Villa del Campo

The church bell in Villa del Campo strikes thirteen. Nobody looks up. In this slate-roofed hamlet, 473 metres above sea-level on the Sierra de Gata’s northern flank, clocks are decorative; the day is fixed by bread vans, goat bells and the angle of sun on granite doorjambs. At 08:00 the baker’s van beeps twice outside the pink-washed ayuntamiento; by 08:15 the loaves are gone and the square smells of crust and woodsmoke. If you want breakfast after that, you’ll need to knock on a door.

Slate, granite and conversations that outlast the wine

Four hundred and fifty-one residents share twenty-three streets paved with stone worn smooth by tractors rather than tourism. Houses are stitched together from what the hillside provided: chestnut beams, quartz-flecked granite and slabs of blue-black slate that click underfoot like pottery. Upper balconies—narrow wooden galleries painted the colour of ox-blood—project just far enough for neighbours to pass a cigarette across the lane without stretching. Look up and you’ll spot stone coats-of-arms crumbling above lintels: wolves, sickles, a single Tudor rose carved by a 16th-century migrant returning from Exeter silver-work. The heraldry is unpolished, half-erased, as if the village can’t quite be bothered with its own résumé.

There is no ticket office, no interpretive centre, no brown sign pointing to “Old Town”. Instead, information arrives via Doña Consuelo who sells tinned tuna and embroidery thread from her front room. Ask for the church key and she’ll rinse coffee grounds from a mug before handing it over. The 18th-century Iglesia de San Juan Bautista stands open anyway; its tower houses a colony of Alpine swifts that slice through the nave at dusk. Inside, a Roman inscription repurposed as a holy-water stoup reminds visitors that Extremadura’s past is simply yesterday in a heavier coat.

Walking the chestnut corridors

Three footpaths leave the village, none longer than 12 km, all unsigned beyond the initial stone marker. The most forgiving follows the Arroyo de los Molinos westwards to a derelict watermill whose wooden wheel collapsed during a 2014 storm. In October the path glows amber: sweet-chestnut leaves the size of saucers float down and lodge in the mill race. Locals arrive with canvas sacks to gather the nuts; permission is assumed, refusal unheard of. Expect to be offered a raw chestnut, split with a penknife, and questioned about British rainfall averages.

A stiffer climb heads south to the Cerro de la Sabina, 782 m, where a single Spanish juniper—bent like an elderly teacher over a lectern—frames a view that stretches to Portugal. The round trip takes two hours, longer if you stop to watch Iberian magpies prise acorns apart. Mobile reception dies after the first kilometre; download the track before setting off or, better, ask 71-year-old Jerónimo to walk with you. He’ll refuse payment but accept a half-bottle of Beefeater emptied into his own plastic water container.

Winter walkers should note: snow is rare but fog is not. Between December and February the village sits in an inversion layer; temperatures hover at 4 °C while the valley below basks at 14 °C. Paths become streams; slate turns treacherous. Wellies trump hiking boots, and nobody minds if you abandon the attempt and retreat to the bar.

What arrives on a tin tray at 15:30 sharp

Food is served when it is ready, rarely before, never after. The only public eating place, Bar La Plaza, opens for coffee at seven, closes the kitchen at five, and specialises in whatever Ángel bought from the travelling fish van the previous evening. Thursday is migas day: breadcrumbs fried in chorizo fat, scattered with grapes that burst into sweet steam. A plate costs €4.50 and comes with a glass of local red so young it still fizzes. If you want goat stew (cabrito a la montañesa) you must telephone the day before; the animal is thawed, not microwaved. Vegetarians receive an omelette the size of a steering wheel—eggs, potatoes, onions, no apology. Dessert is optional; sobremesa is not. Expect to sit while the owner’s nephew recounts the 1996 village football victory against a neighbouring hamlet whose population is three times larger.

For self-caterers, the mobile supermarket calls every Tuesday and Friday at 11:00. Stock up on honey from Eljas (€6 a kilo) and soft cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves. Fresh fish appears on the Friday van: hake from the Galician coast 300 km away, still stiff with Atlantic salt. Bring cash; the card reader works only when the generator feels sympathetic.

When the village remembers it’s a community

Festivals are calibrated to agricultural rhythm, not municipal marketing. San Antón, 17 January, blesses animals beside a bonfire fuelled by vine prunings. Dogs wear ribbons, donkeys wear suspicion, and everyone drinks anisette thick enough to coat the spoon. Easter is observed in silence; processions move to the scrape of feet on cobble, broken occasionally by a trumpet voluntary that would make a British Army bandsman weep for intonation. The August fiestas honour the Virgin with a Saturday-night dance held on the concrete pad intended for a never-built swimming pool. Entrance is free but beer is €1.50; bring your own chair or borrow one from the church. Fireworks are set off from a wheelbarrow; the health-and-safety officer is whoever is least inebriated.

Autumn’s chestnut weekends (usually the last two of October) turn the village into an open kitchen. Neighbours set up tables in alleyways and charge €2 for a paper cone of roasted nuts. Someone’s uncle produces a copper still; moonshine chestnut liqueur appears, cloudy and sweet, tasting of wet bark and Christmas. Staggering is acceptable; singing is expected.

Arriving, staying, leaving

The nearest railway station is at Plasencia, 95 km south. From there, Avanza bus line 551 reaches Coria at 14:15; a local taxi (€35 pre-booked via WhatsApp on +34 676 482 111) completes the final 38 km. Drivers should follow the EX-390 to Moralejo, then the EX-204 towards Eljas; after the Portuguese frontier sign, turn left at the abandoned petrol station whose prices are still displayed in pesetas. Parking is wherever you can squeeze a Fiesta without blocking a tractor.

Accommodation is limited to four village houses licensed under the “turismo rural” scheme. Casa Pizarra sleeps six, has Wi-Fi that flickers when the kettle boils, and costs €90 per night with two-night minimum. Smaller couples’ flats start at €55. Owners leave a bottle of water, a loaf of bread and—curiously—a box of matches on the table; tradition insists a house should offer fire, food and hospitality even if the guests arrive at midnight. Hotels, swimming pools, air-conditioning and credit-card slips are 40 km away in Coria. Mobile signal is strongest beside the church wall; WhatsApp voice messages are more reliable than calls.

Leave before dawn in May and you’ll hear golden orioles trading scales across the plaza. Depart in July and the only sound is the refrigerated van idling while the driver delivers ice creams to the bar. Either way, someone will wave from a doorway whether you’ve stayed two hours or two weeks. Villa del Campo does not do spectacle; it simply continues, and for some travellers that persistence is more memorable than any vista.