La Codosera

The border post is a brick shed with a corrugated roof and three metres of concrete bridge. Step across, glance left, and you’re in Portugal; turn right, and the single ATM in La Codosera blinks “FUERA DE SERVICIO” more often than not. That mismatch—international frontier yet village-level infrastructure—sets the tone for a place that cartographers forgot to turn into a crossing point.

La Codosera sits at 550 m on the western lip of the Sierra de San Mamede, 80 km north of Badajoz. The hills roll like a Spanish Shropshire: oak and sweet-chestnut groves instead of the usual Extremadura pancake. Nights drop to 15 °C even in July, so the British instinct to pack a fleece finally makes sense. Mobile reception is patchy; EE and Three roam onto Portuguese masts, so switch data-roaming off unless you fancy an accidental £3.50 per megabyte bill for uploading a sheep-bell soundtrack.

A Village that Works, Not a Museum

Forget the whitewashed postcard. Houses here are low, granite-trimmed, and still occupied by the people who hang washing on the balconies. The centre is a triangle of streets around the late-Gothic tower of San Pedro Apóstol; inside, the Baroque retablos are worth the climb up the narrow nave, but the real draw is the cool darkness after a bright morning on the hills. Mass at 11:00 on Sunday is the easiest way to see the place in use—doors open at 10:55 and close again by 12:15.

Walk three minutes uphill and the Ermita de San Sebastián gives you the best ratio of effort to view in Extremadura: ten minutes on a stony track, twenty kilometres of dehesa rolling into Portugal. Early light brings stone curlews and the odd booted eagle; dusk smells of wild thyme and somebody’s wood-burning stove. Neither time slot requires a selfie stick, but the border-bridge photo is still compulsory—kids love stamping imaginary passports while parents check whether the Google location pin has flipped countries.

What You’ll Eat (and When)

Kitchens shut from 16:00 to 20:30; if you arrive at 17:15 expecting a cup of tea you’ll be met with a politely shuttered window. Treat lunch as the main event. Asador Raíces does roast lamb that falls off the bone and “secretos” of Ibérico pork—strips marbled like thick bacon, grilled until the edges crisp. House red is mellow, fruit-forward and, at €9 a bottle, cheaper than the Rioja in Tesco. Over the bridge, Brasería Portugal serves a mixed grill big enough for two greedy adults; chips and rice arrive on the same plate because Iberian logic refuses to choose.

Vegetarians can survive on gazpacho de pastor (bread, garlic, paprika and a poached egg) but shouldn’t expect a menu dotted with “V” symbols. Autumn brings chestnuts roasted on a street-corner drum; spring means soft sheep’s cheese drizzled with local honey—less tangy than Manchego, easier on the unadventurous British palate. Torta del Casar is the regional pride: one creamy D.O. cheese feeds four if you ration the bread. It smells stronger than it tastes; spread it on baguette rather than water biscuits and you’ll understand why locals call it “liquid gold”.

Walking Off the Pork

The signed “Ruta de los Molinos” follows dry streams to the ruins of five water-mills that ground wheat until the 1950s. The loop is 7 km, mostly flat, but after rain the clay sticks to boots like orange Plasticine. Take water—there’s no café halfway—and expect cattle grids rather than kissing gates. Shorter options thread between smallholdings where chickens scratch under lemon trees; farmers wave if you greet them first, but don’t block the track while adjusting OS maps—they’ll think you’re lost.

Serious hikers can link into the GR-39 long-distance path that traverses the sierra; a 12-km section to the abandoned village of El Baldío gives you chestnut forest, vulture cirques and the blissful absence of other humans. In summer start early; by 13:00 the shade vanishes and the only sound is your own heartbeat plus, somewhere in the valley, a dog that never learnt to stop barking.

Crossing the Line

The bridge carries local traffic only; Portuguese guards might wave, more likely they’re inside watching football. Five minutes down the road is the hamlet of Termas de São Vicente, home to a granite spa hotel that charges €25 for day access to thermal pools—towel included. British visitors compare the water temperature to a deep bath forgotten overnight: warm, slightly eggy, oddly soothing after a morning on stony tracks. Lunch across the border is an hour earlier (12:30-15:00 GMT-1) and wine is served in ceramic bowls; embrace the novelty, complain about the price later.

Drive 25 minutes north and you reach Marvão, a cliff-top fortress that puts most English castles to shame for sheer drop-factor. Roads twist like a Hot Wheels track; handbrake confidence helps. On the way back, pause at the Portuguese duty-free shop—technically for travellers with tickets, but the bored cashier will sell you a litre of decent aguardiente for €8 anyway. Declare it if you must, hide it if you dare.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April-May paints the dehesa green and flowers the verges with poppies; migrant birds pause, temperatures sit in the low 20s, and Bar Cerezo still has outdoor tables free. Late September adds chestnut husks crunching underfoot and the first wood-smoke, but the village fiestas are over and hotel prices drop. August belongs to returned emigrants—houses burst at the seams, cars park on verges, and the silence migrates elsewhere. If you hate fireworks, avoid San Sebastián weekend (around 20 January) when every man, woman and passing dog lets off petardos until dawn.

Winter is crisp, often sunny, but nights flirt with freezing. The one daily bus from Badajoz at 14:30 still runs; the 06:00 return is bleak enough to make you question every life choice. Hire cars from Lisbon airport—two hours’ flight from London, then 1 hr 45 min on the A6 and EX-110—give you escape velocity when the ATM runs dry and the restaurant closes early.

The Honest Verdict

La Codosera offers no souvenir tea-towels, no flamenco tablaos, no boutique hotels with rooftop pools. What it does give is the antidote to the Costas: starry skies un-polluted by neon, pork that tasted like something long before “artisanal” became a marketing word, and a border you can hop on foot while your phone still thinks it’s in two countries at once. Bring cash, patience and a light jacket; leave the itinerary at home. If that sounds like hard work, book the Algarve. If it sounds like breathing space, set your sat-nav west of Badajoz and keep driving until the road runs out of Spain.