Encinas De Abajo

The church bell strikes seven, but only the pigeons seem to notice. In Encinas de Abajo's single square, two elderly men pause their game of petanca long enough to count the chimes, then carry on as if time were negotiable. This is village life on the Castilian meseta—no fanfare, no souvenir stalls, just the sound of grain silos creaking in the evening breeze and the occasional tractor rattling past stone houses that have seen better centuries.

Seventeen kilometres south-west of Salamanca, the road drops gently from the city's sandstone splendour into a landscape that flattens until sky and earth appear to negotiate their borders. Encinas de Abajo sits at 800 metres, high enough for winter frosts to silver the holm oaks that gave the village its name, yet low enough for summer heat to shimmer across wheat fields that stretch to every horizon. The altitude matters: nights stay cool even in July, and when Madrid swelters at 38 °C, locals here claim they can still smell the dew.

A Plain Architecture for a Plain Life

No baroque façades compete for attention. The 16th-century parish church of San Miguel stands solid and square, its tower more functional than elegant, the stone weathered to the colour of dry earth. Walk the perimeter and you'll spot later repairs: brick patches where the masonry failed, a concrete ramp for wheelchair access that speaks of a village determined to keep its elders living independently. Inside, the nave is cool and dim; the only flash of gold is on the painted altar, rescued from a fire in 1938 and restored with money raised by selling raffle tickets at the fiesta.

The houses follow the same unshowy grammar. Granite footings, adobe walls whitewashed annually before the feria, pantile roofs weighted with stones against the Atlantic gales that sometimes ride the meseta. Many retain the arched entrance for animals—now converted into garages for Seat Ibizas—while interior patios still hold the original bread ovens, blackened mouths that once fed families through the long post-war winters. Number 12 Calle Real has a plaque commemorating the village's first telephone, installed 1957; the kiosk is gone, but the bracket remains, rusting like an obsolete question mark.

What the Fields Remember

Leave the last street lamp behind and the camino straightens into a track used by Romans, then by muleteers, now by combine harvesters whose tyres leave prints wider than a man's height. In April the soil smells of iron; by June the wheat sings in the wind, a hush that makes walkers lower their voices instinctively. Follow the signposted loop south for three kilometres and you reach the remains of a Civil War trench, its berm barely a ripple yet still avoided by farmers who refuse to plough that strip. Information is scarce—no interpretation board, just a wooden cross renewed each November by grandchildren of men who fought here and never spoke of it afterwards.

Birdlife rewards patience. Marsh harriers quarter the fields at dawn; hoopoes flick between the encinas, their call a slowed-down laugh. Bring binoculars and walk quietly: the meseta's wildlife is accustomed to machines, not to pedestrians. Spring adds colour that painters overlook—the sulphur yellow of bastard cabbage, the bruised purple of viper's bugloss—while autumn turns stubble into a blond crew-cut that exposes the soil's old scars.

Eating What the Day Dictates

There is no menu del día posted in the square. Instead, Bar El Pedal opens at seven for coffee and churros, closes at three, then reopens when owner Pepe returns from checking his irrigation pivots. The blackboard lists three items: "hornazo, tortilla, queso". The hornazo arrives warm, a palm-sized pie stuffed with pork loin, hard-boiled egg and a single green pepper that provides more aroma than heat. Eat it at the counter and Pepe will slide over a saucer of local olives, brined in a village house whose owner still grades them by hand under a bare bulb.

If you need supper, phone ahead before noon. Encinas cooking follows the matanza calendar: farinato sausages in November, chanfaina stews when the first frost hits, patatas meneás—paprika-stained potatoes with streaky bacon—throughout winter. Vegetarians can expect tortilla, salad, and genuine sympathy. House wine comes from nearby Vitigudino in plastic bottles that once held mineral water; it tastes of granite and sun, costs €1.80 a glass, and will not be offered if Pepe thinks you're driving.

When the Village Reclaims its Own

August changes the tempo. Cars with Madrid plates nose down lanes wide enough for carts, boots full of inflatable toys and grandchildren who stare wide-eyed at star-filled skies they've only seen on school trips. The fiesta begins with a procession: the Virgin carried from the church at walking pace, her platform shouldered by men who count steps in silence, followed by a brass band that manages to sound both triumphant and slightly apologetic. Night brings a verbena in the polideportivo: paper lanterns, a sound system rented from Zamora, and elderly couples dancing pasodobles while teenagers vape behind the sports pavilion. At three the music stops; by four the square is hosed down, and by five only the scent of gunpowder from last night's fireworks hangs in the cooling air.

Winter is different. The fields turn ochre, the wind arrives with nothing to stop it between here and Portugal, and smoke from domestic fires drifts horizontally. Bars close early; even Pepe admits defeat when the temperature touches –8 °C. Yet this is when the village talks most—neighbours sharing stewed lentils in kitchens that smell of woodsmoke and garlic, arguments over whose grandfather planted which oak, plans for the next fiesta already brewing like the coffee that never quite leaves the stove.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Public transport demands planning. Buses leave Salamanca's Avenida Filiberto Villalobos Monday to Friday at 16:30 and 18:30, returning at 06:45 and 14:00—timetables built for schoolchildren and pensioners, not for spontaneous tourism. A taxi from the city costs €25 if you negotiate before boarding; Uber rarely appears this far out. Hire cars make sense: take the A-62 towards Portugal, exit at 264, follow the CL-517 for ten minutes until the village sign appears suddenly, as if the council only just remembered to mark the place.

Staying overnight limits choice. El Rincón del Tormes, two kilometres north, offers a modernised stone house with underfloor heating and a barbecue terrace that surveys cereal sea. Otherwise, base yourself in Salamanca and treat Encinas as a half-day punctuation between cathedrals. Whichever you choose, leave before Sunday lunch unless you've been formally invited: the village observes the siesta with judicial severity, and the only thing moving will be the church bell, counting hours that nobody bothers to check.