Aliseda

The church bell strikes noon, yet the only sound in Plaza de España comes from a single tractor rumbling past the bar where three old men play dominoes. This is Aliseda at midday in April—population 1,751, altitude 351 metres, and quiet enough to hear your own footsteps echo off the whitewashed walls.

The Dehesa Rules Here

Most British visitors race down the N-521 towards Portugal, stopping only for petrol in Cáceres. Those who turn off at kilometre 25 discover a landscape that feels more African than European: rolling plains of cork oak and holm oak, each tree spaced just far enough apart to let sunlight dapple the parched grass. Locals call this the dehesa, a man-made savannah that has produced acorn-fed pork for centuries. Between the trees, black Iberian pigs snuffle for food, looking less like farm animals and more like wild boar that have wandered into view.

The village itself sits on a slight rise, which means every street ends with a view across this ocean of green. At 351 metres, Aliseda is high enough to catch afternoon breezes that Cáceres misses, but low enough to avoid the harsh winters of the Gredos mountains further north. Spring arrives early—almond blossom in February, shorts-and-t-shirt weather by March—and lingers until late May, when temperatures start their climb towards the mid-thirties. Summer walking is best left to dawn or dusk; the middle hours belong to siesta and shade.

What Passes for Sights

There is no ticket office, no audio guide, no coach park. The Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción keeps irregular hours; if the wooden door swings open, slip inside and let your eyes adjust to the cool gloom. The interior is plain stone and plaster, enlivened by a single baroque retablo whose gold leaf has faded to the colour of autumn leaves. Look closer and you'll spot 1950s roof timbers—Franco's reconstruction after the original fell in—proof that even remote villages couldn't escape Spain's turbulent twentieth century.

Behind the church, the old town tumbles downhill in a maze of alleys barely wide enough for a donkey. House fronts carry stone shields carved with wheat sheaves and boars' heads, relics from the sixteenth century when wool money paid for thicker walls and grander doorways. Number 14 Calle San Pedro still has its original wooden balcony, propped up with iron bars since 1887 according to the date scratched into the plaster. Nobody lives there now; swallows nest in the eaves instead.

Tuesday changes the tempo. Market day brings stalls to the main square selling cheap bras, plastic toys, and queso de la Serena—a soft sheep's cheese that oozes across the knife when left in the sun. For one morning the square feels almost busy, though by two o'clock the traders are packing up and peace descends again.

Walking Without Waymarks

Serious hikers may scoff, but the dehesa rewards those content to wander without summiting anything. From the southern edge of the village a dirt track leads past Finca La Rinconada, where an elderly farmer called Pepe keeps a small herd of fighting bulls. Follow the track for twenty minutes and you'll reach a granite outcrop known locally as El Morrón. Climb the five-metre boulder and the view opens west towards Portugal: fifty kilometres of uninterrupted oak woodland, broken only by the occasional white dot of another village.

Paths are unsigned and mobile coverage patchy—download an offline map before you set out. After rain the red clay sticks to boots like glue; in August the same earth turns to powder that coats everything ochre. Either way, wear footwear you don't mind ruining. The reward is birdlife that serious twitchers drive hours to see: griffon vultures wheel overhead, black vultures nest in the cliffs above the Almonte River, and Spanish imperial eagles occasionally drift across from the nearby Monfragüe National Park.

Food for the Hungry

Restaurante La Montería opens only at weekends outside summer, so phone ahead. Order presa ibérica—a shoulder cut from the same acorn-fed pigs you saw in the fields. The meat arrives pink in the middle, charred at the edges, tasting more like beef steak than pork. Chips come separately; ask for them bien fritas if you like them crisp. Vegetarians survive on patatas al estilo extremeño—thick roast potatoes slicked with pimentón and bay leaves—though even this arrives with a side of jamón unless you protest.

Lunch for two with house wine costs about €35; cards accepted, though the machine fails as often as it works. Bring cash as backup—the nearest ATM is 12 kilometres away at the BP station on the EX-390, and it charges €2 per withdrawal.

The Downsides

Aliseda is quiet. Some visitors call it peaceful; others find it stultifying. Nightlife consists of the bar with the dominoes players, open until midnight if you're lucky. The two small guesthouses—Casa Rural La Dehesa and Hostal El Rincón—often block-book to Spanish contractors working on the area's solar farms. Turn up in August without a reservation and you may find yourself driving back to Cáceres at midnight.

English is rarely spoken; download an offline Spanish dictionary before you arrive. The chemist closes for siesta between two and five, and the bakery shuts on Mondays. If it rains heavily the streets flood briefly—storm drains weren't high on Franco's priority list—and the red mud will ruin white trainers in minutes.

When to Come, When to Leave

April and May deliver twenty-degree days, wildflowers among the oaks, and a countryside that smells of thyme and broom. September repeats the trick, with the bonus of grape harvest in the nearby Tierra de Barros. August is furnace-hot; only mad dogs and Englishmen attempt walks between eleven and six. Winter brings crisp blue skies and empty paths, but also the chance of week-long grey spells when the dehesa turns sombre and the village feels cut off from the world.

Most visitors slot Aliseda between Cáceres and the Portuguese border as a lunch stop or overnight pause. One full day lets you stroll the old quarter, walk to El Morrón, and eat presa before moving on. Stay longer only if you crave silence, star-filled skies, and the sound of cork oak leaves rustling in the breeze. The village won't entertain you, but it might just let you remember how to entertain yourself.