Berlanga

The castle gate is locked at 17:45, even though the September sun still sits high above the holm-oak canopy. That single fact tells you most of what you need to know about Berlanga, the 5000-strong hill-town that Extremadura forgot to advertise. No souvenir stalls, no audio guides, just a hand-written cardboard sign hanging from the wrought-iron grille: “Cerrado por obras – disculpen las molestias.” If you want medieval battlements, you’ll have to content yourself with craning your neck at 30 metres of honey-coloured stone while swifts dive overhead.

Berlanga perches at 573 m on the southern edge of the province, halfway between the Portuguese border and the cattle town of Zafra. The landscape rolls rather than soars – a sea of dehesa pasture that shifts from mint-green in April to the colour of burnt toast by late July. Drive in from the EX-105 and you’ll share the tarmac with tractors moving at the speed of a gentle stroll; indicators are optional, sheepdogs are not.

Inside the walls

Park by the modern cemetery on the west side and walk through the 15th-century arch. The cobbles are smooth, worn down by centuries of hooves and tractor tyres rather than tourist feet. Houses are whitewashed but not twee – burgundy geraniums appear only if someone actually likes gardening. Iron balconies carry satellite dishes the size of bicycle wheels; on washing day, sheets flap like ensigns above the street.

The heart of town is the Plaza Mayor, a rectangle of granite benches and plane trees that drop seed fluff in June and make the place look as though it’s been hit by a pillow fight. The church clock strikes quarters whether anyone is listening or not. At 12:30 the bar on the corner fills with men in overalls drinking short beers; by 13:00 they’ve vanished, back to fields that lie a five-minute drive away. Order a caña and you’ll get a free tapa of morcilla – crumbly blood sausage that tastes better than it photographs.

The chapel that isn’t here

Berlanga’s real treasure sits 8 km out of town on a dirt track that Google politely labels “unsuitable for low vehicles”. The Mozarabic chapel of San Baudelio looks like a mud-brick bread oven from the outside; inside, a single palm-tree column holds up a dome of stone. 12th-century frescoes – Christ healing the blind, a hunter with a falcon – circle the walls in earthy reds now faded to terracotta. The custodian in the village tourist office keeps the key; ring the bell before you set off or you’ll waste both diesel and daylight. Entry is free, but a euro in the box helps pay for the dehumidifiers that keep the paint from flaking.

Back in town, the castle may be off-limits but you can still climb the outer ramp for sunset. From the top the view is a lesson in Iberian geography: to the west, Portugal’s Serra de São Mamede bruises the horizon; southwards the land drops gently towards the Guadiana, a silver ribbon you can’t quite see but know is there. Swallows gather on the telegraph wires like musical notes, and the only sound is the clank of a distant cattle bell.

Eating (and the art of timing)

There are two proper restaurants and one weekend-only gastro-bar; if you arrive on a Tuesday in January, only Hostal Rufino will be open. The menú del día costs €12 and runs to three courses plus a half-bottle of house wine. Expect roast lamb that falls off the bone, chips served in a separate terracotta bowl, and a custardy flan that tastes of condensed milk and childhood. Ask for tinto de verano if full-bodied Rioja feels too much at midday; the barman will mix Spanish red with gaseosa lemonade and serve it over enough ice to make a British traveller weep with gratitude.

Vegetarians can assemble a meal from sides – grilled pimientos, scrambled eggs with wild asparagus – but don’t mention veganism unless you enjoy watching confusion cross someone’s face. Local sheep cheese is milder than Manchego, sold in vacuum-packed wedges at the counter; buy one, stick it in the hire-car glovebox, and the smell will remind you of Extremadura long after you’ve landed back at Luton.

Walking (and why you should pack water)

The tourist office has photocopied leaflets for three circular walks. The longest, the 12 km Ruta de la Dehesa, follows farm tracks through cork oak and olive groves before dropping into the valley of the small River Matachel. Waymarking is sporadic; at one point the path becomes a dried streambed full of ankle-turning pebbles. Take a litre of water per person – fountains marked on the map were dry when we checked in October – and wear shoes you don’t mind coating in red dust. You’ll meet more Iberian pigs than people; the pigs are friendly, the electric fences less so.

Spring brings carpets of purple Viola beneath the trees and enough birdlife to keep a casual twitcher happy: hoopoes, booted eagles, and in April flocks of crane passing overhead on their way north. Summer, by contrast, is brutal. Temperatures nudge 40 °C by 15:00; locals drive to the municipal pool at Risco de San Miguel and stay there until the cicadas shut up. If you must hike in July, start at dawn and finish by 11:00, when the bar at the petrol station serves ice-cold clara (lager with lemon) for two euros and lets you sit in the freezer aisle.

When to come, when to stay away

The sweet spots are late April–early June and mid-September to October. In May the plains glow green, wild marjoram scents the air, and every balcony sprouts a Spanish flag for the local fiestas. Book accommodation early if your trip coincides with the Feria de San Isidro (around 15 May) – half of Badajoz province returns to its grandparents’ village and beds disappear.

August is hot, listless and largely closed; even the bakery shutters at 14:00. Winter days are crisp and wind-sharpened, good for photography but bad for anyone hoping to sit outside. The castle keep sometimes opens for pre-booked groups in low season; contact the town hall a week ahead and a guide will appear with keys and a torch.

Getting here (and away)

No railway line reaches Berlanga. ALSA runs one daily bus from Badajoz at 16:15, arriving 90 minutes later after a scenic but circuitous route through three even smaller villages. The service leaves again at 06:45 next morning, which effectively forces an overnight stay. Hire a car instead: the drive from Seville airport takes 1 h 45 min on the A-66 and EX-105, toll-free and usually empty. Petrol is cheaper than in the UK; fill up before you return the vehicle or the rental desk will charge you motorway-service prices.

Cash is king. The only ATM stands inside the Co-op supermarket and it rejects most foreign cards without a Spanish chip. Bring euros or be prepared for a 25-minute drive to Almazán for a Santander branch that actually works.

The honest verdict

Berlanga will not change your life. It offers no zip-wires, no Michelin stars, no souvenir tea towels. What it does give is a slice of Spain that package holidays skipped – a place where restaurant owners remember your order from the night before, where the evening paseo still happens under streetlights, and where the loudest noise after midnight is the church bell counting the hours you should already be asleep. Come if you like slow travel, empty horizons and the smell of woodsmoke on cold mornings. Don’t come if you need evening entertainment beyond a second glass of local red and a sky full of stars that haven’t been rearranged by light pollution.