Villanueva de la Serena

The thermometer on the chemist’s wall reads 42 °C at three in the afternoon, yet the wide pavement under the arcades of Calle Goya is comfortably cool. That is the first lesson Villanueva de la Serena teaches: altitude matters. At 280 m above the surrounding plain the town catches whatever breeze is moving and avoids the furnace of nearby Don Benito, five kilometres away but a full degree warmer most days of July.

British drivers usually arrive by accident, following the EX-118 that threads across Extremadura’s wheat ocean on the way from Seville to Madrid. The first glimpse is nothing dramatic—apartment blocks painted the colour of paprika, a cluster of white silos, then the long plane-lined boulevard that becomes Avenida de la Constitución. No castle on a crag, no honey-stone archway. What you get instead is a living market town of 26,000 whose business is growing food, not serving tourists. That, for many, is the appeal.

A grid laid out for people, not coaches

The centre is a five-minute walk from wherever you abandon the car. Parking is free under the plane trees on Avenida de la Constitución; if you prefer shade over wallet, the underground planta sótano beneath Plaza de España costs €1.20 a day but smells of hot engine oil by eleven in the morning. The plaza itself is a textbook example of eighteenth-century civic planning—rectangular, arcaded on three sides, with a bandstand that still hosts Sunday concerts. Elderly men in linen caps play cards at metal tables; children career round the fountain while their mothers compare prices for cherries bought from the back of a farmer’s Ford. No souvenir stalls, no multilingual menus, just the clack of dominoes and the bell of the Iglesia de la Asunción marking the quarter hour.

The church tower is the tallest thing for miles and the obvious compass point. Inside, the nave is refreshingly plain—no gold leaf theatrics, rather a sweep of stone interrupted by the odd Baroque chapel paid for by merchants who got rich on Merino wool. English leaflets are usually stacked by the door; if the rack is empty the sacristan will hunt one down provided you arrive before the midday Mass. Try to be out by ten past; the doors are locked smartly afterwards and the caretaker likes his lunch.

What passes for sights

Villanueva will never compete with Cáceres or Trujillo on monuments, yet the town rewards those who look sideways. Calle Ancha, two blocks north of the plaza, preserves nineteenth-century houses whose upper balconies are built from local oak still fragrant in summer heat. At Number 14 a blue plaque records that Miguel de Cervantes once collected taxes here—an event commemorated every April with a short street-theatre performance entirely in Spanish and largely inaudible. The small archaeological museum on Calle Cristo opens only on weekday mornings; entry is free but you must ring the bell twice. Inside are Roman roof tiles stamped with the maker’s footprint (a dog wandered across the wet clay) and a Visigothic belt buckle found by a farmer ploughing lentils.

If you need more air, follow Paseo de la Libertad west for ten minutes until the pavement ends at the municipal swimming pool. The Piscina Municipal is Olympic-sized, fed by artesian water and surrounded by grass that actually stays green. It opens strictly 1 July–31 August, 11:00–20:00; admission is €3 and they lend you a padlock for the changing-room locker. Outside those dates the gates are padlocked and the caretaker refuses to negotiate, even if you offer to sweep the leaves off the bottom.

Flat roads, big sky

The Vegas Altas live up to their name: high, wide and almost empty of traffic. Cyclists love it. A quiet tarmac lane leaves the town beside the old railway line and rolls 28 km north to Campanario, passing wheat so uniformly golden it looks back-lit. There is no gradient worthy of the lowest gear on a hybrid, but carry two litres of water—shade exists only where a poplar has collapsed across the ditch. Bird-watchers should head south instead, towards the muddy banks of the Guadiana at Palazuelo, six kilometres on the EX-390. Spoonbills and glossy ibis feed there in spring; in August the river shrinks to a braid and the only movement is a tractor ferrying watermelons.

When to come, when to stay away

April and late-October are the sweet spots. Temperatures hover round 22 °C, cafés set tables outside without erecting the industrial fans, and hotel prices stay at the low end of €45–€60 for a double. From mid-June to mid-September the mercury can top 45 °C; the town copes by shutting between 14:00 and 17:00, but you will still feel as though someone has left the oven on. Winter is mild by British standards—frost is rare, snow rarer—but an Atlantic front can park itself over the plain for a week of horizontal rain. On those days the place feels grey and functional; come only if you need an excuse to sit inside eating roast peppers.

Eating without surprises

Local gastronomy is dictated by whatever the soil produces this week. That translates into thick tomato soup thickened with day-old bread, migas (fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo) and pork shoulder slow-roasted until it can be spread like butter. Vegetarians survive best at Becada on Plaza de España, where the owner’s daughter spent a gap year in Bristol and understands the concept of a main course without jamón. Half-raciones are half-price and generously sized; two make a decent dinner for £12 including wine. Mandukar, two streets back, fuses Korean and Extremaduran—think bulgogi beef tacos topped with pimentón. It sounds odd, tastes better, and they will bring tap water without the Spanish theatrics of pretending it doesn’t exist.

Breakfast is best kept simple: ask for “tostada con tomate” in any bar. You’ll receive a slab of toasted village loaf, a saucer of grated tomato, a bottle of olive oil and as much salt as you dare. Coffee is €1.40 if you stand at the bar, €2.20 at a table; the surcharge is printed on the menu but easy to miss after a late night. Speaking of which, night-life shuts down early. Even on Saturday the last gin-and-tonic is served by 01:30; if you want longer, drive to Don Benito where the clubs stay open until the Guardia Civil send everyone home.

Practical odds and ends

Cash remains king. Many shops refuse cards under €10 and the nearest free ATM is inside the Caja Rural on Calle Goya—refuse the English-language option or it will levy a €1.75 fee disguised as “currency conversion”. The weekly market sets up Monday 08:00–14:00 in the fairground north of the river; fruit is cheaper than in supermarkets and they sell the local sheep’s cheese in whole or half wheels, wrapped in newspaper. If you need a pharmacy after 22:00 ring the bell at Farmacia Palop on Avenida de Madrid; the duty rota is taped to the door in Spanish only, but the staff will open if you look desperate.

Sunday lunch is the main meal; most kitchens close by 17:00. Plan accordingly or you’ll be staring at crisps for supper. The tourist office beside the town hall hands out an English leaflet titled “Villanueva on Foot”; pick it up before 14:00 when they lock up for siesta. The same office can supply a list of three local wine cellars offering tastings—phone a day ahead, preferably in Spanish, though the owners understand “two o’clock tour” without difficulty.

Worth the detour?

Villanueva de la Serena will not change your life. It offers no Instagram cathedrals, no cliff-edge drama, no souvenir tea-towels. What it does provide is an unfiltered slice of provincial Spain where prices have not been adjusted for foreigners because foreigners are still a novelty. If you are travelling the south-western triangle and need a place to sleep that is neither motorway motel nor medieval theme park, the town is a sensible, civilised halt. Arrive with modest expectations, a phrasebook and an appetite for roast pepper, and you will understand why the few British visitors who linger leave repeating the same line: “It feels like Spain before the rest of us arrived.”