Pozuelo de Tábara

The grain silo on the plaza still wears its 1956 paint job, a sun-bleached advert for “FERTILIZANTES LÓPEZ” that nobody has bothered to repaint. It is the tallest thing for miles and doubles as the village folk museum, open on request and closed on Mondays. That single sentence tells you most of what you need to know about Pozuelo de Tábara: practical, self-effacing, and 701 m above sea level on a plateau where the wind has time to gather speed before it reaches you.

A village that measures time in harvests

Pozuelo sits 10 km west of the county town of Tábara, reached by the ZA-701, a road that shrinks to a single-lane after the last irrigation channel. British drivers who know the Cotswolds will recognise the drill: hedge-less verges, stone walls that appear without warning, and the polite reverse into a lay-by while a tractor the width of a bus trundles past. Storks stand on the telegraph poles like oversized sentries, watching the manoeuvre.

The village proper begins where the tarmac turns to swept concrete. One hundred and fifty-four neighbours live in a tight lattice of stone-and-adobe houses, their wooden doors painted the same ox-blood red favoured by the local council. At the centre is the parish church of San Pedro, Romanesque in plan but modest in scale: a single nave, a squat tower, and a bell that rings the quarters because nobody has told it to stop. The key hangs at No. 9 Calle Real; knock, leave a euro or two, and the caretaker will unlock it even at siesta time.

Inside, the air smells of candle wax and sun-dried timber. There is no great altarpiece, only a sixteenth-century crucifix whose paint has flaked to the colour of weathered brick. That is the point: Pozuelo does not collect art, it keeps what it needed and lets the rest go.

Walking tracks and wheat oceans

Every street ends in a path. Within five minutes you can be among wheat, barley or chickpeas depending on the rotation. The official PR-ZA 203 footpath loops 7 km south-east to the abandoned hamlet of Valdefuentes, but most visitors simply follow the farm tracks that radiate like spokes. Spring brings a brief, almost English green that fades to bronze by late June; by August the soil is pale dust and the horizon shimmers. Take water: shade is measured in single trees.

Cyclists use the same lanes. A hybrid is fine, a mountain bike overkill. The gradients rarely top 5 %, but the altitude means thinner air than the GPS suggests; a 20 km circuit feels longer. Early mornings smell of wet straw and diesel as the sprinklers start; evenings taste of thyme crushed under tyre.

Birdlife rewards patience. Calandra larks rise in song flights above the stubble, and bustards occasionally drift across the sky like grey ghosts. A pair of binoculars and a seat by the ruined water tank at kilometre 3 of the Valdefuentes track can produce a decent day list: kestrel, booted eagle, black-shouldered kite if the voles are plentiful.

Where to eat (and where not to starve)

There is one bar, La Plaza, open Tuesday to Sunday from 07:30 until the last drinker leaves. Coffee is €1.20, a tostada con tomate €2. They do not take cards; the nearest ATM is back in Tábara. The house wine is a young Arribes de Duero, light enough to drink at eleven in the morning and still walk straight.

Food is ration-style rather than restaurant-style: plate of local cheese, bowl of olives, maybe a tortilla if the owner’s sister has brought one down. Vegetarians can assemble a meal from sides; vegans should pack supplies. There is no supermarket, only a freezer chest of ice-cream and a shelf of tinned tuna. If you need a three-course menu del día, drive the ten minutes to Tábara where Casa Candi does a respectable cocido on Wednesdays for €12.

Winter visits and summer realities

At 700 m, nights can be cold even in May. Frost is common from October to April, and the village sits on an exposed ridge that collects wind but not clouds. Rain arrives in sudden, theatrical bursts and soaks the clay soil until it sticks to boots like wet cement. Bring a light down jacket after sunset whatever the season.

Snow is rare but not impossible; when it comes the ZA-701 is gritted only as far as the livestock feed depot 3 km short of the village. Chains are not obligatory kit, but hire them in Zamora if a northerly front is forecast. In high summer the plateau turns into a reflector oven: 35 °C by noon, little shade, and the bar shuts from 15:00 to 18:00 because even the owner needs a siesta.

When the village wakes up

Fiestas are held around 29 June, the feast of Saints Peter and Paul. The population quadruples for forty-eight hours as emigrants return from Valladolid, Barcelona, even Swindon. A sound system appears on the plaza, and the church frontage is draped in bunting made from the same plastic flags used since 1987. Events run to sack races, a mass at 11:00, and a communal paella cooked in a pan that requires two men to lift. Visitors are welcome but there is no programme in English; follow the bells and you will be fine.

Semana Santa is quieter. A handful of hooded penitents processes at dusk, the only light coming from a single brass band and the headlights of parked cars angled for the purpose. It feels more like a rehearsal than a spectacle, which is precisely why some travellers prefer it to the tourist-heavy parades of Seville.

Leaving without missing the turn

The trick to enjoying Pozuelo is to treat it as a pause, not a destination. Arrive mid-morning, walk the fields before the heat builds, buy a slice of cheese to go, and be back on the N-525 in time for lunch elsewhere. The village will not entertain you; it will let you entertain yourself, and that is a rarer commodity than it sounds. Fill the tank in Tábara, carry cash, and remember that the storks on the wires are the only traffic cameras for miles.