Villamartín de Campos

The church tower of San Martín de Tours rises exactly 28 metres above wheat fields that stretch to every horizon. At 750 metres altitude, Villamartín de Campos sits so high on the Castilian plateau that clouds sometimes drift below the bell tower, creating the odd sensation of a village floating above its own landscape.

This is not the Villamartin of British expat forums—there are no golf courses, no Sunday roasts, no English pubs showing Premier League matches. The confusion is common enough that the town hall still fields calls asking about beach distances and villa rentals. Instead, this Villamartín lies 200 kilometres north-west of Madrid in Spain's breadbasket, where the loudest sound is often wind rattling through abandoned dove cotes.

The Architecture of Absence

Wandering the handful of streets reveals a building style shaped by scarcity. Adobe walls two feet thick keep interiors cool during summers that touch 35°C and retain heat through winters that regularly drop below freezing. Many houses stand empty, their timber doorframes sagging, roof tiles missing like broken teeth. The population—170 at last count—represents a tenth of what it was a century ago.

Those still occupied show careful maintenance: freshly whitewashed walls, geraniums in terracotta pots, elderly residents who've perfected the art of appearing busy whilst doing very little. The church, rebuilt piecemeal since the twelfth century, mixes Romanesque stone with later brickwork in patterns that would give a conservation officer nightmares. Inside, the altarpiece depicts San Martín sharing his cloak with a beggar—the town's namesake whose feast day still draws scattered former residents back each November.

Traditional architecture spotting requires patience. The best examples hide down unmarked lanes: a stone doorway carved with the date 1642, a half-collapsed grain store with original wooden beams, a perfectly preserved dovecote where pigeons once provided both fertiliser and Sunday dinner. No plaques mark these spots. Locals point them out with the casual air of someone indicating where they parked their car.

Between Harvests

Visit in late June and the surrounding plain transforms into a golden ocean of wheat. Combine harvesters work through the night, their headlights creating constellations across the fields. The grain cooperative pays farmers €180 per tonne—barely covering costs, explains Miguel, whose family has worked these 80 hectares for three generations. His son studies engineering in Valladolid and won't be returning.

Autumn brings ploughing season. Massive tractors turn the earth in perfectly straight lines, revealing flint tools and Roman pottery shards that farmers collect in old paint pots. After rain, the smell of wet clay and decomposing stubble drifts through streets where television aerials provide the only vertical interruption to otherwise flat horizons.

Winter hits hard. At this altitude, temperatures regularly reach -10°C. The few shops close early, everyone retreats indoors to kitchens warmed by wood-burning stoves fuelled with pruned grapevines. Snow falls rarely but when it does, the village becomes unreachable for days. The regional government keeps the main road clear—just—though delivery drivers refuse to risk the ungritted side streets.

Birdwatching and Other Quiet Pursuits

The surrounding plains rank among Europe's best spots for steppe bird observation, though you'd never guess without binoculars. Drive slowly along the CL-613 towards Carrión de los Condes at dawn and you'll spot great bustards performing their bizarre mating dance—males inflating white throat feathers until they resemble animated feather dusters. Lesser kestrels nest in the church tower, whilst stone curlews call from fields with voices like mechanical toys.

Photography works best during the 'golden hours' either side of midday when shadows lengthen enough to add depth to otherwise flat terrain. Storm clouds building from the west create dramatic backdrops, particularly in April when the wheat shows fresh green against black skies. The local photography club—three members meeting monthly in the bar—recommends the cemetery hill for sunset shots, though they warn of aggressive mosquitoes in summer.

Cycling requires strong legs and stronger resolve. The nearest significant climb begins 40 kilometres away. Instead, riders follow grid-pattern farm tracks where turning left at any junction eventually leads somewhere recognisable. Carry water; the only fountain stands in the village square and the next reliable source might be 20 kilometres distant.

Practicalities Without Pretension

Accommodation options remain limited. The municipal albergue charges €15 per night for a spartan room with shared bathroom—book through the town hall, open Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Alternatively, Casa Rural El Pajar converts a former grain store into acceptable lodgings at €60 nightly, breakfast included but served Spanish-style: coffee, toast with tomato, and little else.

The single bar opens at 7 am for farmers' breakfasts of chorizo and fried eggs, closes for siesta at 3 pm, reopens at 8 pm for evening drinks. They serve basic tapas—tortilla española, local cheese, tinned seafood—nothing fancy but everything €3 or less. The nearest restaurant worth the name sits 12 kilometres away in Palencia; their menú del día costs €12 including wine, served only at lunch.

Shopping requires planning. The tiny supermarket stocks essentials: UHT milk, tinned beans, overpriced biscuits. Fresh bread arrives daily at 11 am from a bakery in the next village and sells out within the hour. For anything beyond basics—fresh fish, decent wine, vegetables that aren't potatoes—drive to Palencia on Saturdays when the market overflows with local producers.

The Reality Check

This Villamartín offers no postcard moments, no hidden treasures waiting discovery. It's a working village slowly emptying, where teenagers dream of Madrid and elderly residents measure time by harvest cycles rather than tourist seasons. The silence can feel oppressive, particularly on Sunday afternoons when even the church bells rest.

Yet for travellers seeking to understand rural Spain beyond the costas, it provides something increasingly rare: authenticity without artifice. Speak Spanish—even badly—and locals respond with patience. Ask about the village's history and someone will produce keys to buildings not opened in months. Stay more than a day and you'll be remembered on return visits years later.

Just don't come expecting the other Villamartin. Here, the only golf involves chasing wayward balls across wheat fields, and the closest thing to international cuisine is the Chinese-owned shop that sells everything from ham to hosepipes. Which, depending on your perspective, might be exactly the point.