Corte de Peleas

A horizon that refuses to end

Stand on the edge of Corte de Peleas at first light and the world seems to tilt southward. Wheat stubble, olive dots and the occasional holm oak roll away until sky and soil blur somewhere beyond eyesight. At 540 m above sea level the village is high enough to catch a breeze yet low enough to feel the full force of the Extremaduran sun; come July that means 38 °C by noon and pavements that give back yesterday’s heat long after midnight. In January you’ll need a fleece by 4 p.m. when the thermometer slips towards 5 °C and the stone houses exhale the chill they’ve stored all day.

The plateau is not dramatic—no jagged peaks or plunging gorges—but the scale is quietly overwhelming. A 6 km loop west of the church brings you to a ridge where the only vertical features are the village water tower and a handful of distant grain silos. It is walking country rather than hiking country; paths are farm tracks of packed clay, graded by tractors rather than mountain goats. If you judge terrain by Ordnance Survey standards, think eastern England with better weather and vultures overhead.

What passes for a centre

Calle Iglesia leads nowhere in particular and that is the point. Five minutes from one end to the other, the street is wide enough for a single lorry to unload sacks of feed while neighbours lean against doorframes discussing rainfall figures. The parish church of San Juan Bautista anchors the tarmac like a stone ship; its bell still marks the quarters, though the population—just under 1,200 on the last padrón—has halved since the 1960s. Look up and you’ll notice roofs of curved Arab tile, the lower courses blackened where decades of cooking smoke escaped through kitchen vents. Many façades were repainted last century in colours that British paint charts would call “Buttermilk” and “Wiltshire Stone”; a few have drifted towards pistachio, giving the illusion of a seaside village beached 150 km inland.

There is no ticket office, no audioguide, no gift shop. Opening hours for the church are negotiated on the spot: knock at the house opposite and María Jesús will fetch the key if she isn’t supervising homework for two grandsons. Donations go straight into the electricity jar; £2 in the plate keeps the 1950s chandeliers blazing for another week.

Eating what the day provides

Forget tasting menus. The only restaurant, La Dehesa, opens when the owner returns from the morning livestock market. Arrive at 2 p.m. sharp and you might find men in boots sharing a ceramic dish of migas—breadcrumbs fried with garlic, pimentón and enough olive oil to make the Rivers Authority nervous. A portion feeds two hungry walkers and costs €8. If the blackboard lists caldereta de cordero, order it; the lamb comes from flocks that graze the surrounding dehesa and the sauce is thickened with bread older than most tourists. Wine arrives in a 33 cl bottle without a label, usually from nearby Zafra, and you’ll be charged €3 whether you drink it or simply admire the colour.

Vegetarians can assemble a respectable meal from ensalada de pimientos and revuelto de setas when wild mushrooms appear after autumn rain, but this is pig country; even the green beans may have been cooked with chorizo. Pudding is often skipped in favour of anise liqueur served in a toothpaste-sized glass. English is not spoken; pointing works, politeness works better.

How to arrive without expecting a railway station

Corte de Peleas sits midway between the A-66 motorways to Seville and Mérida. From either direction you peel off at the Don Benito turn-off, then snake 30 km along the EX-382, a road straight enough to invite Jeremy Clarkson fantasies yet narrow enough to punish them. The nearest railhead is at Villanueva de la Serena, 25 km north, but trains are regional diesels that require a change at Mérida if you’re coming from Madrid. Bottom line: hire a car at Seville or Madrid airport and resign yourself to a 2 h 45 min schlep across plains that turn from green to gold to brown according to the month. Petrol stations are scarce south of Zafra; fill up while you can.

Bus services exist in theory. The Monday-only coach from Badajoz reaches the village square at 11:35 and leaves again at 13:10, giving you just enough time for coffee and a photo of the church. Miss it and the next direct departure is the following week—hardly convenient for catching Tuesday flights back to Luton.

Seasons that dictate the timetable

April turns the surrounding wheat into an inland sea of emerald; by late May the ears have bleached to platinum and the air smells of dry straw. Temperatures hover either side of 22 °C—perfect for a 12 km circuit south to the ruined ermita where storks nest on the belfry. In July and August the sensible schedule is borrowed from the locals: walk at dawn, retreat indoors between 13:00 and 19:00, re-emerge for the paseo once the shadows lengthen. Winter brings crisp light and flocks of cranes overhead, but nights drop below freezing; several village houses still rely on butane heaters that look suspiciously like 1970s patio lamps.

Rain is irregular and usually arrives in April thunderstorms that turn clay tracks to glue for 24 h. If the sky purples, head back immediately—rental-car floor mats are not built for Extremaduran mud.

The things you will not find

There is no medieval castle, no Michelin stars, no artisanal gin distillery run by expats. Mobile reception is patchy on the eastern fringe and 4G can vanish entirely inside the church porch. English newspapers reach the estanco in Badajoz two days late. If these omissions feel like deprivations, stay in Cáceres. If they sound like liberation, bring binoculars, a phrasebook and a tolerance for siesta silence that stretches from 14:30 until the church bell remembers it is time for vespers.

Leaving without promising to return

Corte de Peleas will not change your life. It will, however, recalibrate your sense of distance: the walk to the cemetery takes twelve minutes, the horizon recedes for twelve kilometres, and somewhere between the two you may realise that “nothing to do” can be an itinerary in itself. Drive away at sunset and the village shrinks in the mirror until only the water tower remains, blinking like a mast light across an ocean of grain. The road straightens, the radio crackles back into range, and the next city beckons. Whether you come back is irrelevant; for a brief stretch the land held still, and that is rarity enough.