Belvís de Monroy

The castle ramparts catch the light first, glowing amber while the village below is still grey. From the roadside lay-by on the EX-390 it looks almost intact—four crenellated towers and a curtain wall stitched to a granite outcrop 150 metres above the plain. Then you drive closer, count the missing stones, notice the chain-link fence, and realise the whole thing is off-limits. That is the first lesson of Belvis de Monroy: what appears dramatic rarely lets you in.

High plateau, low pulse

The village sits at 375 metres, high enough for the air to lose the swampy heat of the Tiétar valley but not quite high enough for pine trees. Instead there are holm oaks spaced like grazing cattle, their lower limbs cropped smooth by decades of sheep. The road climbs in tight S-bends; lorries coming down towards the A-5 flash their hazards in polite warning. At the summit the tarmac levels out and the wind picks up, carrying the smell of broom and dry straw. Temperatures drop five degrees at dusk; bring a jumper even in June.

Inside the single-lane ring street the soundtrack is sparrows, a distant chainsaw, then nothing. Roughly 600 people live here permanently, a figure that doubles during the August fiestas when emigrants drive back from Madrid or Barcelona, cars washed for the occasion and parked with doors ajar to show off. The rest of the year Belvis operates on what locals call “hora de pueblo”: the baker arrives at seven, the bar opens when he feels like it, and lunch is over by three-thirty sharp.

What you can actually look at

Start in the small square where the war memorial lists the same surnames three times over—evidence of how many men never came back from the Civil War. Opposite, the sixteenth-century church of San Juan Bautista keeps its tower door bolted; the key hangs in the bar if you ask nicely. Inside, the nave is cool and smells of candle wax and damp stone. A single retablo depicts the baptism of Christ in colours so faded the panel looks water-washed. Give yourself eight minutes; that is enough.

Behind the church a lane narrows into a cobbled alley built for mules, not mirrors. Granite houses have slots for bread delivery, iron rings for tying horses, and gutters wide enough to roll a barrel. One doorway carries the date 1764 and the inscription “En este lugar se amó mucho” – “in this place there was much love.” No one seems to know whose love, or how it ended. The alley finishes at a viewpoint where the land falls away in wheat-coloured terraces towards the reservoir of Valdecañas, ten kilometres distant and glinting like polished tin.

The castle path starts here, signed “Privado – Prohibido el paso” in fresh red paint. British visitors routinely ignore the sign, hoist themselves onto the first rocks, then retreat when the masonry starts to crumble. The owners – an aristocratic family living in Madrid – fenced the site after a German tourist broke an ankle in 2018. Photographs are still possible: frame the towers through the fence mesh and the ruin looks romantic; crop out the concrete blocks and the graffiti that reads “Antonio was here 2K19.”

Feeding yourself between silences

There are two places to eat, both on the same block. Restaurante Alonso de Monroy occupies the ground floor of the only hotel; it serves a weekday menú del día for €12 (£10.30) that runs to soup, grilled pork, chips and a wobbling custard. House red comes from the Tiétar cooperative and tastes like light Beaujolais with more tannin. Vegetarians get scrambled eggs with wild mushrooms; vegans get the mushrooms on toast. The restaurant shuts at 21:30 if custom is thin, so phone ahead (+34 927 19 20 09). Across the street Bar Machaca will toast a ham-and-cheese sandwich until midnight and sells packets of local chorizo to take away. Ask for it sliced thin; the curing is short and it greases in the heat.

Breakfast is harder. The bakery opens at seven but only stocks doughnuts and a sweet bread called “pan de leña.” Proper coffee is available in the bar from eight; before that you queue with labourers for machine espresso in paper cones. Bring teabags if you care about life.

Moving on, or staying put

Belvis works best as a punctation mark on a longer journey. Madrid to Lisbon drivers use it to break the 390-mile slog: leave the A-5 at exit 176, climb twenty minutes, sleep in the hotel (doubles €55, clean, no lift), then descend refreshed for the Portuguese border two hours west. Day-trippers usually pair the village with Monfragüe National Park, forty-five minutes north, where vultures wheel over cliffs and a short footpath leads to a thirteenth-century castle you can actually enter. Another option is the Valdecañas reservoir: hire a kayak at El Gordo beach ten minutes away and swim before the summer algae bloom turns the water green.

Walkers find gentle circuits on agricultural tracks. Head south-east along the Camino de Los Romeros and within thirty minutes the village roofs shrink to Lego size. The path skirts wheat fields, then dives into dehesa where black pigs wear leather bells. There is no shade; carry water and start early. After rain the clay sticks to boots like wet cement – wellies are wiser than walking shoes.

When to come, and when to stay away

April and late-October deliver daytime highs of 22°C, wildflowers or autumn crocus, and clear air that lets you see the Gredos peaks 80 kilometres away. Easter week is busy with Spanish families; book the hotel or keep driving. July and August nudge 38°C at midday; the bar shuts for siesta between 14:00 and 18:00 and the castle rock radiates heat like a storage heater. November to February brings mist, 5°C afternoons, and the pleasant feeling that the village has closed ranks against the world. Snow is rare but frost whites the fields; the road up can ice overnight and Guardia Civil close it without warning.

Rain is the real spoiler. A forty-minute shower turns the unpaved lanes into slick chocolate and the stone houses smell of damp dog. On those days the only shelter is the bar and conversation dries up once everyone has commented on the weather. Bring a book, or keep driving to Cáceres where museums have roofs.

Last look back

Leave by the same bendy road you arrived on. Halfway down, a lay-by allows one final photograph: the castle against the skyline, the village a cluster of brown roofs, the plain stretching out like rumpled cloth. The image will look better than the memory of standing there, which is somehow the point of Belvis de Monroy. It offers a quiet so complete you notice your own pulse, a view that promises more than it delivers, and the realisation that sometimes the places we can’t enter are the ones we remember longest.