Casar de Palomero

A Village That Measures Time in Castaños

The first thing you notice is the altitude. At 513 metres, Casar de Palomero sits just high enough for the air to feel thinner than the baking plains of neighbouring Cáceres. The second thing is the quiet—proper, wrap-around quiet that makes a Londoner realise how much background hum they've been filtering out. Mobile signal flickers in and out on Vodafone, so Google Maps stutters, and suddenly you're paying attention to road signs hand-painted in the 1980s.

This is the gateway to Las Hurdes, Extremadura's most misunderstood comarca. Forget the travel-writing clichés about "forgotten Spain"—Casar de Palomero is simply small, with 1,036 souls, one proper supermarket (Casa Manolo on Calle Real), and a Saturday-night population that doubles when grandchildren arrive from Madrid. What it does have is stone houses the colour of weathered pewter, slate roofs that chime in high wind, and a church bell that still marks the hours.

Walking the Lanes Without a Plan

The best strategy is to ditch the strategy. Park on the southern edge—spaces beside the polideportivo are free and shaded by sweet chestnuts—and wander. Streets narrow to should-width, then widen into tiny plazas where geraniums escape onto wrought-iron balconies. Notice the iron door-knockers shaped like hands, the bread-delivery hatch built into a 1920s wall, the way laundry is slung between houses like bunting.

Architecture here is practical, not pretty: two-storey stone blocks designed to keep heat out in July and warmth in during January. If you want grand facades, head to Trujillo. If you want to see how rural Extremadura actually lives, linger by the communal wash-place on Calle del Pozo where water runs ice-cold even in August. The parish church of San Juan Bautista is the tallest thing around; use its tower as a compass if you get disorientated—unlikely, since the whole village stretches barely a kilometre end to end.

The Hills Start Where the Tarmac Ends

Past the last house the road turns to a stone-surfaced track that climbs through sweet-chestnut forest. This is the start of the PR-HU 3 footpath, a 7 km loop that links Casar with neighbouring Robledillo de Gata. It's not mountain walking—more a steady calf-stretch—but the 250-metre ascent is enough to open views west to the Sierra de Gata. In October the forest floor is ankle-deep in prickly cases; locals wearing gardening gloves prise out glossy nuts and fill supermarket carrier bags. Stop and help: they'll insist on gifting you a handful, still warm from the sun.

Summer hikers should start early. By 11 a.m. the thermometer kisses 34 °C and shade is patchy. Carry more water than you think—there are no cafés on the ridge, only stone watering troughs meant for goats. Winter is gentler: daytime 12 °C, frosty nights, wood-smoke drifting across the lanes. Snow is rare but not impossible; if the white stuff arrives, the access road from the EX-204 is gritted within hours by a man in a 1992 Landini tractor who knows every camino by heart.

What You'll Eat, and When You'll Eat It

Forget tasting menus. Meals happen in two social clubs and one bar, all on Plaza de España. Lunch is 2–4 p.m., dinner 9–11 p.m.; arrive outside those windows and you'll be offered crisps and little else. The local star is queso de Casar, a runny sheep-milk cheese sold in 250 g palm-sized discs. Cut off the top, scoop with bread: the flavour is grassy, almost floral, milder than French époisses. A whole cheese costs €12 at the counter, €9 if you ask the maker who lives behind the cemetery.

Other plates depend on the season. Migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and pancetta—appears on rainy days. Trout from the Hurdano river turns up in May once the fishing permits are issued; it's simply grilled, dusted with smoked paprika, and costs €8 a portion. Vegetarians get tortilla or... tortilla. If you need plant-based variety, stock up in Plasencia before you drive in.

The Weekend Invasion (and Why It Matters)

Friday night brings the hum of Seat Ibizas and dusty Renault Clios. Families who left for Madrid in the 1990s return to repaint shutters, prune fig trees, argue about inheritance. Grandmothers set up card tables on the pavement; teenage cousins drink clandestine bottles of red cola mixed with cheap vermouth. By Sunday 8 p.m. the village exhales and quiet returns, rather like a theatre after the curtain falls.

This matters because services open accordingly. The bakery fires its oven Thursday-Sunday only; outside those days bread arrives in a white van at 11 a.m. and sells out in 20 minutes. The single ATM, 18 km away in Caminomorisco, sometimes runs out of €20 notes on Sunday evening—draw cash in Plasencia if you're paying for rural accommodation in hand.

Getting There, Staying There

Madrid-Barajas is the simplest gateway. Collect a hire car—compact is fine, but ask for something with a bit of torque, you'll thank yourself on the 12 % gradients—and head west on the A-66. After Talavera take the EX-A2 towards Plasencia, then the EX-204 south into the Hurdes. The final 30 km wriggles through cork-oak forest; allow 45 minutes, longer if you get stuck behind a muck-spreader. Petrol stations are scarce: fill the tank in Plasencia.

Accommodation is limited. La Posada del Cancheral has six rustic rooms (from €70, breakfast included) in a converted farmhouse 3 km outside the village. Closer in, two village houses have been split into self-catering apartments; expect stone floors, beams, Wi-Fi that works if you stand by the front window. Book ahead for April-May and October—photography groups from Seville block-book months earlier for the chestnut colour change.

The Honest Verdict

Casar de Palomero won't keep you busy for a week. What it offers is a slice of working mountain life at Spanish speed. Come for the walking, the star-blanketed nights, the cheese that smells better than it sounds. Don't expect boutique shopping or evening entertainment beyond a bottle of local cider and conversation with whoever is leaning on the bar. Two days here slots neatly between the cathedral cities of Salamanca and Cáceres, giving you lungs full of chestnut-scented air and a phone camera full of misty valley shots. Just remember to carry cash, download offline maps, and greet the locals with a confident "Buenos días"—they'll appreciate the effort, and you'll leave with a wave and a free bag of chestnuts, whether you planned to or not.