Montánchez

The road from Cáceres climbs 700 m in the last twenty kilometres, cork oaks giving way to sweet chestnut and then to nothing but wind-scoured grass. At the summit Montánchez sits on its granite tooth, houses the colour of old parchment pressed shoulder-to-shoulder so they don’t blow off. Even in June you may see a Brit in shorts shiver as the temperature drops six degrees between the valley olive groves and the village fountain.

A Castle that Still Keeps Watch

Park by the cemetery – the tarmac is wide enough for a Range Rover and the walk saves threading the upper alleys. From the gate the path zigzags up the last 80 m; allow fifteen minutes if you’re fit, twenty-five if you’ve spent the morning on fino. The thirteenth-century keep is stripped to stone, but the parapet gives a 270° sweep over dehesa: holm oak stippled like felt on brown velvet, the occasional white dot of a Retinto cow. Interpretation boards are in Spanish only; bring binoculars instead – griffon vultures use the thermals just off the north wall, and on clear days you can pick out the silver thread of the Alagón reservoir 35 km west. The interior is opened only for pre-booked groups (€3 pp, minimum ten; email [email protected] 48 h ahead). Otherwise the reward is the roofless skyline and the wind humming in the crenels.

Streets Pitched for Goats, Not Cars

What the guides call “picturesque” is simply pre-car. Calle Sinforiano Hernández narrows to shoulder width, flights of stairs replacing pavement whenever the gradient tops 15%. Locals still hose their doorsteps at 8 a.m.; by 9 the stone is dry and smells of warm lime. House numbers hop from 3 to 7 – the missing even digits belong to back doors that open onto ravines. If you’re self-catering, the small Covirán on Plaza de España stocks UHT milk and decent Rioja; it bolts shut at 14:00 sharp, so shop before lunch. Wednesday brings a fruit lorry to the same square: peaches the size of cricket balls, €2 a kilo, sold out by 13:00.

Ham, but not as Tesco Does It

Montánchez doesn’t manufacture souvenirs; it cures legs. Follow your nose down Calle del Sol and you’ll hit Secadero 14, a brick shed where 3,000 hams hang like dusty violins. The foreman, Jesús, will talk you through the four-year rotation if you ask nicely – no charge, though he appreciates a couple of euros for the Christmas fund. Temperature and humidity are controlled by opening or closing shuttered windows; the only tech is a wall thermometer. Downstairs, the bodega offers a five-jamón tasting (€12, includes glass of local white). British visitors expecting honey-glazed holiday ham are startled: the meat is dark as claret, fibrous, intensely savoury. Even children tend to abandon crisps once they’ve tried the pluma – the feather-shaped cut from the shoulder tip, sweet and nutty because the pigs gorge on acorns.

Walking Off the Salt

Three way-marked routes start from the Fuente del Berro picnic ground, 1 km below the castle. The easiest is the 5 km Mirador Loop, a chestnut-shaded circuit that passes an abandoned snow well – ice once supplied Cáceres hospitals before refrigeration. The red-and-white stripes of the Ruta de los Molinos continue 9 km down-valley to the ruins of five water-mills; the path is stony, so boots beat trainers. Spring brings orchids and nightingales; October smells of fermenting chestnut and drifting smoke from pruning fires. In July start at 7 a.m.; by 11 the slate ridges radiate heat and the only shade is vulture-wing wide.

When the Thermometer Loses the Plot

Altitude tempers Extremadura’s furnace, but only just. July maximums flirt with 38 °C; night-time lows of 21 °C let stone houses cool if you fling the shutters wide. Most rental cottages now include a plunge pool the size of a Bedford van – check before you book, because British kids expect to splash after siesta. Winter swings the other way: expect 5 °C in the living room unless the owner has installed pellet stoves. Snow falls two or three times a decade, yet when it does the castle road is chained off and the village becomes a white-roofed island above the clouds. If you’re driving in January, pack blankets and a thermos – the A-66 can close when lorries jack-knife.

Eating After the Siesta Bell

Spanish clocks fox the British stomach. Kitchens fire up at 20:30 earliest, often 21:00. Bar La Muralla will fry you a plate of jamón-and-chips at 19:00 if you ask with a smile, but don’t expect the full menu. Standout orders: patatas con jamón y queso (€6), a glorified dauphinoiso that keeps children quiet; migas extremeñas (€7) – fried breadcrumbs, garlic and grapes, odd but addictive. House red is from nearby Cañamero, €9 a litre jug, perfectly decent. For pudding the local choice is técula mécula, an almond-egg tart so sweet it makes baklava seem restrained; one slice feeds two.

Beds, Bills and Bad Wi-Fi

Accommodation is mostly 200-year-old townhouses split into two- or three-bedroom lets. Beamed ceilings, thick walls, tiny plunge pool in the patio – expect to pay £90–£140 a night in May or September, dropping to £60 mid-winter. British owners predominate; reviews warn that “character” means a spiral staircase you’ll bark your shins on and Wi-Fi that drops every time the microwave runs. There is no hotel, only two hostals above bars; rooms are clean, €35–€45, but Saturday karaoke drifts up until 03:00. Book early for the November Ham Fair – the population swells from 2,000 to 8,000 and prices double.

Leaving Without a Scratch

The single ATM beside the town hall often empties on Friday afternoon; bring cash for bars and the jamón museum. Fill the tank before you leave the A-66 – the village garage closes at 14:00 and doesn’t open Sundays. If you’ve walked the sierra, check trouser cuffs for processionary caterpillars; their hairs raise blisters on human skin and vets see too many curious dogs every spring.

Montánchez won’t hand you polished “experiences”; it offers the sound of wind in oak, the smell of paprika drifting from a curing shed, a waiter who remembers how you take your coffee on the second morning. Stay two nights and you’ll leave with ham-scented luggage and thighs that notice the descent. Stay a week and you’ll start judging every other view in Spain against the one from the castle at sunset.