La Corte de Santa Ana

The church bell strikes nine and the only other sound is a tractor turning earth somewhere beyond the whitewashed houses. In La Corte de Santa Ana, Extremadura, rush hour means a neighbour crossing the single street with a loaf tucked under her arm, nodding at the farmer who has propped his bicycle against the stone bench by the cemetery wall. Two hundred souls, one bar, no souvenir shops – and that is precisely why people still find their way here.

The Village That Forgot to Shout

Most British maps stop at Olivenza, 25 minutes east on the EX-390. Turn south towards the Portuguese border and the tarmac narrows, wheat fields giving way to scattered oaks whose lower trunks are stripped smooth for cork. The first glimpse of La Corte is a cluster of terracotta roofs hovering above the plain like a low-lying cloud. There is no dramatic approach, no sudden ravine or castle keep – just the road flattening out and the village appearing, as if the land itself had shrugged and revealed what was underneath.

Park by the football pitch; it doubles as the main car park. Orientation takes roughly three minutes: the church occupies the high point, two parallel streets drop away from it, and everything else is allotment, threshing circle or stork-nested chimney. Nobody charges for entry, nobody offers guided tours. The only information panel stands outside the 16th-century Iglesia de Santa Ana and its four lines of Spanish are refreshingly blunt: “Simple single-nave temple, rebuilt after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake.” Step inside and the cool air smells of candle wax and old stone; the retablo is plain pine, painted a faded turquoise that would make a Farrow & Ball fan weep with joy.

Walking Without Waymarks

Serious hikers may bristle at the absence of signposts, but that is the point. Pick any farm track – the one opposite the bakery works – and within five minutes the village sinks behind you and the dehesa takes over. These open woodlands of holm and cork oak are Spain’s answer to savannah, and they stretch uninterrupted all the way to the Tagus. Spring brings a haze of wildflowers along the verges: magenta gladioli, milk-white asphodels and the occasional crimson poppy that looks almost too vivid against the khaki grass. In October the same verges are fringed with saffron crocus; locals collect the stigmas and sell them to restaurants in Cáceres for €3 a gramme.

Distances feel elastic under so much sky. A comfortable out-and-back is the 6 km loop to the abandoned Cortijo de San Rafael – look for the stone water trough where shepherds once filled leather flasks. Griffon vultures wheel overhead; with luck you’ll spot a great bustard stalking through the stubble, neck extended like a cautious Victorian widow. Take water, a sunhat and, between May and September, set off before eight. Summer temperatures flirt with 40 °C by eleven o’clock, and the only shade belongs to the bulls who stare at passing strangers with the unreadable expression of nightclub bouncers.

What You’ll Eat and Who’ll Cook It

The village bar – name over the door simply Bar – opens at seven for coffee and closes when the last customer leaves. Inside, three small tables share space with sacks of animal feed and a refrigerated counter displaying yesterday’s torta del casar cheese. Order a beer and you’ll be asked whether you want tapas; say yes and the owner disappears next door, returning ten minutes later with a plate of migas (fried breadcrumbs laced with spicy chorizo) that could comfortably feed three. Price: €2.50, including the beer.

For something more formal, drive ten minutes to nearby Valencia de Alcántara where Mesón El Corregidor serves seasonal specialities: partridge stew in winter, wild asparagus revuelto in April, and, during the November mushroom fortnight, setas gathered under the oaks and sautéed with garlic and parsley. A three-course lunch menu with wine hovers around €14; book at weekends because half of Badajoz seems to descend on the town for Sunday roast cordero.

Festivals That Still Belong to the Neighbours

The fiesta calendar is mercifully short. On 26 July the village honours its patron saint with a mass followed by an outdoor supper in the plaza. Long tables are carried out from the sports hall, tablecloths are clipped down against the evening breeze, and local women ladle out caldereta (lamb stew) until the pots are scraped clean. Visitors are welcome but there is no tourist office to buy tickets; simply turn up at nine with your own cutlery and a donation slipped into the tin box by the kitchen tent. Fireworks consist of three rockets and a box of Belgian-style bangers that echo across the plain like distant thunder.

Holy Week is observed in silence. On Maundy Thursday the lights go out and residents walk behind a single drum to the calvary on the hill, each carrying a home-made candle jammed into a wine bottle. Photographs are discouraged; the procession is prayer, not performance.

When to Go and What Can Go Wrong

April–May and mid-September to early November offer daytime temperatures between 18 °C and 24 °C, ideal for walking without carrying litres of water. Accommodation within the village is limited to one self-catering cottage – Casa Rural La Dehesa – which sleeps four and costs roughly €80 a night. Booking is handled through the Valencia de Alcántara tourist office (+34 927 39 02 05) and advance notice of at least a week is advised; the key-holder lives on a farm three kilometres away and prefers not to rush.

If the cottage is full, base yourself in Valencia de Alcántara itself (15 minutes by car) where the centrally located Hotel Portugal has doubles from €45 including garage parking. Either way, hire a car. Public transport is a single school bus that leaves Badajoz at dawn and returns at four in the afternoon; miss it and you are spending the night whether you planned to or not.

Winter can be surprisingly sharp. Night-time temperatures occasionally dip below freezing and the houses, built to repel August heat, can feel draughty. On the flip side, the low sun turns the dehesa copper and the stone walls glow like burnished bronze – perfect conditions for photographers who don’t mind wearing thermals.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

There is nothing to buy, nothing to tick off, and that is the village’s quiet victory. British visitors who come expecting ye-olde-Spain gift shops will leave empty-handed; those who arrive prepared to walk, look and listen may find they stay longer than intended. The nearest airport is Badajoz (90 minutes to London Southend on Ryanair, Tuesdays and Saturdays), but most travellers combine La Corte with a longer road trip from Seville or Madrid. Either way, allow a buffer of unscheduled time. The dehesa does not reveal itself to itineraries measured in fifteen-minute increments; it works to the slower rhythm of boot leather and shifting light. When the afternoon breeze picks up and the oaks begin to murmur, you may discover that the most productive thing you have done all day is watch shadows lengthen across a wheat field. In La Corte de Santa Ana, that counts as time well spent.