Herrera del Duque

The square fills at 20:30 sharp. Metal chairs scrape across stone, dominoes clack, and the first caña is pulled before the church bell has finished striking. Nobody is in a hurry; the evening heat lingers at 28 °C even in late September, and the duke whose name the town wears vanished centuries ago. What remains is a grid of granite houses, 3,451 inhabitants, and a reservoir so wide it looks like a freshwater sea dropped into the rolling oak country of east-central Badajoz.

A Duke Without a Palace

Herrera del Duque never had a palace worthy of the title. The dukes of Frías collected rents, then left, and their absence explains the town’s useful modesty. The 16th-century coats of arms set into the Town Hall are the grandest things on Plaza Mayor; everything else is simply neat, lived-in, and repainted when the money appears. That honesty appeals to travellers who have tired of Spain’s more theatrical villages. You will not be herded through a medieval gate into a souvenir lane. Instead you get a chemist that still closes for lunch, a bakery that smells of anise and lard, and a single cash machine that swallows British cards on a whim—Santander on Plaza de España, take note.

The parish church of Santiago Apóstol squats at the highest point, its tower built like a fortified grain silo. Step inside and the cool granite swallows the outside buzz; baroque gilding glints above a side altar where parishioners have pinned tiny silver legs and arms in gratitude for cures. There is no audio guide, no roped-off chapels, just a volunteer warden who may lift the altar curtain if you ask nicely. Donations go to roof repairs.

Downhill, Calle Nueva threads past houses whose wooden balconies sag with geraniums. Knock on any door bearing a brass plaque and you will find a family, not a gift shop. The town’s one boutique hotel occupies a former olive warehouse: thick walls, small windows, Wi-Fi that copes until three guests stream at once. Rooms cost €70–€90 year-round, breakfast included; air-con is non-negotiable in July unless you enjoy lying awake in your own marinade.

Water, Oak and Engine Noise

Five minutes west the land falls away and García de Sola reservoir appears, 36 km of drowned river valley ringed by low sierras. British motorhomers treat the first lay-by as a loo stop, photograph the view, then accelerate towards Cáceres. Those who stay discover a shoreline that changes personality with the water level. In dry years pale mudflats turn pink with salt crystals; after heavy rains the drowned church bell tower of old Puebla de Alcocer surfaces like a warning. Dawn is the photographers’ window—cormorants on half-submerged fence posts, grebes leaving silver wakes, the sierras bruised violet.

A gravel track follows the western arm to a basic picnic site with stone barbecues and cold-water taps. Bring charcoal; the nearest shop is back in town and Sunday means total shutdown. Carp anglers arrive with tents and rod pods, convinced the next Spanish record lurks below. They tolerate bird-watchers swapping telescopes for polarised sunglasses; both tribes share insect repellent against the reservoir’s aggressive mosquitoes. If the wind drops, walk the 4 km circular route above the dam—no shade, carry water—where black kites ride the thermals and stone martins flick in and out of drainage pipes.

Walking, Eating, Waiting

Hiking options are footnote-scale rather than epic. From the northern cemetery a farm track climbs gently through dehesa—open oak pasture where black Iberian pigs snuffle for acorns and the occasional fighting bull eyes trespassers with professional suspicion. The signed loop to Fuente del Fresno (6 km, 180 m ascent) passes an abandoned stone shelter whose roof has become a communal swallow nursery. After rain the clay sticks to boots like cold cheddar; in August the shade temperature still reaches 34 °C, so start early or risk becoming part of the livestock census.

Back in town, hunger is solved at Pacos on Calle Doctor Fleming. The owner worked a season in Nottingham and greets Brits with “You alright, mate?” while plating chuletón, a pork T-bone the size of a shoe. Chips come with ketchup, salads are iceberg and beetroot, and nobody minds if children dissect the meat into anatomically correct portions. A three-course lunch menu runs to €13; wine is from nearby Cañamero and tastes like tempranillo that has seen hardship. Vegetarians get tortilla—thick, plain, eggy—or migas: fried breadcrumbs with grapes and lumps of bacon, impossible to disassemble.

Puddings appear only at weekends unless you knock on the convent bell opposite the health centre. The Poor Clare nuns sell roscos (anise doughnuts) through a revolving wooden hatch; hand over €5 and the hatch spins back with a paper bag still warm. They close at 18:00 sharp for prayers—Extremadura keeps God’s hours as well as the siesta.

Calendar of Returnees

Herrera’s population doubles during fiestas. The August fair, last weekend of the month, imports fairground rides that block the main road and force traffic into a one-way slalom. Casetas serve beer at Seville prices while reggaeton shakes the church tower until 05:00. Hotel rooms jump to €120; rural cottages on the reservoir require three-night minimums booked in March. If you crave quiet, come the weekend after when the rubbish trucks have finished their dawn sweep and the plaza smells of bleach and hangover.

Easter is more intimate. Processions squeeze through lanes barely three metres wide; hooded penitents carry floats whose silver candlesticks date to 1650. Locals applaud the moment the bearers negotiate the right-angled turn into Santiago street—success earns a spontaneous saeta, a flamenco verse hurled from a balcony. Visitors are tolerated provided shoulders are covered and mobile phones stay silent; the priest still scolds anyone who applauds inside the church.

Winter shortens the day dramatically. January highs struggle past 10 °C, the reservoir turns pewter, and the single taxi driver heads home at 21:00. Yet the light is knife-sharp, and hotel rates drop to €45. Bring a fleece for the evening paseo; bars light braziers on the terrace and serve braised lamb with chestnuts. On 2 February the Candelaria procession carries the Virgin through streets carpeted with rosemary sprigs—crushed underfoot, the scent drifts into the cold air like a promise that warmth will return.

Getting There, Getting Out

Madrid-Barajas is the sensible gateway. Hire cars queue at Terminal 1; the two-and-a-half-hour run uses the A-5 then the EX-118, a fast but hypnotic road where wild boar warning signs outnumber petrol stations. Fuel up at Navalmoral de la Mata—after that pumps are sporadic and Sundays mean plastic gloves because self-service is the only option. Buses reach Herrera from Badajoz twice daily; the 14:30 service is usually a minibus driven by a man who doubles as the ticket inspector and local gossip columnist.

Leave time for the detours. Twenty-five minutes north, the Roman city of Cáparra’s triple arch stands in the middle of a cork plantation; you can walk the grid of stone streets without a rope in sight. Half an hour south, the ghost village of Peraleda de San Román keeps its 1950s bar intact—peeling paint, zinc counter, fridge humming to no one since the last family locked up. These are the day trips Herrera offers: modest, half-forgotten, and free of coach parties.

Stay longer than a loo stop and the town’s rhythm seeps in. Bread arrives at 07:30, the church bell counts the quarters even when no one is listening, and the reservoir changes colour more often than the locals change mayor. Herrera del Duque will not dazzle, but it will slow you down—sometimes that is the only souvenir worth taking home.