Tamurejo

The church bell strikes midday, but only a handful of swifts circle overhead. At 540 metres above sea level, Tamurejo's silence feels different from the hushed reverence of cathedral towns or the held-breath anticipation of mountain villages. This is the quiet of abandonment, of a place that once needed more houses, more streets, more noise. Now, with barely 300 souls remaining, the Extremaduran village breathes at its own pace—and demands visitors do the same.

From the plaza, where whitewashed walls show patches of brick beneath failing plaster, the land falls away towards the Guadiana basin. The García de Sola reservoir glints silver-blue, its edges receding and advancing with the seasons. In wet years, water laps at the base of holm oaks. During droughts, the exposed lakebed cracks into abstract patterns, revealing forgotten field boundaries and the foundations of a previous century's agricultural ambitions.

The Geography of Absence

Tamurejo sits in La Siberia, Extremadura's least populated comarca, where distances stretch beyond what British maps suggest. The name isn't hyperbole—winter temperatures can drop to minus eight, and summer heat regularly tops forty. At this altitude, weather arrives with theatrical timing: morning mists roll up from the reservoir, afternoon thermals send griffon vultures spiralling overhead, and evening brings a chill that has visitors reaching for jackets they'd abandoned in Seville.

The village's streets, narrow enough to touch both walls with outstretched arms, follow topographical logic rather than planning regulations. They climb, dip and dog-leg according to what the granite bedrock would allow. Stone thresholds worn smooth by generations of farmers' boots mark doorways where families once kept pigs beneath the living quarters. Now, many stand empty—some converted to weekend retreats, others simply locked against time itself.

Walking the perimeter takes twenty minutes if you dawdle. The cemetery occupies higher ground, its marble monuments catching afternoon light through wrought-iron gates. From here, the full theatre of the landscape reveals itself: dehesa stretching to every horizon, the reservoir's irregular shoreline creating temporary peninsulas, and electricity pylons marching across ridges like modern dolmens.

What the Reservoir Gives and Takes

The García de Sola changed everything when its dam closed in 1968. Villages that once looked inland found themselves waterfront properties. Tamurejo, set back from the original river valley, became a vantage point rather than a harbour. The transformation brought tourists of a sort—Madrid anglers, Portuguese water-skiers, weekenders from Badajoz—but never in sufficient numbers to support cafés or boat hire. Instead, visitors arrive with boots and binoculars, or with rods and folding chairs, self-sufficient by necessity.

Fishing permits cost €8 daily from the tobacconist in Villanueva de la Serena, twenty-five kilometres distant. The reservoir holds black bass, carp and zander, though locals mutter about declining stocks and the invasion of American crayfish. Early mornings offer the best chance of success, before pleasure boats disturb the water and while thermals remain stable enough for accurate casting.

For walkers, a network of farm tracks radiates from the village like spokes. The GR-134 long-distance path passes within three kilometres, though way-marking proves sporadic. More reliable are the drove roads—cañadas—whose width reflects centuries of cattle movement rather than modern machinery. These provide easy walking through cork oak and wild olive, where black-shouldered kites hover overhead and, with patience, wild boar might be glimpsed at dawn.

Eating What the Land Provides

Food here follows agricultural calendars rather than restaurant trends. The matanza—pig slaughter—still punctuates January for families who maintain the tradition. Visitors staying in self-catering accommodation might find chorizo hanging from ceiling hooks, cured in wood smoke from pruned oak branches. Migas, the staple of shepherds and now weekend hikers, appears on every table: breadcrumbs fried with garlic, paprika and whatever the garden provides—peppers in summer, wild asparagus in spring.

Commercial dining options remain limited to say the least. The village bar opens sporadically, its terrace overlooking the playground where a single swing hangs motionless most days. Better to pre-order from Casa Rural Amanecer, where Maria prepares meals using produce from her hundred-metre plot. Expect hearty portions—soup thick enough to stand a spoon, pork cheeks melting into tomato and bay, flan infused with local honey. Set menus cost €18 including wine from the Tierra de Barros cooperative.

Those preferring autonomy should stock up in Villanueva de la Serena. The Mercadona there stocks British comfort foods for the homesick, though why anyone would travel to Extremadura for baked beans remains a mystery best left unexplored.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring transforms the dehesa into a pointillist painting—white chamomile, yellow cytinus, purple orchids appearing between granite outcrops. Temperatures hover in the low twenties, perfect for walking, though nights remain cool enough for hot water bottles in unheated village houses. This is also mushroom season, when locals emerge with wicker baskets and closely-guarded knowledge of productive spots.

Autumn brings its own rewards. The reservoir reaches maximum levels after summer storms, reflecting ochre and rust as holm oaks prepare for winter. Migrating cranes pass overhead, their bugling calls carrying for kilometres in still air. Grape harvest in neighbouring valleys means the air smells of fermentation, and local wine costs less than bottled water.

Summer poses challenges. From June to September, walking becomes a dawn or dusk activity. Midday heat induces torpor in humans and wildlife alike—even the swifts disappear, presumably sheltering in cliff crevices. The reservoir offers temptation, but beware: sun reflection doubles exposure, and Spanish swimming etiquette demands more coverage than British beaches might.

Winter strips the landscape to essentials. Frost feathers windowpanes, and the reservoir's grey surface merges with equally grey skies. This is the season for properly understanding Spanish interior life—when families gather around braseros (table heaters) and lunch extends until siesta becomes supper. It's beautiful, but requires mental adjustment for those accustomed to central heating and street lighting that actually works.

The Practical Business of Getting Lost

Reaching Tamurejo requires surrendering to Spanish notions of distance. From Badajoz airport, it's ninety minutes on the EX-118 via Villanueva de la Serena. The final twenty kilometres involve curves that would shame the Cat and Fiddle, with gradients that test clutch control on rental hatchbacks. Sat-nav systems lose signal in valleys; better to follow the reservoir's southern shore and trust road signs that appear only when strictly necessary.

Accommodation options remain refreshingly limited. Casa Rural Amanancir offers three bedrooms from €65 nightly, with wood-burning stove and roof terrace providing 360-degree views. The newer Apartamentos Rurales Tamurejo provides modern kitchens and underfloor heating, though at €95 per night, it costs more than many provincial hotels. Both require minimum two-night stays—attempting Tamurejo as a day trip misses the point entirely, like reading a single chapter of a novel.

What you won't find: souvenir shops, cash machines, petrol stations, or anywhere serving flat whites. What you might: a bakery van that toots its arrival on Tuesdays, a travelling fishmonger on Fridays, and neighbours who offer garden tomatoes because they simply have too many.

Tamurejo doesn't offer experiences or create memories. It provides space—physical and temporal—for visitors to construct their own. In an age of curated travel and Instagram moments, this qualifies as radical. Come prepared to entertain yourself, to walk without destination, to notice how light changes when buildings stand two storeys high rather than twenty. The village gives you landscape, silence and time. What you make of them remains entirely your responsibility.