Valdastillas

The church bell strikes noon, and nobody hurries. Not the elderly man watering his tomatoes with the precision of a watchmaker, nor the teenager coasting downhill on a bike older than himself. Valdastillas moves to irrigation timers and blossom forecasts, not to any timetable a visitor might bring.

At 638 metres above sea-level, the village squats halfway up the Jerte valley, low enough for orange trees to survive winter yet high enough that the July air still carries a breeze. One road in, one road out, both narrow enough to make passing a lorry loaded with cherry pallets feel like a fairground ride. The houses are stone the colour of weak tea, roofed with rust-red tiles that seem to have melted in place. Nothing is whitewashed for effect; the colour comes from whatever the nearby quarries offered fifty years ago.

Blossom maths

Come late March the arithmetic becomes absurd: roughly five thousand humans, one and a half million cherry trees. For ten days the valley turns into a negative photograph of itself—black trunks, white petals—before the wind strips the flowers and green pennies of fruit appear. Tour operators in Madrid call this “la floración” and run coaches from the capital; locals simply say “la flor” and check the night temperature the way Londoners check the FTSE. A single frost below –2 °C can erase a farmer’s entire year.

Driving the 50-kilometre blossom circuit is the simplest way to see the show. Start early, before the coaches reach the tight bends above the river. From Valdastillas head north to Villamiel, then loop clockwise through Casas del Castañar and back down the EX-392. Pull-over bays are scarce; if you find one, take it, even if the photo isn’t perfect. The best light is before ten o’clock, when the sun is still low enough to throw shadows between the terraces and the petals glow rather than glare.

Footpaths and footnotes

The village itself occupies barely a square kilometre. You can walk every street in twenty minutes, but that misses the point. Tracks leave from the upper end of Calle Real, squeeze between vegetable plots, then climb into sweet-chestnut woods. The PR-67 way-markers are sporadic—sometimes a yellow splash on a rock, sometimes nothing for half a kilometre—so download the GPS trace before you set off. A straightforward out-and-back follows the Arroyo de la Yedra to a stone shepherd’s hut at 1,100 m; allow three hours return, plus time to sit on the slate outcrop that doubles as a balcony over the valley.

Serious walkers can continue north-east into the Garganta de los Infiernos nature reserve, a granite gorge where the river has carved smooth slides and deep pools cold enough to make your heart stutter. The “natural Jacuzzis” are popular with Spanish students at weekends; visit on a weekday and you may share the water only with grey wagtails.

What arrives on the back of a lorry

Valdastillas has no supermarket, just a family-run alimentación that opens when the owner finishes her farm work. Bread arrives daily from Plasencia; fresh fish turns up twice a week if the driver fancies the mountain detour. Eating well therefore depends on what the valley is shedding at any given moment.

April brings tiny, sharp cherries the size of marbles—too sour for anything except jam. By mid-June the picota variety ripens, mahogany-skinned and sweet enough to eat until your tongue feels furry. Farmers sell them from garage forecourts at €3–4 a kilo, plastic bags still warm from the sun. In October the chestnut sellers appear, roasting over open drums until the husks split like laughter. Year-round you will find chuletón, a T-bone cut as thick as the width of your palm, grilled over holm-oak until the exterior tastes of camp-fire and the interior of butter. Order once, share twice.

The local wine, pitarra, is bottled in whatever container happens to be clean—old Coke bottles, swing-top jars, once famously a rugby-trophy cup. Light, grapey and slightly sparkling, it tastes like alcoholic elderflower and pairs alarmingly well with steak at eleven in the morning.

When not to come

August is a furnace. The valley walls trap hot air that smells of resin and tractor diesel; shade shrinks to the width of a doorway. Spanish families retreat indoors from two until five, emerging only when the church bell tolls for evening mass. Without air-conditioning you will sleep badly, and the only bar still serving outdoors is the one with mist sprayers that taste of chlorine.

Late December brings the opposite problem. Night temperatures drop below freezing, the water pipes in older houses burst, and the single road may ice over. The village is beautiful under a dusting of snow, but unless you know someone with a log store and a fondness for company, you will feel in the way.

Practical residue

The nearest cash machine is in Jerte, ten minutes down the valley. Petrol is cheaper in Plasencia, twenty-five minutes south-west, so fill up before you climb. Accommodation is limited: three small guesthouses, none with more than eight rooms, plus a handful of self-catering cottages that close in low season. Book ahead for blossom weekends or accept a €40 taxi ride from the provincial capital.

Mobile reception is patchy once you leave the main road; WhatsApp messages stall halfway between “I’m” and “lost.” Pick up a free paper map at the tourist kiosk in Jerte—it’s waterproof, doubles as a sun-hat, and shows the farm tracks Google still hasn’t noticed.

Leaving without a souvenir

Valdastillas won’t sell you fridge magnets. The village offers instead a lesson in how quietly places can function when they refuse to speed up. If you need reminding of that later, the juice from a bag of picotas will stain your fingers the colour of provincial dusk, and the scent will linger on the dashboard all the way back to Madrid.