Alaraz

The thermometer on the church wall read eight degrees at nine o’clock on a late-May morning, even though Salamanca city had already nudged twenty. At 887 m above sea level, Alaraz sits high enough for the air to feel thinner, cleaner, and—before the sun clears the grain silos—decidedly sharp. Locals in quilted body-warmers stood at doorways, cups of milky coffee in hand, watching a single red post-van wheeze up the single-track approach. That road is the village lifeline: 35 km of wheat fields, stone walls and the occasional fighting bull dozing under an oak. Miss the daily bread van and you’ll be driving to Sotoserrano for a baguette.

Stone, adobe and the smell of toast

Houses here are built from what lies underneath: ochre granite for the lower courses, sun-dried adobe above, the whole roofed with terracotta tiles whose corners have gone mossy-green after last winter’s snow. Nothing is whitewashed; nothing is painted Instagram-blue. The effect is a uniform biscuit colour that turns honey-gold just after sunrise, the exact moment when swifts begin to race the belfry of the fifteenth-century brick church. Peer through the iron grille and you’ll see a single nave, plain plaster, a wooden Christ whose paint has flaked to reveal pine beneath. It is not spectacular, but it is honest, and the village calendar—baptisms, funerals, the Saturday-night tambourine mass—still revolves around its bell.

Walk downhill (everything in Alaraz is slightly downhill from the church) and you pass timber doors wide enough for a mule, metal knockers shaped like rope, and the faint smell of burnt toast drifting from unseen kitchens. One gate stands ajar: inside, a grandmother in carpet slippers clips rosemary from an oil-drum planter while Radio Nacional murmurs from an upstairs window. She will nod, maybe tell you the herbs are for the lentils, but conversation stalls quickly if your Spanish stalls first. English is scarce; a pocket phrase-book is more use than a selfie stick.

Bread, beans and beef you can share

Food is straightforward and portioned for field workers. The only bar–restaurant opens at seven for churros and closes after the late-afternoon vermouth. On weekdays the set lunch is €9 and you eat whatever Conchi, the owner, has decided to simmer: usually judiones—giant butter beans the size of a 50-pence piece—swimming with chorizo and bay. Order the chuletón al estilo Béjar only if you have backup; the T-bone arrives sizzling on a terracotta tile, thick enough to feed two hungry hikers and half the neighbouring table. Wine from the Sierra de Francia is poured from a unlabelled jug, tastes of blackberries, and costs less than a London espresso. Plastic tablecloths, paper napkins, no pudding list: instead, a plate of perrunillas, monastery biscuits sweetened with local honey that crumble like shortbread. Payment is cash only; the nearest ATM is twelve kilometres away and frequently out of order.

Windmills without Don Quijote

Alaraz is a gateway, rather than a destination, for walkers. Farm tracks strike out across the plateau, signed only by the red-and-white bars of the GR-14 long-distance path. Follow it south-east for ninety minutes and you reach the stone watch-tower of El Mirón, a thirteenth-century lookout built to spot Portuguese raiders. The climb is 250 m of stony zig-zag; trainers suffice, but flip-flops will betray you on the gravel descent. From the summit the view slides forty kilometres south to the Gredos peaks, still snow-dusted in May. Sunrise here is wind-quiet and crowd-free—Spanish hikers say it beats anything in the better-known Hoyos del Espino car park, and you will share it only with the occasional griffon vulture spiralling upwards on a thermal.

If that sounds too strenuous, borrow one of the town hall’s free hybrid bikes (ask inside the ayuntamiento, they keep them behind the tractor mower) and freewheel the lane to Villoria. The road is paved but single-track; wheat brushes your shins and storks clack overhead like faulty semaphore. Round trip: 12 km, one hour, zero traffic, one bar at the far end open only at weekends. Mid-week you will drink from your water bottle and turn around.

Seasons that decide for you

Weather dictates the calendar more than any tourist office. Winters arrive early: the first frost often lands in mid-October and the access road can glaze over. When that happens the school mini-bus chains up and locals swap harvest talk for predictions of snow weight on tile roofs. Spring, by contrast, is exuberant; fields turn emerald then chrome-yellow with rapeseed so quickly you can almost watch the colour change. This is the sweet spot for British visitors—daytime 18 °C, night-time cool enough for the log-burner most rural casas include in the price.

Come August the village doubles in size as émigrés return from Madrid and Barcelona. The fiesta includes a foam party in the plaza, a procession of the Virgin under a firework canopy, and all-night bingo with hams for prizes. It is good-natured, loud, and impossible to park. Book accommodation early or, better, arrive a week later when the rubbish trucks have hauled away the last of the streamers and you can again hear cicadas rather than Bruno Mars.

A bed, a key, and no reception desk

There is no hotel. What exists are four privately owned casas rurales, each sleeping four to six, priced around €80 a night for the whole house. Keys are left under a flowerpot; Wi-Fi is advertised but varies from “streaming possible” to “stand on the balcony and point north”. One cottage, La Higuera, has a roof terrace that catches the evening sun over grain silos; swallows dive past your glass of Garnacha as the temperature drops and someone, somewhere, fires up a coals barbecue. Towels are provided, breakfast is not. Bring eggs, olive oil and the village’s still-warm barra; the corner shop opens 09:00–13:00, shuts all afternoon, and stocks UHT milk, tinned asparagus, little else.

Getting here, getting out

Alaraz is not a day-trip from Madrid, whatever the hire-car sat-nav claims. Allow two and a half hours on the A-50 and N-630, the last forty minutes single-lane, goat-hazard country. Buses run on Tuesday and Friday only, terminating in Béjar where you wait two hours for a connection that might arrive. Better to rent a small car at Salamanca rail station (€35 a day in shoulder season) and combine Alaraz with an overnight in the Sierra de Francia stone villages. Fill the tank before you leave the city; mountain garages close at two for lunch and prices rise faster than the altitude.

Take it or leave it

Alaraz will not change your life, but it might reset your week. The appeal is proportionate: tiny population, modest monuments, landscape that rewards patience more than Instagram speed-runs. If you need artisan gift shops or vegan brunches, stay in Salamanca. If you are content to wake early, smell burnt toast and rosemary, walk until your boots are dusted ochre, then share a T-bone with strangers who nod good-day in the street, the village is waiting. Just remember to draw cash, download offline maps, and pack an extra layer—900 metres feels higher when the sun drops behind the castle hill.