quarter portion feeds two Brits handsomely and costs €19. Vegetarians get judiones, butter beans the size of conkers stewed with saffron and scraps of jamón; ask for the version “sin cerdo” and the chef simply leaves out the ham, no fuss. House red from Ribera del Duero arrives in a plain glass bottle and tastes like claret with the edges sanded off.

If you must stay within walking distance, phone María Luisa (979 80 80 47) the day before. She will cook a set lunch—garlic soup, roast peppers, fruit—at her kitchen table for €12 a head, but only if her son can collect the ingredients on his morning run to Palencia. Payment is cash stuffed into a Santa Teresa biscuit tin; she never quite remembers how many covers she has taken, so honesty is appreciated.

When the Village Throws a Party

The fiesta patronal falls on the last weekend of August, when the population quadruples. Returning emigrants park hatchbacks in the wheat stubble and debate whose London accent is stronger. Saturday night brings a mass followed by a communal paella cooked in a pan two metres wide; tickets go on sale at 9 p.m. sharp and sell out by 9:07. A three-piece band plays Spanish golden oldies until the generator runs out of diesel, usually around 2 a.m. Outsiders are welcome but there are no hotels; the council hires a portable shower block and hands out camping permits for the sports field. Bring earplugs—loudspeakers face every direction and the playlist favours volume over variety.

September is kinder. The wheat is stubble, the air smells of crushed grapes from trucks heading to the cooperative bodega in Dueñas, and you can still book a room in Paredes de Nava for €45 without trying. Birdwatchers prefer these weeks: bustards gather in post-breeding flocks and the light softens early, perfect for digiscoping.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Palencia is the nearest city, half an hour south on the A-67. From there the P-980 threads north through villages whose names read like a medieval census: Venta de Baños, Villada, Herrera de Pisuerga. Turn right at the windmill with one broken blade—sat-nav co-ordinates 42.13°N 4.67°W if you trust technology more than landmarks. The last 6 km are single-track tarmac with passing bays; wheat brushes both wing mirrors in a wet year.

Public transport exists but feels theoretical. ALSA runs one bus a day from Palencia to Carrión de los Condes; ask the driver to drop you at the Pedraza turning, then walk 45 minutes. The return leg leaves Carrión at 6 a.m.—miss it and tomorrow’s bell will still be ringing before anything else moves. Car hire in Palencia starts at €35 a day through Europal, but book ahead; the desk shuts for siesta between 14:00 and 16:30 with Lutheran precision.

Heading back south, pause at the lay-by 3 km out. From there the village is a low brown line under an enormous sky, indistinguishable from the earth that built it. Photograph quickly; within minutes heat haze or dust will erase the scene. Then roll up the windows, switch on the air-conditioning, and re-enter the century you left after breakfast.