Valencia de Alcántara

The storks arrive first. They clatter onto chimney pots above stone roofs that haven't changed much since the 15th century, announcing you've reached Spain's western edge. Valencia de Alcántara sits 627 metres up in the Sierra de San Pedro, close enough to Portugal that mobile phones ping between networks. From the battlements you can see olive groves fade into Portuguese cork oak, and on clear days the white houses of Marvão glint across the border like sugar cubes.

This is proper high-plateau country. Summer mornings start fresh at 18°C before rocketing past 35°C by noon; winter brings proper frost and the occasional dusting of snow. The altitude keeps the air sharp and the skies improbably blue, explaining why walkers use the village as a base for exploring the surrounding dehesa. These managed oak pastures stretch for miles, interrupted only by stone walls and the granite outcrops that supplied the region's prehistoric builders.

Granite, Gothic Doors and a Disappearing Convent

The old centre reveals itself gradually. Calle Nueva narrows into lanes barely wide enough for a donkey, opening unexpectedly onto the Plaza de España where the 16th-century town hall still displays the Spanish and Portuguese coats of arms. Here the Gothic doorways begin—over 250 of them carved into honey-coloured granite. They're not museum pieces but working entrances to ordinary houses, their pointed arches and wrought-iron grills weathered by six centuries of use. The Jewish quarter spreads south from the plaza, better preserved than Toledo's and gloriously empty of tour groups.

Finding the Convento de Sancti Spíritus requires patience. Signs point in three directions, none accurately. When you do locate the fifteenth-century complex, tucked behind a modest stone wall on Calle Convento, opening times prove equally elusive. Morning visits are safest; afternoons depend on whether the caretaker's sister has dropped off the keys. Inside, Renaissance cloisters frame a courtyard where orange trees drop fruit onto worn flagstones. The church's Plateresque altarpiece glitters with gold leaf that survived Napoleonic troops, Spanish Civil War requisitions and several botched restorations.

Sections of medieval wall survive between houses rather than dominating them. Children kick footballs against thirteenth-century stonework; washing lines stretch across defensive towers converted into garden walls. It's history as everyday infrastructure rather than heritage spectacle, refreshing for visitors weary of velvet ropes and audio guides.

Hunting Giants in the Heather

The dolmens begin four kilometres north at Los Mellizos. You reach them via a dirt track suitable for hire cars driven slowly, past fields where black Iberian pigs root for acorns. These granite tombs predate Stonehenge by a millennium, yet arrive unencumbered by entrance fees or interpretation centres. Information consists of a faded metal sign and whatever you downloaded before leaving Cáceres.

Los Mellizos—"the twins"—comprises two well-preserved chambers still capped with massive roof stones. Bring a torch; crawling inside reveals Neolithic engravings that photos never capture properly. The surrounding landscape contains 48 recorded dolmens, though finding more than three or four requires determination, a decent Ordnance Survey-style map and tolerance for scratchy heather. Morning light works best, casting long shadows that reveal these ancient lumps as deliberate architecture rather than random boulders.

Winter visits demand waterproof boots; summer excursions need water bottles and realistic expectations. There is no café, no toilet, no gift shop selling miniature dolmens made in China. Just granite, gorse and the occasional griffon vulture circling overhead.

Pork Cheek and Portuguese Wine

Lunch happens when the church bell strikes two. Restaurant options are limited to a handful of family operations where menus change according to whatever aunt brought back from the market. Expect Iberian pork cheek stewed until it collapses under fork pressure, served with chips rather than the advertised mash because María couldn't find decent potatoes this morning. The local sheep's cheese, queso de la Serena, tastes milder than Manchego with a nutty finish that pairs surprisingly well with Portuguese white wine—available here because the vineyard lies closer than any Spanish competitor.

Vegetarians struggle. Gazpacho de pastor substitutes ham stock for vegetable broth; even the spinach contains bits of chorizo. Best strategy involves embracing the pig-based cuisine or stocking up on fruit and bread from the Saturday market. The latter sets up in Plaza de España from 9 am, selling local fig cakes that survive car journeys better than any airport souvenir.

Evening dining requires Spanish timing. Kitchens reopen at 9 pm earliest; attempting earlier service marks you immediately as foreign. Bars close by 11.30 pm even in August, creating a civilised hush rarely found in costa resorts.

Border Crossings and Banking Mishaps

Valencia de Alcántara works brilliantly as a two-night stop between Lisbon and Madrid, twenty minutes off the A-5 motorway. Public transport is another matter. Two daily buses connect with Cáceres; miss the 2 pm departure and you're stranded until tomorrow. Hire cars become essential for dolmen access and Portuguese excursions.

Drive south for ten minutes and you reach the Caia crossing, where Portuguese stone walls give way to Spanish whitewash within metres. Marvão's medieval fortress hovers 862 metres above, accessible via switchback roads that test clutch control and nerve. The perspective reveals why this border shifted regularly—attackers climbing up from Spain faced impossible gradients while defenders dropped stones from relative comfort.

Practicalities catch many visitors out. The only cash machine locks away at 2 pm on Saturdays; the nearest alternative sits 25 kilometres east in the slightly larger town of San Vicente de Alcántara. Sunday lunch shuts everything except the church and one bar showing football replays. Fill the car and buy picnic supplies on Saturday or risk hungry driving through empty landscapes.

When to Make the Journey

Spring brings wildflowers carpeting the dehesa between March and May, plus temperatures perfect for walking—15-22°C by midday, cool enough for comfortable hiking. Autumn matches these conditions with added grape harvest atmosphere across the border. Both seasons avoid summer's fierce heat and winter's raw winds that whistle through granite doorways.

Carnival in February offers the year's liveliest street scene, though British visitors might find the combination of fancy dress, brass bands and late-night fireworks mildly bewildering. San Bartolomé's August fair provides livestock markets and proper agricultural shows where prize bulls get more attention than beauty queens. Semana Holy Week processions feel intimate rather than spectacular; narrow lanes amplify drum echoes while householders lean from balconies to watch neighbours carry centuries-old statues.

Stay longer than two nights and the village's limitations emerge. The historic core covers perhaps fifteen walkable streets; you've seen them comprehensively within a morning. Evening entertainment means choosing between two bars or watching storks rebuild nests atop ruined convents. Yet that's precisely the appeal—Spain without queues, prices or performance. Just granite walls, Gothic doorways and prehistoric neighbours who demanded rather less from their accommodation than modern tourists expect from theirs.