Villar de Rena

The water arrives in April. Overnight, the fields east of Villar de Rena transform into a mosaic of shallow lakes that throw the sky back at itself. Storks land between newly planted rice shoots, their reflections doubling the bird count. By late summer these same fields glow emerald, then gold, then rust—four seasons of colour squeezed into one crop cycle.

This is not the Extremadura most British travellers know. There are no granite peaks, no mediaeval hill towns wrapped round castles. Villar de Rena sits at 285 m above sea level on the Vegas Altas, the upper flood-plain of the Guadiana. The horizon runs ruler-straight in every direction, interrupted only by the white cube of the village itself and the occasional pump station that ticks like a metronome above the irrigation channels.

A Grid of White Walls and Iron Grilles

Start at the church, Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza, whose square tower doubles as the village clock. The building is 16th-century austerity rendered in ochre stone: no Gothic spikes, no Baroque theatrics, just thick walls and small windows designed to blunt the summer heat. From here the streets fan out in a loose grid, wide enough for tractors to pass without clipping the wrought-iron balconies. House fronts are limewashed annually before the fiestas; in July the glare is almost blinding, by November the walls have mellowed to soft cream.

Look down as you walk. Granite doorsteps are dished from decades of boot scuffs; many still bear the original owners’ initials chiselled in 1920s script. Residents set wooden chairs outside at dusk, but they face inwards—conversation matters more than the view. The effect is less postcard, more working parish: a place where agriculture sits in the driving seat and tourism rides, if at all, in the back.

Rice, Storks and the 06:15 Alarm

The real sightseeing begins where the tarmac ends. A five-minute stroll south on the EX-104 and the road dissolves into a lattice of farm tracks. In flooded season (mid-April to early June) the water sits ankle-deep, warm as a bath and thick with tadpoles. Herons work the margins; if you stand still they will pass within three metres, eyeing you for competition rather than threat. Bring binoculars—cheap 8×25 compacts are enough—but stay on the crown of the track; the soil is clay that clings to boots and turns trainers into platform shoes.

Outside irrigation months the plain dries to cracked biscuits of earth. The landscape loses its mirror, yet gains accessibility: you can cycle the same tracks without fear of drowning a derailleur. Either way, carry water. The flatness is deceptive; there is no shade and the breeze evaporates sweat before you notice you’re losing it. A two-hour loop south to the pumping station at kilometre 7.4 and back is 10 km, dead level, and puts you back in the village in time for coffee at Bar Central on Plaza de España (€1.20, proper cup and saucer, no microwaved milk).

When the Thermometer Hits 42 °C

Villar de Rena is not a July destination unless you enjoy saunas with cattle soundtrack. August fiestas run from the 14th to the 18th and yes, there is night-time bull-running in the streets, Extremadura-style: smaller steers, faster locals, slightly looser health-and-safety. Accommodation triples in price; if you want bed rather than pavement, book Hotel San Miguel in nearby Zafra (25 min drive, three-star, pool, £70–£90 pn). For a quieter taste, arrive late September when the harvest thanksgiving fills the plaza with straw bales and free paella cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish. The rice is local, nutty, slightly pink from the mineral-rich water.

Winter is crisp, often foggy, and almost tourist-free. Days hover around 12 °C, nights drop to 2 °C; the fields empty of water and wading birds, but the village fills with wood smoke and the smell of jamón curing in garages. You will need Spanish—English is rarely spoken once you leave the main road—and a car is non-negotiable. The Monday bus from Badajoz continues to Madrid at 15:30; miss it and the next service is Wednesday.

Eating: From Field to Frying Pan

There is no restaurant row. Expect one-menu-fits-all cooking in two bar-cafés where the daily special is chalked above the coffee machine. Rice appears as arroz caldoso (brothy, half-soup), arroz a la plancha (pressed into a crisp cake), or simply boiled and served with migas—fried breadcrumbs, garlic and scraps of chorizo. A full lunch with wine costs €9–€11; they will not take cards, so bring cash. Evening dining means driving: Zafra has Casa Antonio (traditional) or La Muralla (modern tapas, still under £20 a head). Self-caterers can buy vacuum-packed ibérico from the cooperative on Calle San José; the label reads “bellota” only if the pig ate acorns, so check before you gift it as premium.

Where to Lay Your Head

Inside the village, accommodation is limited to three privately owned casas rurales, each sleeping four to six. Expect stone floors, beams, and Wi-Fi that gasps whenever someone microwaves supper. Prices start at £55 per night for the whole house in low season, rising to £95 in April when birders arrive. Two properties list on Airbnb UK under “Entire place”; message hosts to confirm towel change policy—some charge €5 extra. There is no hotel, no reception desk, and checkout is 11:00 sharp because the cleaner has to get back to her tomatoes.

If you prefer a real bed rather than a sofa-bed that folds like a medieval torture device, base yourself in Zafra and day-trip. The drive is 24 km on the EX-104, mostly straight, mostly empty, and takes 20 minutes unless you get stuck behind a rice lorry doing 40 km/h. Petrol is currently €1.52 per litre at the Villar de Rena Repsol, 2 cents cheaper than the motorway services at Badajoz.

The Honest Verdict

Villar de Rena delivers what it promises: flat horizons, bird-filled floods, and a slice of agricultural Extremadura that has not been polished for Instagram. It also delivers heat, dust, and the realisation that “authentic” means limited choice. Come for two days, three if you paint or photograph, then use the village as a hinge between Zafra’s castle and the Roman theatre at Mérida 45 minutes north. Expect to entertain yourself after 22:00 when even the dogs turn in. Pack binoculars, waterproof shoes, and enough Spanish to ask for the bill—because once the storks leave, the waiter is the only thing still moving.