Alagón del Río

The sponge cake lands on the counter while you’re still hunting for the kettle. Gloria, who let you in ten minutes ago, has already unpacked the shopping bag: milk in the fridge, crusty loaf under a cloth, and a plate of jamón the colour of antique mahogany. Outside, the only sound is a tractor ticking itself cool in the lane. You are 260 m above sea-level, 500 souls around you, and roughly two and a half hours from the nearest Madrid tail-back. This is Alagón del Río, and the timetable has just been cancelled.

A grid drawn by neighbours, not planners

The village was laid out in the 1950s after an earlier settlement was drowned downstream, so the streets follow a neat agricultural grid rather than medieval tangles. Low white houses sit shoulder-to-shoulder, their iron balconies wide enough for a geranium and a coffee cup. There is no monumental core to tick off: the parish church of San Juan Bautista acts as the only reliable landmark, its brick bell-tower visible from every corner. Walk five minutes in any direction and you meet the dehesa – a mosaic of holm-oak and plough that changes colour like a well-worn jumper. In April the fields glow emerald; by late August they have faded to biscuit brown, and on winter mornings the river mists can hide the church tower altogether.

The Río Alagón itself slides past two kilometres north of the houses. Forget rowing boats or riverside cafés: the banks are wild tamarisk and stone, watched over by grey herons and the occasional kingfisher. Locals angle for carp in spring, but most visitors simply stand on the medieval stone bridge and enjoy the breeze that smells of thyme and irrigated tomatoes.

What passes for excitement

Days here are measured in bread delivery (white van, 10:30) and the clatter of the single harvester that works the sunflower plots. The nearest listed restaurant is Bar El Turro on Plaza de España. Its metal doors roll up at 08:00 for coffee and churros, close at 16:00, then reopen at 20:00 for a short, fried menu. Expect pork shoulder, chips, and a glass of local Rufete that tastes like Beaujolais left in the sun. Price: €11–14 a plate. The owners keep a portable card machine, but bring cash anyway; the signal dies when the wind blows from the Sierra de Gata.

If you need groceries, the village shop stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and a surprising range of dog food. For anything greener than an onion, drive 25 minutes to Coria before you arrive. The supermarket there also sells Torta del Casar, the regional cheese that behaves like a gentle Brie once you ease it out of its box. Spread it on toast with a drizzle of honey and you have supper for two under the stars, no washing-up required.

Footpaths that belong to the workers

Alagón del Río is surrounded by agricultural tracks rather than signed footpaths. One of the easiest loops starts opposite the cemetery and follows a stone-lined lane south for 3 km through wheat and chickpea plots. You will share the dust with the farmer’s 4×4 and probably a pair of hoopoes. Turn back when the track meets the irrigation canal; after rain the clay sticks to boots like wet biscuit dough. Serious walkers can drive 20 minutes to the Cañón del Río Lobos for marked trails and griffon vultures, but remember to download an offline map – Extremadura’s 4G is famously temperamental.

Temperatures make a bigger difference than mileage. At this altitude summer afternoons reach 38 °C; the village empties until 18:00 when shadows stretch across the streets. In January night frosts are common, and the single petrol heater in Bar El Turro becomes the social hub. Spring and autumn hover around a civilised 22 °C, perfect for sitting on the apartment terrace with the sponge cake that Gloria baked at dawn.

A roof of your own

Accommodation is almost entirely self-catering apartments carved out of village houses. British visitors tend to book through Rural Extremadura, where two-bedroom flats cost €65–€85 a night, dogs included. Hosts compete on welcome hampers: homemade cake, a quarter bottle of local olive oil, and enough coffee to postpone the supermarket run. One Irish couple on TripAdvisor wrote they “felt more like borrowed neighbours than paying guests,” a verdict repeated in most reviews. There is no hotel, no pool, and no plan to build either; the council prefers slow beds to tour-coach bays.

The wrong Alagón and other pitfalls

Sat-nav occasionally delivers guests to Alagón, Zaragoza, 500 km away. Key in the full name and still double-check you are heading west on the A-5 past Trujillo. The final 12 km from the motorway are good tarmac but narrow; meeting a lorry means both wing mirrors tuck in and somebody reverses 200 m. Acceptable speed: 40 mph, slower when the black pigs wander onto the road.

Even when you arrive, do not expect a riverside promenade or a craft market. The souvenir choice is a packet of paprika from the shop and maybe a hand-forged bottle opener from the blacksmith’s son. Nights are dark – streetlights switch off at 01:00 – and the only music is the neighbour’s television through an open window. If that sounds lonely, book in Plasencia instead.

The reward for lowered expectations

Stay three days and the rhythms reset. You recognise the bread van’s two-beep signal, know which balcony catches the sunrise, and learn the names of the dogs that escort you to the edge of the village. On departure day Gloria appears with another cake wrapped in foil “for the journey,” and you realise you have not checked email since arrival. Alagón del Río will never make a grand tour, but it is an efficient antidote to one. Turn back onto the A-5, and the motorway feels needlessly loud.