Esparragosa de la Serena

The church bell strikes eleven and the only other sound is a tractor churning somewhere beyond the low, whitewashed houses. At 446 m above sea-level, Esparragosa de la Serena sits high enough for the air to feel thinner, cleaner, almost sharp in the lungs, yet the surrounding plains stretch so wide that the horizon seems to bend. This is La Serena, Extremadura’s grain-store: a region where the summer sun burns the earth to biscuit-brown and spring paints it sudden, startling green.

Five minutes on foot and you have crossed the village twice. The parish church, simple and sand-coloured, anchors the single plaza; its shadow falls across elderly men on benches who track strangers with unhurried curiosity. Look up and the eaves tell their own story: terracotta Arabic tiles, hand-forged iron grills, the occasional datestone reading 1897 or 1923. Some façades have been re-whitewashed so recently they hurt the eyes; others flake like old pastry, revealing ochre brick beneath. Renovation arrives in bursts, usually when a grandson in Madrid or Bilbao sends money home.

Outside the compact centre, asphalt surrenders to gravel. Dehesa proper begins: holm oaks spaced like chess pieces across gentle swells of land. In April you can stop to pick wild asparagus—espárragos trigueros—though locals will remind you that every metre belongs to someone. Carry a stick, they advise, not for protection but to part the thistles. The stalks hide low, pale mauve at the base, and the trick is to snap them cleanly without uprooting the plant. A full basket might earn a nod of approval at the Bar Central when you return for a caña; most visitors manage half a dozen before the sun pushes them back to shade.

Cycling here is gloriously uncomplicated. The EX-390 threads east–west through La Serena; turn off at any unsigned track and tyres crunch along hard-packed clay between wheat and barley. Distances deceive. A lone stone hut that looks five minutes away still hovers in the middle distance after twenty. Take two litres of water per person—streams are seasonal and tree cover is theoretical until October. If the horizon shimmers, dismount and sit beneath an oak; the leaves are small, leathery, but better than nothing. Night riders should pack a powerful lamp: there are no streetlights once the last farmhouse porch-lamp disappears.

Daytime temperatures can exceed 40 °C from June to August; the village emptes after 13:00 except for the baker and the pharmacy. British visitors used to Cornwall mizzle will find the dryness striking—sweat evaporates before you notice you are sweating, which makes dehydration sneakier. August nights stay above 24 °C; windows stay open and neighbours’ television choices become public information. Conversely, January dawns can touch –3 °C; the same plains that fry you in summer become steel-cold plates. Snow is rare but not impossible: the camino to the cemetery turns briefly white most winters, sending children scavenging for the one usable sledge in the municipality.

Spring is the pragmatic choice. From mid-March the first asparagus appear, followed by poppies splashing red across cereal fields. By May the grain stands knee-high, bending in metallic waves when the aire blows—an African-originated wind that feels hair-dryer warm and can last three days. Birders arrive then: great bustards stalk the farther fields, stone-curlews call eerily after dark, and white storks clatter on the church roof. Bring binoculars, but also a hat with a strap; the same wind that lifts kites will whip a baseball cap into the next province.

Food is land-based and portioned for labourers who have been up since dawn. Breakfast at the sole café means tostada smeared with tomato pulp, a glug of local olive oil, and coffee that arrives in glasses still bubbling from the machine. The menu del día, served 14:00-16:00, costs €11 and runs to three courses: migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, pepper and scraps of pork—then lamb stew, then a baked custard called tarta de la abuela. Vegetarians can negotiate: ask for “migas sin chorizo” and the cook will shrug, subtract the meat, but leave the flavour-rich fat. If you prefer self-catering, the tiny supermarket stocks Extremaduran sheep cheese, pimentón de la Vera, and local wine sold in plastic bottles that look suspiciously like petrol containers but taste of dark cherries and iron.

Accommodation is limited. There is no hotel; instead, three village houses have been converted into casas rurales under the name “La Serena Alta”. Expect stone walls 60 cm thick (air-conditioning unnecessary), patchy Wi-Fi and a roof terrace that overlooks grain silos rather than castle turrets. Prices hover around €70 a night for a two-bedroom house; firewood is extra in winter. Book through the regional tourist board website—owners live in Badajoz city and leave keys in a coded box, so last-minute arrivals are feasible if you have Spanish mobile coverage to call them.

Public transport exists on paper. A weekday bus links Esparragosa with Castuera (14 km) at 07:15 and returns at 19:00. Miss it and a taxi costs €22; the driver, Jesús, doubles as the village plumber and will happily explain why the council still hasn’t fixed the pavement outside his workshop. From Castuera, two daily trains trundle to Madrid (3 h 45 min) or Mérida (45 min), making a car-free day trip possible if you enjoy early starts. Hiring wheels in Mérida or Badajoz is simpler; the drive from either city takes under an hour on empty, straight roads where you will spend more time avoiding tumbleweed than cars.

Even with wheels, treat Esparragosa as a pause rather than a base camp. Within 30 km you can reach the granite batholith of Castuera’s spa—its thermal waters bubble at 38 °C and admission is €10 for the afternoon—or follow the Ruta de las Estaciones, a 40-km rail-trail that slices through tunnels and across viaducts. Closer still, the abandoned military airfield at nearby Lugar Nuevo hosts an unofficial museum of Cold-War relics: enter through a gap in the fence, mind the broken glass, and find Spanish Sabre jets rusting among the thistles. Signage is non-existent; the experience feels half discovery, half trespass.

Back in the village, siesta is taken seriously. Between 14:30 and 17:00 the only footsteps echo from the baker delivering bread to doorways: a half-loaf per customer, sliced thick enough to double as doorstop. Evenings start late. By 21:00 the plaza fills with families; children pedal bikes while grandparents occupy the stone bench directly under the streetlamp, arguing about football. Buy a tub of ice cream from the kiosk—still called a “kiosko” though it is essentially someone’s front room with a freezer—and you have bought the right to sit and listen. Topics rarely stray further than rainfall predictions and whose grandson has qualified for university in Cáceres.

Leave time for the sky. Light pollution registers just 0.4 on the Bortle scale; on clear nights the Milky Way appears like spilled sugar. Stand at the cemetery edge—highest point for kilometres—and the silence is so complete you hear blood in your ears. Shooting stars are common from mid-July through August; take a blanket because night-time breezes carry the metallic chill of the plains even after 35 °C days.

For all its quiet, Esparragosa is not frozen in amber. Young residents still migrate, returning only for Easter and the September fiesta, when a travelling funfair sets up bumper cars opposite the town hall and the population triples for three days. Those weekends book solid; if you dislike brass bands playing until 04:00, choose a different date. Otherwise you will find the village exactly as advertised: small, sincere, unbothered by hurry. Bring walking shoes, a sense of proportion, and enough Spanish to order coffee “con leche, por favor.” The rest—wild asparagus, starlit silence, the smell of hot barley in the afternoon—comes free of charge.