Puebla de Alcocer

The castle gate clangs shut behind you at 09:15 sharp. From the ramparts the Orellana reservoir spreads westwards like a sheet of hammered pewter, 5 000 hectares of fresh water trapped between rolling dehesas of holm oak. At this altitude—589 metres above sea level—the air carries a faint scent of wild thyme and the morning breeze is cool enough to make you keep your jumper on. Below, the village's white houses grip the ridge as if they might otherwise slide into the lake. There is no ticket office, no gift shop, no recorded commentary. Just stone, sky, and the echo of your own footsteps.

Puebla de Alcocer sits at the northern edge of Extremadura's empty quarter, a region locals call La Siberia for its winters rather than its geography. Motorways skirt the district; trains never arrived. What traffic exists is mostly tractors, and even those pause for a second helping of coffee at Bar El Puente. The permanent population hovers around 500, though the electoral roll swells each summer when grandchildren arrive from Madrid or Seville to spend August with grandparents who still bake bread in wood-fired ovens.

Climbing the Callejón de la Cruz

Every street tilts. The shortest route from the main square to the castle is the Callejón de la Cruz, a 12-per-cent gradient polished smooth by centuries of hooves and boot leather. Stone houses lean inwards until neighbours on opposite balconies could swap sugar without leaving home. Halfway up, an iron grille covers a spring that once supplied Moorish sentries; the water still runs, tasting faintly of iron and slate. By the time the path levels beneath the outer walls your calves will remind you why Extremaduran ham is so prized: the pigs walk the same hills.

Access is by appointment only. Email the town hall at least a week ahead—[email protected]—stating your preferred morning or evening slot. Someone will meet you with a skeleton key and a five-minute safety briefing in rapid Spanish, then leave you to wander. Inside, the keep is a shell; staircases end in mid-air and swallows nest in arrow slits. The reward is the parapet walk: 360-degree views across four provinces, the Guadiana River a silver thread on the horizon, the sierras of Toledo faintly visible 80 kilometres away on clear days. Bring binoculars; griffon vultures ride the thermals at eye level.

Bread, Cheese and Tuesday's Van

Groceries require planning. The village's only shop shuts for siesta at 14:00 and all day Sunday. Tuesday brings salvation in the shape of a green Mercedes van that rattles into the square at 10:30 dispensing fruit, vegetables and gossip. Locals arrive clutching wicker baskets; visitors brandish €20 notes because the nearest cash machine is 15 kilometres distant in Zalamea de la Serena. If you miss the van, the bar will sell you tinned tuna, wine and not much else.

For fresh supplies drive twenty minutes to Castuera market on Fridays, or eat out. Casa Paco grills Iberian pork cheek until it collapses into a rich, beefy stew that pairs surprisingly well with the local co-operative's €3-a-litre Pitarra red. Torta de la Serena—a soft sheep's cheese cured with thistle—arrives in ceramic pots; scoop the centre onto toast and drizzle with honey for pudding. Vegetarians survive on gazpacho extremeño, a thick bread-and-tomato soup served cold with grapes. Portions are agricultural; doggy bags unheard of.

Water, Walks and Winter Silence

The Orellana reservoir was built in the 1950s to irrigate rice fields further downstream. Today its banks provide Puebla's main leisure ground. A rough track from the cemetery leads to a shale beach where Spanish families set up gazebos for weekend barbecues. The water is warm enough to swim from May to October and clean enough that the regional government stocks it with carp, black bass and zander. Anglers need a day licence (€15 online) and patience; dawn and dusk produce the best takes. Kayaks can be rented at Balhondo Open Village, a clutch of white bungalows 3 kilometres south where British repeat guests greet each other by first name and swap tips on the quietest coves.

Footpaths radiate from the village like spokes. The easiest is the 7-kilometre Circuits de las Dehesas, a circular route through cork oak and wild olive. Signage is sporadic—download the GPS track before you leave. Spring brings drifts of lavender and the distant sound of cowbells; autumn smells of fungus and wood smoke. Summer walking is feasible only before 11:00 or after 17:00; temperatures regularly top 38 °C and shade is intermittent. In winter the same trails can be muddy, but the castle stands open more often and the sierra may wear a brief dusting of snow, a sight that sends villagers scrambling for phones.

Fiestas at Fifteen Degrees

Mid-September turns the village inside out. The fiesta patronal honours Nuestra Señora de los Remedios with a procession that starts at the church, climbs to the castle and descends again by torchlight. Brass bands compete with treble-powered loudspeakers; pork sizzles in giant paella pans; teenagers commandeer the square for impromptu dance battles that last until the amplifiers blow. Visitors are handed plastic cups of beer and expected to join in. Accommodation within the village is limited to six letting rooms above the bar; most people stay at the reservoir's self-catering cottages and drive up after dark.

The rest of the year reverts to library-quiet. Sunday morning is best for people-watching: men in berets shuffle to mass, women beat rugs over wrought-iron balconies, the smell of churros drifts from Bar El Puente's doorway. By 13:00 the streets empty; families gather behind closed shutters for the main meal. Afternoons belong to swallows and the occasional quad bike heading for the olive groves.

Getting There, Getting Out

The drive from either Madrid or Seville takes roughly two-and-a-half hours on fast motorway and empty secondary road. Ignore older sat-navs that tempt you onto farm tracks; stick to the EX-118 via Castuera. Public transport is academic: one bus a day from Badajoz, none at weekends. Car hire is essential; fuel up before you leave the A-5 because services are scarce.

Leave time for the detour to the ghost village of Granadilla, 25 kilometres north. Its medieval walls were drowned not by water but by dictatorship—Franco's dam project forced inhabitants out in 1959. The ruins are gradually being restored and you can walk the battlements in eerie silence, imagining Puebla de Alcocer under the same threat had the engineers chosen a different valley.

An Honest Departure

Puebla de Alcocer will not entertain you after eleven at night. It will not sell you fridge magnets or craft beer. What it offers instead is altitude, space and a working calendar governed by rainfall, slaughter season and the feast day of a fifteenth-century virgin. Come prepared—proper shoes, euros in your pocket, castle visit pre-booked—and the village repays with wide skies, lake views and the slow pleasure of watching a place get on with life while barely noticing you are there. Forget any of the practicalities and you will find yourself climbing back to the car park hungry, cashless and slightly sunburnt, wondering how the Middle Ages ever managed without plastic.