Alange

Eighteen kilometres south-west of Mérida, the N-630 drops through rolling dehesa and suddenly reveals a sheet of water so still it feels like the village has grown its own inland sea. This is Alange, a one-street place of 1,300 souls whose fortunes have always risen and fallen with the reservoir that laps at its garden walls. There’s no coast for 200 km, yet the smell of warm stone and distant water follows you down every alleyway.

The Baths That Outlived an Empire

The Romans arrived for the sulphur-rich thermal waters bubbling up at 32 °C. Two millennia later the same springs feed the Balneario de Alange, a severe neoclassical building that looks more like a provincial law court than a spa. Inside, the original Roman basins are still in use—deep, green-tiled pools under brick vaults blackened by centuries of steam. Wednesday to Sunday you can book a two-hour session for €18; swimsuits are compulsory, flip-flops advisable, and the €1 locker coin is non-negotiable. British visitors often find themselves the only foreigners, eavesdropping on Extremaduran grandmothers comparing hip operations while cicadas rattle outside the arched windows. The water is slightly salty, leaving a faint metallic taste on the lips and the pleasant sensation that you’ve swum through a chapter of Tacitus.

Above the spa, the ninth-century Castillo de Alange squats on a sandstone outcrop. The climb takes fifteen minutes if you’re fit, twenty-five if you stop to admire the fig trees sprouting from the ramparts. The path starts behind the Iglesia de Santa Eulalia—look for a yellow arrow half-erased by last winter’s rain, then count 112 roughly-hewn steps. What reaches the top are not Disney turrets but jagged walls and a single intact horseshoe arch. The reward is a 270-degree panorama: reservoir to the west, olive-coated hills to the east, and the village tiled in terracotta below. Stout shoes are essential; the stone is polished smooth by goat hooves and the occasional reckless mountain biker.

A Shore Without Seagulls

The embalse isn’t a natural lake, but you’d never guess from the birdlife. At dawn grey herons stalk the shallows; by late afternoon cormorants sit on half-submerged fence posts, wings spread like broken umbrellas. A 4 km circuit leaves from the football pitch, swings through eucalyptus shade, then hugs the water’s edge where wild asparagus grows between the rocks. There’s no sandy beach—just firm red earth and the odd wooden jetty used by weekend fishermen who swear the carp grow fat on leftover migas. Bring a picnic, but don’t expect litter bins; Extremadura assumes you’ll carry your orange peel home.

Back in the village, the main street is wide enough for a single lorry and shady enough to keep ice cream from melting. Houses are whitewashed to shoulder height, then topped with ochre paint where the sun can’t bleach them. Shutters stay closed until the day cools; by 7 pm plastic chairs appear outside doorways and elderly men debate agricultural subsidies over tinny radio football. The only cash machine stands beside the bakery—use it before Thursday evening because the cartridge is often empty by Friday’s market in the plaza.

Calories Earned, Calories Returned

Extremaduran cooking is built on the principle that fieldwork burns 4,000 calories, even if your field is now a reservoir. In the Bar Central, migas arrive as a mountain of fried breadcrumbs studded with chorizo and grapes; one portion feeds two hungry walkers for €8. Gazpacho here is the hot, thick cousin of Andalusian soup—more stew than salad, fortified with rabbit and pennyroyal mint. The local rosado, served cold in a plain tumbler, tastes like strawberries left in the sun and costs €2 a glass. If you’re travelling with children, order the cordero a la caldereta: mild lamb stew that even fussy eaters recognise as Sunday roast in disguise.

When the Village Turns Up the Volume

Alange’s calendar revolves around water and patron saints. Mid-August brings the fiesta mayor: brass bands until 3 am, temporary bars under fairy lights, and a foam party in the municipal pool that delights teenagers and horrifies their parents. Book accommodation on the edge of town unless you enjoy being lulled to sleep by Bad Bunny covers. In mid-December the fiestas de Santa Eulalia are quieter—processions of girls in embroidered shawls, villagers handing out pestiños (honey fritters) still warm from the fryer, and a single firework at midnight that makes even the dogs yawn.

Spring and autumn are the sweet spots. Temperatures hover around 22 °C, ideal for walking the castle path without arriving drenched. In May the dehesa glows green after rain; wild iris appear overnight along the reservoir track and the spa offers outdoor massages under a canopy of eucalyptus. October brings migratory birds—flights of teal and the occasional osprey that circles above the dam before heading south.

Getting There, Getting Out

There is no direct bus from the UK, and that’s half the charm. Fly to Madrid or Seville, take the train to Mérida (2 hrs from Madrid, 1 hr from Seville), then either a €25 taxi or the weekday bus that leaves Mérida at 14:15 and returns at 07:30 next morning. Without wheels you’re effectively marooned, so hire a car if you plan to combine Alange with the Roman theatre at Mérida or the monastery at Guadalupe. The roads are empty, petrol is cheaper than Britain, and the sat-nav signal holds even among the cork oaks.

Accommodation splits into two camps: the historic spa rooms with high ceilings and slightly sulphurous plumbing, or the modern Aqualange apartments across the road—air-conditioned, pool-equipped, and popular with Spanish wedding parties at weekends. Mid-week in March a double at the spa starts at €70 including breakfast tostada that arrives with a miniature tin of olive oil and a tomato half for rubbing.

Leave Before the Reservoir Does

Stay longer than three days and you’ll notice the cracks: the supermarket shuts for three hours at lunch, the castle path turns to clay soup after rain, and the only English newspaper in the bar is last December’s Times left by a retired naval officer who winters in Trujillo. Yet that is precisely Alange’s appeal. It is not a hidden gem—just a working village that happens to own Roman baths, a ruined castle and a lake-sized backyard. Come for the history, stay for the herons, leave before the reservoir evaporates in August and you’ll understand why Extremadurans never bother reaching the coast.