Siruela

The first thing you notice is the hush. Not the eerie silence of abandonment, but the deliberate quiet of a place that refused to swap its weekly market for a Sunday car-boot sale. Siruela sits 650 metres above sea level on Spain’s least-populated province, Badajoz, and the only queue you’re likely to join is at the bakery when the wood-fired oven opens at eight. By half past, the village has inhaled the smell of crusty pan de pueblo and exhaled again into slow motion.

Granite, Cork and a Church that Outgrew its Parish

Most visitors drift in after a two-and-a-half-hour dash down the A-5 from Madrid, tank nearly dry because the last filling station disappeared forty kilometres ago. The road corkscrews off the motorway at Cabeza del Buey and begins to count down kilometres of dehesa: open savannah of holm oak and cork oak where black Iberian pigs graze like domesticated boar. Siruela’s tower appears suddenly, a late-Gothic exclamation mark above terracotta roofs. The Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción was built when this frontier town mattered to bishops and traders; inside, a sixteenth-century Flemish triptych still smells of beeswax and incense, though Mass attendance now hovers around thirty. Opening hours follow the priest’s asthma rather than any posted timetable—ask in the ayuntamiento opposite and someone will ring him.

Below the tower, the streets are barely two donkeys wide. Granite doorways carry coats of arms half-erased by rain; one belongs to a family that exported wool to Florence in the 1700s, another to a local judge who sentenced himself to exile after the Civil War. Nobody restores here, they simply patch. That honesty appeals to British couples who arrive braced for souvenir tat and find instead a bakery that still cuts chapata bread with a 1950s mechanical slicer and a Friday market where the only fridge magnets are the ones holding down the fishmonger’s receipts.

Walking, Wheels and the Art of Getting Mildly Lost

Siruela is not a checklist destination. You come to clock up kilometres on soft tracks that smell of wild thyme and to remember what it feels like when the loudest sound is your own boot tread. Four way-marked loops leave from the southern edge; the shortest (6 km) dips to the abandoned arroyo mill and returns past a stone trough where jabalíes drink at dusk. The longest (14 km) reaches the Ermita del Cristo de la Misericordia, perched on a limestone lip that drops towards the Guadiana basin. Spring brings fluorescent green after rain; by late May the grass has bleached to champagne and the thermometer already nudges 34 °C. Start early, carry more water than you think—bars are nonexistent once the tarmac ends.

Mountain-bike tyres find their natural habitat here: broad farm tracks graded for 4×4 but empty. Hire bikes at Casa Rural La Pajarona (€18 a day); the couple from Sussex who left a five-star TripAdvisor rave about night rides under “ink-black skies freckled with Orion”. Mobile signal collapses within two kilometres of the village, so download an offline map or risk an unplanned tour of neighbouring cattle grids.

Food that Speaks Extremaduran, Slowly

Lunch starts at two sharp and finishes when the dueña decides. Bar La Encina offers three dishes only: migas (fried breadcrumbs laced with chorizo and grape), caldereta de cordero (lamb stew thickened with bay and pimentón), and on Thursdays, pluma ibérica, the feather-shaped cut from the pig’s shoulder. Grilled over oak embers, salted moments before serving, it tastes like a superior pork sirloin with the fat already marinated in acorns. Vegetarians get an honourable ensalada de la huerta—shaved raw calçot onion, tomato and local sheep cheese that squeaks between the teeth. Expect to pay €12–14 for the set menú del día; cards are accepted, but the machine sometimes sulks.

Evenings are quieter. The single restaurant, El Rincón, shuts at 22:30; the owner, Paco, pours Pitarra wine from an unlabelled jug. It’s made in nearby Zafra using clay tinajas—think Beaujolais with sunburn. Brits expecting Rioja grandeur are pleasantly startled by its raspberry zip and lack of tanins. If you self-cater, stock up before Sunday: the Supermercado Carrasco closes at 14:00 on Saturday and won’t reopen until Monday morning. Fresh milk is a myth—Extremadura drinks UHT without apology.

Fiestas, Heat and the Pig’s Annual Demise

The village’s pulse quickens three times a year. Mid-August fiestas honour the Assumption with brass bands that rehearse for three weeks beforehand; expect firecrackers at 07:00 and street dancing until the Guardia Civil suggest bedtime. Temperatures can still hit 40 °C, so British visitors who book the 18th-century stone cottage with 60 cm-thick walls congratulate themselves on natural air-conditioning.

Spring brings the Romería del Cristo de la Misericordia: villagers walk five kilometres uphill behind a flower-decked statue, then picnic on hornazo (meat-stuffed pastry) and limonada spiked with anisette. In November, fiestas de la matanza resurrect the pre-fridge ritual of pig slaughter. Tourists are welcome to watch black pudding stirred in a zinc bath; participation is optional, vegetarianism politely ignored. A £5 ticket buys a tasting plate of morcilla, chorizo and jamón plus a glass of pitarra—value that would bankrupt Borough Market.

Getting Here, Staying Sane

Public transport exists but feels like penance: one daily ALSA coach from Madrid Méndez Álvaro to Cabeza del Buey, then a local bus that arrives in Siruela at 21:15 if the driver isn’t bullied into overtime. Car hire is simpler and usually cheaper for two or more. From Seville, the route via Zafra adds only twenty minutes and rewards you with a coffee stop in a town that still has a medieval market square. Fill the tank at the motorway exit; the village garage closed in 2008 and the nearest 24-hour pumps are 40 kilometres east.

Accommodation is limited to five casas rurales (British guests favour La Pajarona and La Dehesa for their wood-burners and telescopes). Mid-week in March you might pay €65 for a two-bedroom house; Easter and August jump to €120. Bring slippers—stone floors are chilly until the sun hits the interior patio at noon.

The Catch in the Quiet

Siruela’s greatest asset is also its flaw. If you crave museums, cocktail bars or even an ATM, you’ll last half a day. The nearest cinema is 60 kilometres away and screens one film a week, usually dubbed into Spanish by a single actor doing every voice. Rain turns tracks into barro that clings like wet cement; summer brings moscas that nip ankles with surgical precision. And almost nobody speaks English—menu Spanish ("¿hay plato vegetariano?", "la cuenta, por favor") is essential kit.

Yet for travellers who measure holiday success in kilometres walked, pages read and stars counted, Siruela delivers a ratio of effort to reward that the Costas lost decades ago. Book three nights, not one; bring walking boots, a phrasebook and a sense of tempo that predates Wi-Fi. The village will not entertain you—it will simply let you remember what that word once meant.