Peñalsordo

At 456 m above the surrounding wheat and oak, Peñalsordo sits high enough for the air to feel thinner and the silence to carry further. Dawn breaks here before it reaches the county capital, Castuera, 20 km away, and on clear winter mornings you can watch the mist pool in the lowlands like milk in a saucer while the village roofs stay sun-lit and warm. That vantage is the first thing that strikes arrivals from the BA-128, a road that corkscrews up from the plains and can ice over in January despite the region’s “dry Spain” reputation.

Stone, Lime and the Sound of Hooves

Most houses are single-storey or, at most, a modest two. Granite blocks the size of bread loaves form the corners; everything else is whitewash thick enough to write your name in with a finger. Doorways are low—people were shorter when these cottages went up—and the streets narrow enough to touch both walls at once. There is no monumental centre, just a grid of twelve or so lanes that funnel towards the parish church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción. Its bell rings the agricultural day: 07:00 for those with sheep, 19:30 to call farmhands home for supper. If you hear it at noon, someone has died.

Outside the church the Plaza de España is more of a widening than a square. Plastic chairs from the single bar spill onto the tarmac whenever the temperature climbs above 18 °C. Order a caña (€1.20, poured from a tap labelled “Extremadura”) and you will usually share a table with a retired vaquero who can tell you which tracks across the dehesa belong to which landowner. Accept the conversation; maps here are optimistic and mobile coverage vanishes within 200 m of the last house.

The Dehesa Up-Close

Peñalsordo is ringed by 3,000 ha of managed oak pasture. The trees—mainly holm and cork—are spaced like parkland, the result of centuries of pruning and grazing. Cattle and Iberian pigs rotate through, but the rhythm is slow: one animal per two hectares is considered crowded. Between April and mid-June the grass is knee-high and sprinkled with poppies, wild clary sage and the occasional bee orchid. Come August it turns the colour of digestive biscuits and crunches underfoot; snakes seek shade and the wild boar only venture out after dusk.

Two footpaths leave from the village edge. The shorter, marked with faded yellow paint, curls 4 km to the Ermita del Cristo de la Misericordia, a chapel that sits on its own knoll. From the door you can trace the road you arrived on as it threads west towards the granite massif of Sierra Morena 60 km away. The longer trail, unsigned but obvious, drops into the valley of the Arroyo Salado, climbs through a stand of strawberry trees, and re-enters the village from the south after 11 km. Neither route is difficult, yet summer heat can top 40 °C; carry more water than you think necessary and start early. Expect to meet no one, apart from a shepherd on a Honda mule who will raise two fingers in salute without slowing.

What Passes for Gastronomy

There are no restaurants. Eating happens in two private houses licenced as casas de comidas; you must ring the bell and ask if they are serving that day. The menu is whatever is to hand—perhaps a thick sopa de tomate thickened with last year’s bread, then presa ibérica seared on a wood-fired plancha and a slice of almond tarta. Expect to pay €12–15 including wine drawn from a five-litre demijohn. If nothing is available, the bar can assemble a plato de embutidos (€8) with chorizo that has never seen a fridge.

Cheese is made by two brothers who keep 120 Payoya goats in a paddock behind the football pitch. Their raw-milk queso de cabra is ready after 40 days; the rind is rubbed with olive oil and pimentón de la Vera, giving a smoky orange coat and a flavour that starts mild and finishes with a peppery kick. They sell from a cold store open 17:00-19:00; bring cash—notes only, no change larger than a twenty.

Timing and Temperature

Spring (mid-March to early May) is the kindest season: daytime 18-22 °C, nights cool enough for a jumper, countryside loud with larks and cuckoos. Autumn is similar but colours reverse—ochre grass greening up after the first rain. Both periods coincide with local fiestas: the Romería del Cristo in mid-September and the smaller, more intimate Fiesta de la Candelaria on 2 February when villagers carry the statue down the hill by torchlight and share chocolate caliente laced with anise.

Summer is brutal. From mid-June to early-September the mercury can stay above 30 °C well past midnight; stone walls radiate heat like storage heaters. Most visitors sensibly retreat to the coast, and Peñalsordo slips into siesta hibernation—shops reopen 20:00-22:00, dogs lie motionless in doorways, the only sound the hum of a single vending machine selling frozen water bottles outside the Ayuntamiento. If you insist on coming then, base yourself elsewhere and visit at dawn; the plains below shimmer like tarmac, but the village still catches a breeze.

Winter brings the opposite problem. Night frosts are common from December to February, and while snow is rare, the BA-128 can glaze over. Chains are sensible kit if you are staying in a rented cottage. The dehesa turns silver with hoar frost; wild asparagus shoots push through in January and locals collect them for scrambled eggs. Bars light olive-wood fires that smell of olives and pepper—better than any scented candle you could import.

Getting There and Away

Public transport is theoretical. The Monday-only bus from Castuera was axed in 2019; the nearest workable railway station is at Mérida, 90 minutes by car. From the UK the smoothest route is a flight to Madrid, pick up a hire car at Terminal 1, and head southwest on the A-5 and then the EX-118. Total driving time is 2 h 45 min; allow extra for the last 30 km of single-carriageway where tractors have right of way and the speed limit feels aspirational. Fuel up in Castuera—the village pump closed in 2021 and the next garage is 25 km.

Accommodation is limited to three casas rurales, none with more than five rooms. Two are restored labourers’ cottages with beams you will bang your head on; the third is a 1970s villa whose owner moved to Málaga and lets it out at weekends. Prices hover around €70 a night for the house, however many of you squeeze in. Sheets are provided, towels sometimes aren’t—ask. There is no hotel, no pool, no night-life. Wi-Fi exists but download speeds top out at 6 Mbps; the local council installed fibre in 2022 yet most routers still run on copper. Treat connectivity as optional and you will be happier.

The Honest Verdict

Peñalsordo will not change your life. It offers no postcard monuments, no boutique shopping, no chef desperate for a Michelin star. What it does give is altitude, space and a working countryside that has not been scrubbed for coaches. If you are content to walk until your boots are the same colour as the soil, to eat what is put in front of you, and to swap polite nods with people who will remember your face tomorrow, then the village earns its keep. Arrive expecting entertainment and you will leave after one restless night. Arrive curious and you might still be at the bar when the church bell tolls noon—though, as the locals will quietly remind you, that usually means someone else has already decided to stay forever.