Caudete de las Fuentes

The A-3 motorway between Valencia and Madrid throws up endless service stations, but only one sits beside a village where the loudest sound at 11 a.m. is a single tractor reversing behind the church. Pull off at kilometre 270, ignore the sandwich bar with its microwaved “Everest” baguettes, and drive the extra two minutes past the petrol pumps: that is Caudete de las Fuentes, population 686, altitude 771 m, and stubbornly indifferent to the traffic rushing past its doorstep.

A Plateau Village that Forgot to Modernise

The first thing you notice is the smell of wet earth and diesel, not sea salt. The village sits on the hinge between Valencia’s coastal plain and the high meseta, and the climate remembers it. Even in July the wind carries a chill after sunset; bring a fleece if you plan to stay for dinner. Stone houses with Arab-tile roofs crowd narrow lanes just wide enough for a combine harvester to scrape the walls. Most doorways still have the original granary hatches, now converted into garages for hatchbacks rather than grain storage, but the message is clear: this place was built by and for farmers.

There is no tourist office, no multilingual brown signs, no gift shop. The centre is the 18th-century parish church, locked except for Sunday mass, its bell tower the default meeting point for anyone giving directions. Walk one block in any direction and you hit vineyards; walk two blocks and you are among almond groves. The village boundary is marked less by a sign than by the moment the tarmac turns to dirt and the barking dogs switch from Spanish to agricultural echo.

Wine Underground and Lunch at Ground Level

The local speciality is not paella but gazpacho manchego, a game-and-flatbread stew that appears on every Thursday menu at Casa La Abuela on Calle Mayor. The owners speak no English, yet the menu has crude translations taped to the wall: “Old Pot” (cazuela de puchero), “Hunt Rabbit” (conejo al ajillo). Order by pointing; the bill rarely tops €14 including a quarter-litre of house red. Vegetarians should ask for “pisto” – a thick ratatouille served with an egg on top – or accept that lunch will be bread and olives.

Below the houses lie the real attraction: a warren of 19th-century cellars hand-cut into limestone. None are officially open, but if the metal grille outside number 16 is ajar, knock. Don Julián, retired vine-grower, will show his arched cave for the price of a €2 coin dropped into the church restoration box. Inside, the temperature holds at 14 °C year-round; the walls still carry chalk tallies of vintages long drunk. Ask nicely and he pours a thimble of 2014 tempranillo from a plastic bottle kept behind the altar of a tiny shrine to the Virgen de la Viña.

For a more polished tasting, drive five kilometres east to Bodegas Iranzo. The family has bottled organic wine since 1994 and offers tours in English on request (€10, includes three reds and a surprisingly fresh macabeo). Their barrel-aged “Casa de Plasencia” crianza travels well; buy it here for €9 and save the £18 London markup.

Walking Off the Wine

There are no way-marked trails, but the village sits on a lattice of farm tracks perfect for a post-prandial loop. From the church door head south along the paved Camino de la Fuente; after fifteen minutes the tarmac ends at a stone trough fed by a natural spring – the “fuentes” that gave the place its suffix. The water is drinkable, though locals still mutter about agricultural nitrates. Continue uphill and you hit a ridge of low Mediterranean scrub: rosemary, thyme, and in October, a scattering of saffron milk-cap mushrooms. Picking is tolerated if you carry the regional permit (€5 annual, available online), but ignorance is fined on the spot, so photograph rather than harvest unless you know your fungi.

The circuit back to the village passes through a stand of centenary olive trees whose trunks are twisted into elephant knees. Total distance: 5.3 km; total ascent: 120 m. Wear shoes that can cope with chalky clay; after rain the path turns to glue and you will carry half the plateau home on your soles.

When to Come and When to Leave

April and late-September are kindest. In spring the vineyards glow acid-green and the almond blossom photographs well against the ochre soil. Autumn brings the vendimia: tractors towing trailers of garnacha grapes clog the main street, and the air smells of crushed fruit. August fiestas are designed for returning emigrants, not outsiders; expect ear-shattering pop bands in the plaza and zero accommodation within 20 km. Winter is crisp, often below freezing at night, and the bars install portable gas heaters that glow like landing lights. Snow is rare but not impossible; the A-3 is gritted, the village lanes are not.

There is nowhere to stay in Caudete itself. The nearest beds are at Hotel Restaurante El Tollo on the Utiel ring road, a functional three-star with pool and secure parking (doubles €65, breakfast €7). Book ahead during fiesta weeks; Madrilenos treat the place as a halfway pit stop and rooms vanish first. If you arrive without a reservation, ask behind the bar – the owner keeps two spare rooms above the garage for stranded drivers, cash only, no receipts.

The Honest Verdict

Caudete de las Fuentes will never compete with coastal Valencia’s blue-flag beaches or medieval Albarracín’s postcard perfection. It offers instead a 45-minute slice of rural Spain that the motorway has not sanitised: the clatter of dominoes in the bar at 10 a.m., the smell of diesel and fermenting grapes, a farmer who opens his cellar because he feels like company. Stop for coffee, stay for lunch, and leave before the afternoon slump turns the plaza into a sun-baked silence. You will not tick off world-class sights, but you will remember how much of Spain still runs on tractors, family wine and the certainty that tomorrow the vines need pruning, tourists or no.