Talarrubias

Dawn over García de Sola

The first fishermen arrive while the reservoir is still a sheet of pewter. By 7 a.m. the water turns bronze, then quicksilver, as the sun lifts over the sierra and the town’s only traffic light changes from red to green for the benefit of two cars and a delivery van. At 435 m above sea level Talarrubias feels higher than it is; night temperatures can dip below 10 °C even in July, yet by midday the mercury races past 35 °C and the asphalt along Avenida de la Constitución gives off a shimmer you can see from the church tower.

This is La Siberia Extremeña, Spain’s least-known lake district, an hour’s drive south-west of Trujillo. The village owes its existence less to the Guadiana River than to the dam engineers of the 1950s who flooded 35 km of valley and created the Embalse de García de Sola—an inland sea now dotted with black-headed gulls, sailing clubs and the occasional drifting olive trunk. What was once marginal pasture is now a weekend water-sports circuit for Madrilenos; what was once a quiet farming town is now a practical base for anyone wanting to hike, kayak or simply sit still and watch ospreys.

A Town that Forgot to be a Museum

British visitors expecting cobbled perfection turn up their noses at the first block of 1970s flats, then discover that the scruffy edges are the point. Talarrubias never reinvented itself as a heritage set-piece; it simply carried on mending tractors, curing pork and closing shops between two and five. The result is a living parish rather than a life-size diorama.

Start at the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, the sandstone tower you can see from the petrol station. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and the stone floors dip where centuries of parishioners have stood. A single €1 coin lights up the baroque altarpiece for ninety seconds—long enough to notice the gilded vines sprouting tiny bunches of grapes, a nod to the town’s other, less official, religion. Walk south two blocks and you reach the Plaza de España, a rectangle of bare earth shaded by three plane trees and enlivened by a bandstand that hasn’t hosted a band since 2019. The bar under the arcades serves coffee so strong it stains the cup; order a café con leche and you’ll get a glass of water without asking—an old Extremaduran habit that predates the drought.

The Lake Rules Everything

From the church door it is 1.2 km downhill to the shore. The road passes the municipal swimming pool (open mid-June to mid-September, €2.50 a dip), then dives through a tunnel of eucalyptus where nightingales rehearse at dusk. At the bottom you reach the embarcadero, a concrete slipway where teenagers launch inflatables while their grandparents sit in parked cars eating sunflower seeds. The water level can fluctuate 7 m between winter rains and August irrigation; when it drops, old fence posts emerge like broken teeth, reminding you this was farmland within living memory.

Rent a kayak from Camping Puerto Peña (€12 an hour, €35 half-day) and you can paddle east for 40 minutes to a secluded cove where the only sound is the clack of collared pratincoles. Motor-boats are banned outside the ski lane, so the surface stays calm enough to read the reflections of circling griffon vultures. If you prefer dry feet, the 6 km lakeside track to Puerto Peña beach is shaded by stone pines and takes just over an hour—carry water, because the only fountain broke in 2021 and no one has fixed it yet.

Food without Fanfare

Back in town, lunch starts at 2 p.m. sharp. Bar Aperitivo Burger—despite the name—does not serve burgers at midday; instead you get migas extremeñas, breadcrumbs fried with garlic and flecks of jamón, topped with a single fried egg and brought to the table in a ceramic dish hot enough to silence conversation. Vegetarians can ask for migas sin chorizo; the cook will shrug, charge you 50 c less and pile on extra pepper. A half-racion feeds one hungry cyclist; a full racion could stop a charging boar.

For something cooler, walk round the corner to Pastelería Marisol and order a pestiño, a finger of fried dough glazed with honey and sesame. They cost 80 c each and the woman behind the counter wraps them in white paper twisted at the ends like seaside rock. Eat one while it’s still warm and you’ll understand why every family in Talarrubias leaves the bakery with at least a dozen.

When the Wind Turns

None of this is perfect. August weekends bring caravans from Madrid and the shore can feel like a provincial lido: radios, disposable barbecues, the faint smell of factor 30 frying on plastic lilos. The village cashpoint runs out of money on Fridays; the pharmacy shuts without warning if the pharmacist drives to Cáceres for stock. Mobile coverage disappears behind the dam wall, so tell someone your route if you plan to hike the Ermita de la Coronada loop, a 12 km climb through cork oak that gains 350 m and rewards you with a view clear to the Sierra de Hornachos.

Winter is quieter but unpredictable. The N-430 can close in heavy rain; the reservoir turns gun-metal grey and the bars close earlier each week. Yet on a bright January morning you might have the entire lake to yourself except for a solitary fisherman in a green rowing boat and a pair of golden eagles tracing thermals above the pine ridge.

Leaving without the Gift-Shop Moment

There is no souvenir shop in Talarrubias. The closest thing is the cooperative petrol station on the road out, where you can buy a plastic bottle of local olive oil for €6 and a vacuum-packed lomo that will survive the drive to Santander. Most visitors pass through on their way to the bigger reservoirs at Cíjara or Orellana, staying a single night at the campsite before heading north. That is still the honest deal: use the village as a base, spend money in the bars, don’t expect medieval pageantry.

Drive away at sunset and the water turns the colour of burnt toffee. From the mirador above the dam you can see the whole basin: the town huddled on its ridge, the sailboats tiny white commas, the dehesa stretching south until it dissolves into haze. No one will tell you Talarrubias changed their life. They will, however, remember the silence on the lake at dawn, the taste of honey on fried dough, and the realisation that Spain still has places content simply to exist.