Villar del Rey

The morning flight from Luton lands in Lisbon before the hire-car queue has even woken up. Ninety minutes later, after the Portuguese motorway thins and the Guadiana river slips under the bridge at Elvas, the road begins to roll. Wheat turns to oak savannah, the thermometer drops four degrees, and Villar del Rey appears—241 m above sea level, flat-roofed houses the colour of old parchment, and a single stone tower that has been telling the time since the Moors left.

A Village that Forgets to Advertise itself

No souvenir shops. No multilingual menus. The only hint that outsiders are welcome is a hand-painted board reading “Bar-Restaurante Paco” beside a faded Cruzcampo parasol. Inside, Paco himself is portioning jamón ibérico from a haunch that costs more than the fridge it hangs in. A plate of six translucent slices, a quarter-loaf of bread and a caña of beer sets you back €5.50—about the price of a single London pint.

The streets were laid out for mules, not motorcars, so wing mirrors fold in and neighbours lean from doorways to guide the occasional Seat through a gap exactly one cigarette paper wider. Whitewash flakes off in coin-sized patches, revealing earlier colours: ochre, mustard, a bruised rose that hasn’t been fashionable since Franco died. This is not decay; it is simply a place that never bothered with a facelift.

Walking the Dehesa before the Sun Turns Nasty

Leave the village by the cement works lane and within ten minutes the tarmac gives up. A sandy farm track meanders between holm oaks whose trunks are wider than a London bus. These are the famous dehesas, grazed by black Iberian pigs that will become next year’s €200-a-kilo ham. In April the ground is carpeted with wild red poppies; by late May the grass has yellowed and the first cicadas rev their tiny motorbikes.

There is no signed “route.” You follow the stone cairns farmers use to reach their water troughs. A gentle 6 km loop south-east brings you to the Peña del Águila reservoir, a slate-grey sheet where cormorants dry their wings on half-submerged fence posts. The water looks inviting after the climb, but the shore is fist-sized shale—bring swim-shoes or ruin your holiday feet in under a minute.

Return at dusk and the temperature has already fallen eight degrees; nights here can touch 8 °C even in late spring. Pack a fleece or discover how loudly Spanish villagers laugh at a Brit in shorts and goose-bumps.

Calendar of Noise and Silence

The year starts quietly. Winter fog pools in the valley, sometimes thick enough to cancel the school bus to Badajoz. Come February, tractors drag steel cages of squealing pigs to family patios; the matanza is a working day, not a photo opportunity. Strangers are offered a slice of fresh morcilla—still warm, spiced with local oregano—then politely expected to leave before the serious chopping begins.

Easter brings processions so understated that a visitor might mistake them for a funeral of someone everybody actually knew. By late June the village quadruples its population. The fiesta patronal in honour of San Pedro Apóstol fills the plaza with cardboard barrels of beer, a cover band murdering 1980s rock en español, and teenagers who have flown home from jobs in Madrid and Barcelona. Fireworks echo off the grain silo at 03:00; elderly women sleep through it with the serenity of people who have heard worse.

October is mushroom month. Anyone wandering the oak woods with a wicker basket will be interrogated within seconds: “¿Conoces la diferencia entre el níscalo y el hongo de la muerte?” If the answer is not convincing, directions back to the tarmac are provided free of charge.

What to Eat without Showing Off

The menu never changes because no one has ever asked it to. Breakfast is tostada rubbed with tomato and a slick of pig fat that tastes better than butter has any right to. Mid-morning calls for a fino sherry at the counter; by law the glass comes with a saucer of olives still tasting of last year’s brine.

Lunch might be cordero a la extremeña—lamb shoulder slow-roasted with potatoes in an earthenware dish wide enough to bathe a toddler. The meat collapses at the sight of a fork; the gravy is comfort itself. Vegetarians get eggs: revueltos de setas in season, revueltos de espárragos the rest of the year. Pudding is pestiños, squares of dough fried in olive oil until blistered, then drowned in local honey. A portion costs €2.80 and delivers roughly 900 calories; you have been warned.

Dinner is theoretical. Kitchens close at 17:00 and reopen only if the bar owner fancies a flutter on how many walkers are still thirsty. Otherwise, buy a loaf, a fist of sheep’s cheese and a €3 bottle of tempranillo, and picnic on the church steps while the swifts flicker overhead.

Getting There, Staying Sane

Fly to Lisbon or Seville; both are under two hours from UK regional airports. Hire cars with full-to-full fuel policies save the extortionate Spanish “return empty” sting. From Lisbon it is 160 km on fast dual-carriageway to Elvas, then 25 minutes of single-lane country road. The final 5 km pass a cement works whose chimney is useful confirmation you have not yet missed the turning.

Accommodation is limited. There is one small hotel above the main bar—seven rooms, €45 a night, Wi-Fi that works if the wind isn’t blowing from the north. Alternatively, casas rurales scattered in the dehesa offer stone cottages with wood-burning stoves; expect to pay €80–€100 for two nights minimum. Bring cash: the village ATM is inside the Cajamar branch, opens 08:30-14:00, and frequently refuses foreign cards. On Sunday every shop is shut and the bar-restaurant may close at 18:00 without notice; fill the boot with water, wine and toilet paper in Badajoz before you arrive.

Mobile coverage is patchy. Vodafone and Movistar give one bar on the outskirts; inside the church even God struggles to send a text. Download Spanish offline in Google Translate and accept that being incommunicado is part of the deal.

The Honest Verdict

Villar del Rey will not change your life. There are no epic viewpoints, no Michelin stars, no queue-for-an-hour selfie backdrops. What it offers is rarer: a Spanish village that continues to exist for its own inhabitants rather than for the gram. Walk the oak woods at sunrise, eat lamb until your arteries whimper, listen to the night silence so complete it makes your ears ring, and you will understand why some Britons break the journey here year after year. Just remember to carry cash, keep the tank half full, and bring something warm for the evening. After that, the village will handle the rest—whether you arrive in time for the church bells or the pig fat is entirely up to you.