Hornachos

A white ripple on a brown ridge

The first thing you notice is the colour contrast. From the EX-118 the sierra looks baked, almost monochrome, yet the village that slides down the north flank is a sudden spill of whitewash that catches the light like broken chalk. Hornachos sits at 538 m, high enough for the air to feel thinner than the valley floor 20 km south, and the ridge behind it still carries the claw-marks of a medieval wall. No motorway buzz, no high-rise hotels: only the cork-oak dehesas rolling away on three sides and, on the fourth, the Guadiana plain dissolving into haze.

Park on the upper ring-road (there is room for a dozen cars opposite the cemetery) and you start downhill; gravity does the work, and every turning reveals a house-front patched with granite blocks, a horseshoe arch filled in centuries ago, or a balcony propped on iron vines. British visitors who arrive expecting another polished “pueblo blanco” find something rougher: plaster flaking, geraniums missing, yet the patina feels honest rather than neglected.

Layers you can still touch

Hornachos was one of the last pockets of Morisco Spain. After the expulsions of 1609 the place half-emptied, but the masonry remembers. The parish church of La Purísima Concepción – open 10:00–13:00, free, donations welcome – rises on the site of the old mosque; its tower is pure sixteenth-century swagger, part-Gothic, part-Renaissance, and the baroque retablo inside still keeps fragments of Arabic epigraphy reused as building rubble. Look for the faint Kufic script turned upside-down beside the altar; the guidebook doesn’t mention it, so you will probably have the detail to yourself.

Above the nave the castle track begins. The climb takes fifteen minutes if you are fit, twenty-five if you stop to admire the way the stone warms in the sun and smells faintly of thyme. Only one tower survives whole, but the circuit wall gives a 360-degree platform: west to the olive groves of Tierra de Barros, east to the slate-blue spikes of the Sierra de Hornachos, south to the irrigation ponds that glitter like broken mirror. Sunset here is half an hour later than in the valley; bring a jumper even in May because the wind rides straight off the Meseta.

Back in the lanes, mansion doorways carry coats of arms carved during the wool boom of the 1700s. Knock and nobody answers, yet the brass bell-pulls still work. One courtyard, visible through an open gate near Calle La Feria, has a brick horseshoe arch framed by Christian frescoes – a two-faith sandwich squeezed into three metres of wall.

What the sierra is good for

The tourist office – tucked beside the town hall, English leaflets available – hands out a simple map of four circular walks. The easiest (6 km, 200 m ascent) loops through holm-oak dehesa to the abandoned Cortijo de Tietar and back along the fire-break road; wild rosemary lines the path and the only sound is the clack of acorns falling on dry leaves. British walkers who tackle it in February return raving about “proper wilderness without the Pennine mud”.

Mountain-bikers use the same tracks; hire bikes in Zafra (25 km) because the village has none. The red-marked SL-3 climbs to the Puerto de Hornachos (820 m) and drops to the reservoirs of the Guadiana, a half-day outing that needs two litres of water per person – none on the route – and a front-suspension bike. Summer riders start before eight; by eleven the shale radiates heat like a pizza oven.

Climbers have begun to appear too. The grey limestone crag above the cemetery offers eight bolted routes (grades 4 to 6b) put up by a Seville club. Bring a 60 m rope and a partner; the base is a five-minute scramble from the road, and the belay ledge gives you the village rooftops as backdrop.

Eating without the theatre

Lunch is served from 13:30 till 16:00; turn up late and the kitchen is already mopping the floor. Locals still eat migas – fried breadcrumbs shot with garlic, paprika and grapes – but the dish most visitors finish is carrillada, Iberian pork cheek stewed until it collapses into chips. At Bar Fernando (Calle La Fuente) a half-ración costs €7 and tastes like a Spanish take on braised beef. Torta del Casar, the local sheep cheese, arrives in a glazed bowl; ask for it “blandito” and the waiter will melt it under the grill so you can scoop it like fondue. A glass of Ribera del Guadiana white adds €2.20, and the total bill rarely tops €20 a head.

Evening options are thinner. Two bars open after 20:00, but if you want a full dinner head to the mesón inside the old convent (Hotel Convento de Hornachos). The menu is short and honest: partridge pâté, slow-roast lamb, quince jelly. Mains hover round €16; book at breakfast because the dining room seats thirty and half of them are usually German bird-watchers.

Vegetarians survive on tortilla and salads; vegans struggle. Stock up in the Supermercado Cristóbal (closes 14:00 sharp) which stocks Alpro soya milk and wholemeal pasta – proof that even here the modern world leaks in.

When to come, what can go wrong

April and late-October give you 22 °C days and chilly nights; the stone houses hold the cold, so pack a fleece for indoors. August tops 40 °C and the castle path becomes a griddle; most Spanish visitors retreat indoors from 14:00 to 18:00, and sensible Britons do the same. Winter is t-shirt weather at midday but 2 °C at dawn, and the mountain road can frost over – carry chains if you rent in December.

Monday is closing day: castle locked, ethnographic museum shuttered, bakery dark. Tuesday feels like a hangover. Aim for Wednesday-to-Sunday if you want everything open and the bars fully stocked.

Cash matters. The only ATM stands inside the village walls and it empties on Friday afternoon; the nearest replacement is a 25 km drive to Zafra. Petrol is the same story – fill up on the A-66 before you turn off, because the mountain stretch has nothing for 60 km.

Noise travels upwards. If you stay in one of the balconied flats (Apartamentos CMDreams has two with Wi-Fi fast enough for iPlayer) remember that the church bells strike on the quarter and the local dogs answer back. Bring earplugs or enjoy the 3 a.m. chorus.

Worth the detour?

Hornachos will not hand you instant thrills. There is no beach, no Michelin star, no flamenco tablao. What it offers is continuity: a place where the evening paseo still clogs the main street, where the butcher knows how his customer likes her chorizo, where a castle ruin keeps watch and the land beyond it smells of oak and olive. If that sounds too quiet, stay in Mérida. If it sounds like the Spain you hoped still existed, the turning is sign-posted 45 minutes south of Badajoz – and the road is empty all the way.