Cañaveral

The church bell strikes eight as a dozen rucksacks thud onto the terrace of Bar Central. Their owners—German students, a retired couple from Leeds, two Spanish civil servants—have just covered 24 kilometres of the Vía de la Plata Camino and are discovering that a chilled caña costs €1.50, less than a packet of crisps back home. This is Canaveral in high season: not crowded, simply useful. The village has spent centuries servicing travellers—first muleteers, now pilgrims—and has the routine down to an art.

At 342 metres above sea level, the place sits low enough to avoid winter snow blockades yet high enough for the air to feel lighter than the nearby baking basin of the Tagus. That altitude matters. July afternoons hit 40 °C, shade is rationed to the width of the plane trees in Plaza de España, and the surrounding dehesa clicks with cicadas. Come November, the same thermometer can dip to 3 °C at dawn; log smoke drifts from chimney pots and the stone houses, painted white with ox-blood trim, glow terracotta in the low sun. There is no dramatic sierra backdrop, just rolling pasture of holm oak and the occasional cork tree—countryside that looks gently rumpled rather than rugged.

A church, a square, and a bar that still fries its own crisps

Canaveral’s historic core is a ten-minute stroll end to end. The parish church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción presides from the highest point, its tower patched in brick after an 18th-century lightning strike. Inside, the Baroque retablo glints with gilt that the Franco regime once ordered whitewashed; the paint was chipped off again in the 1990s, revealing reds so deep they look almost Burgundian. Locals still use the building for what it was built for—Sunday Mass at eleven, followed by sherry in the adjacent sacristy on feast days. Visitors are welcome, but flash photography during the consecration will earn a hiss from the señora with the missal.

Radiating from the church are three streets wide enough for a tractor and several narrower ones designed, it seems, to test wing mirrors. House fronts carry granite plaques etched with cattle brands or the double-headed eagle of long-extinct noble lines. Many doors open onto courtyards where geraniums drip onto flagstones; if one is ajar, a polite “¿Se puede?” usually secures a glimpse and a short history lesson from the owner. English is scarce—this is not the Costas—but a smile and the word “bonito” oil most hinges.

What to eat when the supermarket shuts at two

Food is village-paced: cooked by people who know the pig’s birthday. Bar Central does a three-course menú del día for €11.50 that might start with cocido broth, move on to caldereta extremeña (paprika-lamb stew mild enough for a child), and finish with cinnamon rice pudding. Vegetarians get patatas al pimentón—peppery but not hot—while the cheese board offers queso de la Serena, a sheep’s-milk slab that spreads like Brie when ripe. Everything comes with local bread, crusty enough to require real chewing and perfect for mopping sauce. Wine is included; ask for “blanco” if you want something crisp, though the house tinto is perfectly drinkable and clocks in at 13%. Pudding wine? They’ll produce a half bottle of Pedro Ximénez for an extra €2 if you ask before the bill arrives.

The only other option open year-round is Mesón La Dehesa on Calle Real. Thursdays are pork-cheek day—carillada so soft it collapses under a fork, served with hand-cut chips. Portions are Spanish-size, meaning one plate feeds two hungry walkers. Arrive before nine; the chef likes to close early if only two tables are occupied.

Walking without a compass

You don’t need a guidebook to leave town. A farm track opposite the cemetery gate strikes out across grass starred with wild crocus in March. After twenty minutes the path forks: left loops back (5 km), right continues to the abandoned cortijo of Valdefuentes (add another 6 km). Either way you’ll share the route with black Iberian pigs that roam under the oaks, snuffling for acorns. They are disarmingly friendly, but resist the urge to scratch their backs—they weigh more than you and have opinions. Carry water; streams dry up by May, and summer shade exists only where trees feel like providing it.

Birders should bring binoculars between September and April. The dehesa attracts hoopoes, black-shouldered kites, and, during migration, flocks of woodchat shrikes. There are no hides, just stone walls low enough to sit on. Dawn is best; by eleven the thermals rise and every feathered thing heads for cover.

Beds, buses, and the cash gap

Canaveral’s municipal albergue charges €8 a night and issues a key code at the ayuntamiento next door. Beds are in four-room dormitories, showers are solar-heated and occasionally lukewarm if twenty pilgrims have preceded you. Lights-out is 22:00—strict. Arrive late and ring the number taped to the door; the warden cycles back for a €2–€5 tip. Private alternatives are thin: Hostal Santa Ana has seven doubles at €35 including breakfast (instant coffee, toast, superb tomato jam). Whatever you choose, bring cash. The village has no ATM; the nearest is in Aldea del Cano, eight kilometres away, and the bus does not run on Sundays.

Speaking of buses, the weekday service from Cáceres (line 525) leaves at 07:30 and 17:00, takes an hour, and costs €4.35. The return departs Canaveral at 06:45 and 15:30—yes, that early. Saturday drops to one each way; Sunday, none. A taxi from Cáceres is €45 if you haggle. Driving is straightforward: head north-east on the EX-206 towards Plasencia, turn right after 38 kilometres at the sign that simply reads “Canaveral”. Parking is free and, frankly, unlimited.

When things go wrong, they tend to be small: the bakery forgets to open, the bar runs out of beer on fiesta weekend, your phone hunts for signal in the town’s single dead zone outside the church. The medical centre operates weekday mornings only; for anything dramatic, Cáceres Hospital is 45 minutes by ambulance. Travel insurance that covers emergency evacuation is sensible, especially in July when heat exhaustion sends a handful of pilgrims south each year.

Fiestas and the other eleven months

August brings the fiesta patronal: three nights of brass bands, paella for 600 in the square, and a foam party that leaves Plaza de España smelling of detergent for days. Accommodation trebles in price—still only €25—but rooms vanish fast. Semana Santa is quieter: two processions, candle-lit and silent, the hooded nazarenos looking more Klan than they would like to British eyes until you remember the tradition predates the American South by several centuries. October’s matanza weekends are not staged for tourists; families slaughter one pig and spend days turning it into hams, chorizos and blood pudding. If a neighbour invites you to sample chicharrónes (fresh pork scratchings), say yes—then buy a lottery ticket, because luck is on your side.

Should you bother?

Canaveral will never compete with Cáceres’ UNESCO glamour or Plasencia’s cathedral town buzz. That is precisely why some people love it. You come for the lamb stew, the €1.50 beer, the bed that costs less than a London coffee. You leave with thighs pleasantly stiff from a five-kilometre ramble and the knowledge that somewhere between the oak trees and the stone bell tower, Spain still runs on village time. Just remember to draw cash in Cáceres, pack water between May and October, and expect nothing more than a clean bed, a proper meal, and the faint possibility of a pig crossing your path.