Villa del Rey

The only traffic jam you’ll meet on the approach to Villa del Rey is a flock of sheep drifting between oak trunks at dawn. Beyond them, the village materialises as a low clay-and-stone ridge on a rise of wheat: one bell tower, forty-odd houses, not a single set of traffic lights. At 336 m above sea level it sits high enough for the air to carry a snap of winter frost, yet low enough for the summer sun to bake the terracotta tiles until they smell of warm bread.

This is the Tajo-Salor district, forty-five minutes west of Cáceres on the EX-207, a road so empty that locals wave at every car. The landscape alternates between dehesa—open oak pasture where black Iberian pigs root for acorns—and rectangles of cereal that flush emerald in February then bleach to straw by June. Red kites wheel overhead; storks clatter on farmhouse chimneys. Mobile-phone signal flickers in and out like a hesitant conversation, which is precisely why most visitors arrive with a paper map and a full tank.

Mud walls and wine caves

Villa del Rey’s streets are barely two donkeys wide. Houses grow from the same earth they stand on: adobe bricks the colour of cinnamon, trimmed with granite quarried twenty kilometres away. Look closer and you’ll spot half-size doors that once led to chicken coops, and stone slots where harvest poles were stored. Many homes still have bodegas—hand-hewn cellars tunneled into the bedrock where families made their yearly supply of rough red. Ask politely and an owner might lift the iron latch to show the soot-black ceiling, evidence of candles burned during the grape crush.

The sixteenth-century parish church of San Pedro has no flying buttresses or gold leaf, just a single nave and a wooden roof trussed like an upturned boat. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and bruised rosemary left from the last fiesta. If the door is locked, the key hangs in the bar; that arrangement sums up the village attitude to most things.

When the land dictates the menu

There is no restaurant, only a bar that opens at seven for coffee and closes when the last domino falls. The chalkboard might list migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, paprika and diced chorizo—served with a glass of local pitarra, the farmhouse wine that ferments in clay jars. Spring brings cocido of wild asparagus and hen’s eggs; October means roast chestnuts and fresh-pressed olive oil so green it bites the throat. Portions are farm-hand generous; expect to pay eight euros for lunch including wine. Vegetarians should ask for espárragos trigueros a la plancha; vegans should pack snacks.

Groceries are another matter. The village shop is the size of a London pantry and shuts for siesta at one. Stock up in Cáceres if you need oat milk or hummus; here you’ll find tinned tuna, tinned tomatoes, and local cheese wrapped in waxed paper. The nearest supermarket is 18 km away in Alía; remember to check the time, because even petrol stations close before midnight.

Walking without waymarks

Official hiking trails stop at the municipal boundary, but farm tracks continue for kilometres. One leads south through wheat stubble to an abandoned stone mill beside the seasonal stream; in April the verge is stippled with poppies and the air smells of broom. Another heads east across the dehesa towards the granite crest of the Sierra de San Pedro—no summit signs, just vultures riding the thermals. Stout shoes are advisable; the ground is littered with acorn shells sharp enough to pierce flip-flops. Carry water: summer temperatures touch 40 °C and shade is the width of an oak trunk.

Cyclists appreciate the same web of gravel roads. Gradients are gentle, but the surface can turn to peanut butter after rain; 32 mm tyres minimum. Night riding is magical—no street lamps means the Milky Way drips across the sky like spilt sugar—but pack a powerful front light; you’ll meet neither cars nor glow-worms.

Fiestas where strangers get a seat at the table

The calendar hinges on San Pedro, celebrated the second weekend of August. On Saturday evening the plaza fills with long tables dressed in brown paper; residents haul cauldrons of cocido and clay jugs of sangria from home. Visitors are waved into empty chairs, handed a spoon and expected to join the singing even if they understand none of the Extremaduran lyrics. At midnight a modest firework fizzes from the church roof, more family bonfire than Olympic ceremony, but the oohs are genuine.

Late January brings the Bendición de los Campos. Locals walk the boundary carrying a statue of San Blas, stopping at each threshing floor to splash holy water on the soil. The priest is followed by a tractor dragging a harrow; children throw seed corn like confetti. Tourists are rare, so cameras are tolerated if you stand back. Dress warmly: the meseta wind can slice through fleece.

Beds, bats and booking ahead

Accommodation within the village limits consists of four self-catering cottages called Apartamentos Rurales Las Grullas. Each apartment sleeps four, has thick adobe walls that keep June heat out and February cold at bay, and shares a small pool overlooking the cereal plain. Prices hover around €90 per night for the whole unit—remarkable value until you realise there’s no reception desk and the owner lives ten kilometres away. Confirm arrival time by WhatsApp or you may find the key under a flowerpot with instructions in Spanish only.

If Las Grullas is full, the nearest hotels are in Brozas (25 min drive), a small town with two nineteenth-century manor houses converted into boutique accommodation. Expect parquet floors, rain showers, and breakfasts of tomato-rubbed toast for €110 a night. Camping is technically permitted on public land with a two-night limit, but there are no facilities; dig your own cat-hole and carry out toilet paper.

Getting here without the drama

Madrid Barajas is the simplest UK gateway: daily flights from London, Manchester and Edinburgh, then a straight two-and-a-half-hour dash west on the A-5. Tolls are zero once you leave the airport ring. Seville is nearer in miles but slower in time thanks to mountain roads. Car hire is non-negotiable; buses terminate at Miajadas, 28 km away, and taxis refuse the return journey after 9 p.m. Fill the tank before leaving the motorway—village petrol pumps open “if the owner is around”.

The honest verdict

Villa del Rey will not change your life. It offers no spa, no Michelin stars, no souvenir shops flogging fridge magnets. What it does offer is an antidote to notification fatigue: a place where church bells mark the hours, where the loudest noise at night is a tawny owl, and where a farmer will halt his tractor to explain why this year’s olives are two weeks late. Come if you want to remember what slow time feels like. Don’t come if you need soya lattes at dawn or nightclubs after dark. Pack patience, a phrasebook and a paper map—then enjoy the simple revelation that 115 people have already worked out how to live well without the rest of the world watching.