Zarza de Granadilla

At 399 metres above sea level, Zarza de Granadilla sits just high enough for the air to carry the scent of oak and rosemary instead of diesel. The village clock strikes twice—once for the hour, once because the mechanism’s older than the queen—and nobody hurries. This is rural Extremadura at its most honest: no postcard plazas, no souvenir stands, just 1,800 people living between church bells and the slow turn of the dehesa.

The Village That Forgot to Shout

Zarza’s main street is barely two lanes wide; delivery vans fold their mirrors to pass. Whitewashed houses wear their lime like old cricket whites—clean but never pristine. Peek through an open doorway and you’ll catch a flash of potted geraniums, a tethered dog, someone shelling broad beans into a striped apron. There isn’t a “sights” list; instead, wander until the town reveals itself. The 16th-century Iglesia de la Asunción keeps its doors unlocked mornings. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and the stone floor dips where centuries of boots have paused. Retablos glitter dimly—gold leaf rubbed thin by devotion rather than restoration budgets.

Outside, the plaza is more car park than piazza. Elderly men play cards under a plastic awning, ignoring the bronze statue of a nameless local hero. Order a cortado at Bar California and it arrives in a glass etched with the Real Madrid crest, coffee scalding, price €1.20. Ask for the loo and you’ll be pointed across the road to the public toilets that actually have paper—small triumphs matter here.

Reservoirs, Ruins and the Road to Nowhere

Five minutes east the Embalse de Gabriel y Galán spreads out like a sheet of beaten pewter. Locals drive down after work, bin bags of bream and perch ready for the boot of the car. There’s no ticket booth, no hire kiosk—just a concrete slipway and a man called Manolo who sells cold cans of Estrella from a coolbox on weekends. Swim if you like; the water’s clean but the drop-off is sudden and there’s nobody to watch your towel.

Carry on another ten kilometres and you reach the abandoned medieval village of Granadilla. Franco’s reservoir project drowned the original road; now you approach across a causeway that feels like driving onto a film set. Inside the walls, houses stand roofless but stubborn—stone shells open to the sky, swallows nesting where families once did. Entry is free, but parking is €2 paid to an attendant who appears only when engines approach. Climb the castle keep for a view of water turning cobalt at dusk; stay after the coach parties leave and you’ll hear nothing but wind and the clack of storks’ bills on the battlements.

Back in Zarza, dusk is announced not by church bells but by the mechanical whirr of roller shutters. Everything closes between 14:00 and 17:00; plan lunch early or you’ll be foraging. Midweek, the single ATM runs out of notes by Wednesday—fill pockets in Plasencia before you arrive.

Eating Without Show

Zarza won’t dazzle food bloggers, yet what arrives on chipped earthenware tastes of the surrounding land. At Mesón El Parral the set lunch costs €11 and starts with zorongollo—roasted red pepper and tomato sharpened with sherry vinegar, no chilli heat to frighten delicate palates. Follow with migas: breadcrumbs fried in pork fat, scattered with grapes that burst against the salt. Vegetarians get a plate of escalivada and no apology; this is still Spain.

Evenings belong to Versátil, a restaurant that earned a Michelin star and then refused to redecorate. Sit beneath neon beer adverts and choose between ibérico secreto or, if you balk at black pudding, they’ll swap in mushrooms without fuss. The tasting menu is €45; wine flights add €18 and include a fragrant white made from the local Cayetana grape that rarely leaves the province. Book ahead—weekends fill with Spaniards who’ve driven two hours from Madrid for proper quiet.

Buy edible souvenirs at the Saturday morning market: jars of pimentón dulce the colour of terracotta, wheels of sheep’s cheese wrapped in esparto grass, chorizos the width of cricket balls. Prices are scribbled in marker pen and haggling is frowned upon; bring cash because the stallholder’s card reader “only works when it’s raining”.

Walking, Watching, Waiting

Spring brings green velvet to the dehesa; wild orchids appear beside cattle tracks. A 7-kilometre loop starts opposite the petrol station—one pump, no card payments—following a stone wall once built to keep pigs from wheat. Markers are sporadic, but lost just means meeting a shepherd who’ll point with his crook and offer a swig of warm anís. Autumn swaps flowers for fungi; locals hunt níscalos at dawn and guard locations like family secrets.

Birders should head to the pine plantations north of the reservoir at first light. Black kites rise on thermals, and in late August the bellow of rutting stags ricochets through the trees like distant artillery. Bring binoculars and patience; lynx tracks exist but the cats themselves appear about as often as English sunshine.

Cyclists can follow the EX-390 towards Baílcon, traffic thinning to one car an hour. Gradient is gentle, surface decent, though cattle grids jolt unwary wrists. Turn round when the road starts to climb seriously; there’s no café at the top, only a view that makes you realise how much of Spain is empty.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April and October deliver 22 °C afternoons and chilly nights—ideal for walking without sweat or frost. Accommodation is limited to Posadas de Granadilla, a clutch of terracotta apartments on the village edge. Rooms have beams, terracotta floors and kitchens equipped with more than one knife; reception shuts at 20:00 sharp, but ring the mobile taped to the door and someone arrives within minutes. Rates hover round €70 for two, including bread delivered warm each morning. Summer prices stay the same, yet the mercury can hit 42 °C; siesta becomes survival rather than indulgence. In winter mist pools in the valley and the reservoir disappears—atmospheric but bone-cold. Several cafés simply don’t bother opening January to March.

Fiestas flip the quiet on its head. Mid-August brings the Asunción fair: brass bands, procession, temporary bars pumping out reggaetón until 04:00. Book early or you’ll sleep in the car. February’s carnival is smaller, muddier, friendlier—expect fancy-dose costumes made from bin liners and more wine than wisdom.

The Last Round

Leave Zarza as visitors should: slowly. The road west twists past olive groves where each tree is registered like a birth. Pull over, cut the engine, listen. No hum of motorway, no jets overhead—just a blackbird practising scales and the faint clank of a cowbell. Spain’s volume knob is turned to two. Whether that feels like paradise or purgatory depends on you.