Zarza

The church bell strikes noon, and every dog in La Zarza knows exactly what it means. They emerge from shaded doorways, stretching, then pad towards the plaza where the bakery's metal shutter is rolling down for siesta. This is the village's daily choreography—precise, unhurried, unchanged since their grandparents' time.

At 757 metres above sea level, La Zarza sits high enough that the air carries a bite even in May. The paramo—Castile's high plateau—stretches in every direction, a sea of wheat and barley that shifts from emerald to gold depending on the month. It's the kind of landscape that makes British visitors blink twice: familiar rolling fields, but under a sky so vast and blue it feels almost aggressive. The altitude means winters arrive early and stay late. Come November, the village's 115 residents often wake to find their stone houses sealed in by frost. Roads ice over. The single bus from Medina del Campo stops running. Summer, by contrast, brings relief—temperatures hover around 24°C, and the paramo smells of wild thyme and heated earth.

The Architecture of Survival

Walk the three main streets and you'll notice something odd: many houses seem to be sinking. They're not. The ground floors are deliberately sunken, built half-buried to escape the worst of the paramo's winter winds. Adobe walls—some dating to the 1800s—swell and contract with the seasons. Wooden doors hang slightly askew, but they close tight against the cold. Above them, storks nest on every available rooftop. The birds return each March like clockwork, their clacking bills providing the village soundtrack until September.

The church of San Miguel stands at the highest point, not for spiritual reasons but practical ones. From here, in the 1500s, villagers could spot merino sheep flocks moving along the cañadas—ancient drove roads that still slice through the wheat. Inside, the building is plain to the point of austerity. No gold leaf, no baroque excess. Just thick stone walls, small windows, and a wooden roof that creaks like a ship in high winds. The priest arrives only twice monthly now; villagers take turns dusting the pews and arranging wild flowers in simple glass jars.

Most distinctive are the underground bodegas. Scattered throughout private courtyards, these hand-dug cellars maintain 12°C year-round. Knock on a few doors and someone will usually show you theirs. Down rough-hewn steps, past spider webs thick as lace, you'll find dusty bottles of red wine and clay jars of pickled aubergines. The air tastes of earth and garlic. Photography enthusiasts should note: the filtered light down here creates extraordinary portraits, but bring a tripod—the stone walls absorb light like a sponge.

When the Fields Become Your Footpath

La Zarza offers no organised tours, no bike hire, no gift shops. What it does offer is access to some of Castile's most solitary walking. A network of livestock paths—marked by rough stone cairns rather than signposts—radiates from the village. The shortest circuit takes forty minutes, skirting wheat fields before climbing a low ridge. From here you can see the entire Tierras de Medina spread below, the village's terracotta roofs clustered like dropped coins. Longer routes follow the cañada real, the royal drove road that once connected Salamanca with Segovia. Walk south for two hours and you'll reach the abandoned hamlet of Villar de Fallaves, where a 16th-century chapel stands roofless, its bell tower home to nesting kestrels.

Spring brings the most dramatic changes. By late April, the wheat suddenly shoots up, turning the landscape into a green ocean that ripples in the wind. Wild poppies appear overnight, splashing red across the fields. This is also when the paramo's birdlife becomes most active. Calandra larks perform their tumbling display flights above the fields, while hen harriers quarter the ground below. Bring binoculars and patience; the birds are plentiful but skittish.

Summer walking requires strategy. Start early—by 10 am the sun is high enough to burn. The village fountain, installed in 1923, still provides cold drinking water; locals fill plastic bottles here rather than trust tap water. Afternoons are for siesta or short drives to nearby Medina del Campo, where the 15th-century castle of La Mota offers shaded galleries and a decent café serving lechazo—milk-fed lamb roasted in wood-fired ovens. Return to La Zarza by 6 pm and the temperature has dropped enough for another walk. The light now is extraordinary: long shadows stretch across the paramo, and the stone walls glow amber.

Eating on the Roof of Castile

Here's the thing about La Zarza: there's nowhere to eat. No bar, no restaurant, not even a village shop. The last grocery closed in 2008 when its owner retired at 84. Smart visitors stock up in Medina del Campo before arriving. The town's covered market sells everything needed for a paramo picnic: Manchego cheese aged in local caves, chorizo that actually tastes of paprika rather than orange food dye, and crusty bread that stays fresh for exactly one day. Add a bottle of Toro wine—heavy, intense, designed for cold nights—and you're set.

Villagers will invite you to eat, especially during fiesta week in mid-August. Accept. You'll find yourself seated at a long table in someone's courtyard, served cocido—a stew of chickpeas, morcilla blood sausage, and vegetables that have simmered since dawn. The host will apologise for the simplicity, but the flavours are profound. Dessert is typically flan, wobbling and caramel-sweet, followed by coffee so strong it could wake the dead. Payment is refused; instead, bring a good bottle of whisky next time. Spanish villagers have discovered single malt, and duty-free bottles are prized.

If you're self-catering, consider timing your visit with the weekly market in Medina—Tuesdays and Fridays. Arrive early; by 11 am the best produce is gone. Look for pimentón de la Vera, smoked paprika that adds depth to simple scrambled eggs. Local honey, pale and fragrant, makes a perfect breakfast spread on toast. For meat, seek out the stall selling cochinillo—suckling pig that roasts to crackling perfection in village bread ovens. Many cottages still have these domed ovens; ask permission before using. Wood is scarce on the paramo, so bring a bag of olive wood scraps from Medina's hardware shops.

The Reality Check

Let's be clear: La Zarza is not for everyone. Mobile signal disappears entirely in parts of the village. The nearest doctor is 20 kilometres away. Winter visitors should carry snow chains; the road from Medina climbs 300 metres in just 8 kilometres, with hairpin bends that catch out even locals. August brings flies—harmless but persistent, they swarm any uncovered food. And yes, you will be stared at. Foreign visitors remain novel enough that children follow at a discreet distance, practising their English: "Hello, what is your name?" Repeat slowly and they'll beam like lottery winners.

Yet for those willing to embrace the rhythms—church bells marking time, wheat fields measuring seasons, conversations conducted over garden walls—La Zarza offers something increasingly rare: a place where tourism hasn't replaced daily life, merely observes it. Come for three days, not three weeks. Walk the fields at dawn. Accept the invitation to dinner. Learn the Spanish for "another glass, please." Then leave before the village's quiet becomes too comfortable, before you start recognising every dog by name, before the paramo's vast sky makes everywhere else feel cramped.