Casas de Don Gómez

The thermometer reads 8°C at nine o'clock on an April morning, yet the sun already has enough strength to make a jacket feel excessive. At 430 metres above sea level, Casas de Don Gómez sits high enough for sharp dawn chills but low enough for serious heat by midday—one of the first things visitors notice about this farming settlement on the Vegas del Alagón.

Sheep bells echo along Calle Real. A tractor coughs into life somewhere behind the whitewashed houses. Nobody is queueing for selfies; the only queue forms at the panadería when the second batch of baguettes emerges. The village has roughly five streets in each direction, and you can walk from the church tower to the last irrigated vegetable plot in twelve minutes—fifteen if you stop to read the hand-painted tiles that give each house its former agricultural name: "La Era", "El Corral", "El Pozo".

What grows here defines what you see

Casas de Don Gómez is ringed by a patchwork of cereal fields and dehesa, the open holm-oak pasture that produces Extremadura's prized ibérico ham. The contrast is immediate: bright green wheat on the river plain, grey-green oak canopy on the higher ground. Local families still earn their living from these two landscapes, which means the village calendar follows ploughing, lambing and the acorn drop in October rather than any tourist rhythm.

Spring mornings bring mist off the Alagón river, a modest watercourse that nevertheless supports a corridor of ash and poplar wide enough to feel like a gorge. Walk five minutes south-east from the church, cross the railway sleeper bridge, and you are suddenly in shade listening to golden orioles rather than in a plaza listening to the diesel generator of the mobile fruit van. Kingfishers flash blue here year-round; otter tracks appear after heavy rain. Bring binoculars and you can pass an absorbing hour without moving more than 200 metres.

Moving slowly is the point

The village offers no ticketed attractions. Instead, the pleasure is architectural detail noticed at walking pace: iron balcony rails forged in the 1920s, granite door jambs recycled from an earlier farmhouse, the way lime wash turns salmon in the last light. The 16th-century parish church of San Andrés is kept unlocked; inside, a single Baroque retablo glitters incongruously in an otherwise plain stone interior. Drop a euro in the box and the sacristan will switch on the lights, but he is just as happy to let you sit in the cool without donation.

Outside, the only formal lookout is a concrete platform built by the local council above the river lane. From here you can see the irrigation channels (acequias) that the Moors first cut, still distributing water on a timetable agreed centuries ago. Tuesday night is the turn of the upper vegetable plots; the sluice boards are moved by a retired builder who remembers when melons were floated down the main ditch to the station platform for loading onto the Madrid train.

Eating, sleeping, getting it right

There is no restaurant, only a bar that opens for coffee and toast at 07:30, serves beer and tapas until 15:00, then reopens if there is a football match on television. The menu is short: migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and pancetta—queso de oveja, and thick lentil stew in winter. Expect to pay €2.50 for a caña of beer and €8 for a full plate of migas, ham excluded so the price stays sensible.

Accommodation is limited to Las Talliscas, four rural apartments on the road out towards Cáceres. Each unit has a kitchen, so visitors usually shop in the neighbouring market town of Coria, 18 km away. Rates hover around €70 per night for two people, minimum two nights at weekends. The owners leave a bottle of local red on the table and a hand-drawn map of farm tracks suitable for sturdy bikes; they will also warn you which paths are chained during lambing. Book ahead in April–May and September–October when bird-watchers take every room for a week at a time.

When to come, and when to stay away

Early March to mid-May is ideal: temperatures range from 12°C at dawn to 24°C by 15:00, wildflowers cover the field margins, and the Alagón carries enough water to reflect the oaks like stained glass. Autumn runs a close second; the cereal stubble glows straw-gold and the dehesa acorns are fat enough to attract black pigs whose ham will retail for €90 a leg two years later.

High summer is a different proposition. Daytime highs regularly top 38°C, shade is scarce on the plateau, and the river shrinks to ankle depth. Spanish families flee to the coast; only the bakery and the pharmacy keep normal hours. If you must visit in July, plan walks for 07:00-09:00 and again after 19:00, and book a room with air-conditioning—Las Talliscas has it, many private cottages do not.

Winter brings sharp frosts and a landscape the colour of parchment. The village is quiet, the bar opens later, and some guest houses close altogether. Yet the light is crystalline, ideal for photography, and you will have the acequia paths to yourself. Bring a fleece and a wind-proof; Extremadura's plains funnel the Atlantic weather and an 8°C forecast can feel like zero in the wind.

Getting here without the drama

The simplest route from the UK is to fly into Madrid, collect a hire car, and head west on the A-5 for 220 km (just over two hours). Leave the motorway at Navalmoral de la Mata, then follow the EX-390 for 35 km; Casas de Don Gómez is signposted five kilometres after Coria. Petrol stations are sparse once you leave the dual carriageway—fill up in Navalmoral. Public transport exists but is painfully slow: two trains a day from Madrid to Plasencia, then a bus that meanders through seven villages and deposits you at the turning to Casas de Don Gómez at 14:05 or 20:10. Walking the final kilometre with luggage is pleasant in April, suicidal in August.

Road surfaces within the municipality vary. The main lane to the river is graded gravel and fine for a normal car driven at 20 km/h. Side tracks that look tempting on Google Maps often end at a private gate or a ford that becomes impassable after rain. Park on the concrete apron by the football pitch and proceed on foot; the village is too small for parking charges or time limits.

The things that catch people out

Expecting a souvenir strip. Casas de Don Gómez has one cash machine, no craft shops, and the nearest postcard stand is in Coria. Bring everything you need for a quiet couple of days.

Misjudging distances. The river looks close on the tourist sketch, but the return walk from the last irrigation sluice to the plaza is uphill and shadeless. Carry water even in winter.

Ignoring the agricultural timetable. Tractors have right of way; dogs guard sheep; gates should be left exactly as you find them. A farmer moved his flock across the main road at 07:15 yesterday and held up three cars for four minutes—no one hooted, and you should not either.

Last light, last thought

By 20:30 the swifts have stopped screaming overhead and the air smells of wood smoke and oregano. The bar shutters come down, leaving only the street lamp outside the church and a sky still pale at the horizon. Casas de Don Gómez will never make the front page of a glossy travel supplement, and that is precisely its appeal. Come with time to spare, boots that can cope with dust or mud, and the assumption that nothing much will happen. In the space where sightseeing usually occurs, you will notice temperature shifts, distant bells, the way a ruined hayloft frames the evening star—small, unscheduled pleasures that no entrance fee can guarantee.