Guijo de Galisteo

The church bell tolls twice and every dog in the village answers. It is 11 a.m., already 28 °C in early May, and the only shade on Plaza de España is cast by the 16th-century tower of San Juan Bautista. From its open arch you can read the altitude: 294 m, low enough for olive and cork oak yet high enough to catch a breeze that smells of thyme and tractor diesel. This is Guijo de Galisteo, a single-street settlement on the Vegas del Alagón, halfway between the granite sierras and the baked flatlands that push west towards Portugal.

A Grid of Whitewash and Stone Shields

No map is needed; the village is a cross drawn in white limewash. Calle Real runs north–south for 400 m, Calle Nueva cuts east for 200 m, and the rest is lanes wide enough for a mule and a Seat Ibiza—barely. Along the main drag the houses have stone doorways, wrought-iron balconies and, here and there, a carved escutcheon announcing an ancestor who once rode out with the Order of Santiago. The shields are not sign-posted; you find them by looking up and noticing the one house whose corner is chamfered to let a cart pass, or the lintel dated 1734 above the baker’s garage. There is no entrance fee, no QR code, just the satisfaction of spotting something before the local pensioner leaning on the opposite wall spots you.

Inside San Juan the air is cool and smells of beeswax. The nave is barn-plain: no gilded retablo, only a polychrome Saint John whose paint is flaking like sunburnt skin. Light falls through clear glass onto pews that still bear the carved initials of boys who dodged Franco-era national service. Mass is at 7 p.m. on Saturdays; turn up ten minutes early and someone will press a liturgy sheet into your hand even if you clearly haven’t a clue what to do with it.

Outside the Grid: Dehesa, Dams and Drystone

Walk five minutes south-east and the tarmac gives way to a camino of packed ochre grit. To the left, irrigation pivots tick over lettuce fields; to the right, the dehesa opens—cork oak spaced like parkland, their lowest branches stripped to raw copper. This is working landscape, not wilderness. Pigs graze under the trees from October until February, fattening on acorns that will later translate into £80-a-kilo jamón in London delis. The path climbs gently to the presa (small dam) of the Alagón river, 2.5 km out. Kingfishers flash turquoise above the slack water; the only sound is the creak of a heron lifting off. Round trip takes an hour, ideal after coffee but before the midday heat closes the pavements.

If you have a car, continue north on the EX-390 for 12 km until the road tops a ridge. From here the plain drops away like a rumpled sheet, the village reduced to a white hyphen. Park and follow the signed footpath to the Cerro de la Horca, an old execution hill now covered in rockrose. The walk is 4 km return, steep enough to make you grateful for the altitude-generated breeze. In March the slope is magenta with cistus; by June everything has the colour of baked biscuit and the only flowers are the plastic bags caught on barbed wire.

What You’ll Eat (and What You Won’t)

The culinary repertoire is short and seasonal. Mid-week set lunch at Bar Galisteo—on the corner of Calle Real and the tiny plaza—costs €11 and brings soup, a plate of migas (fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic and grapes) and a coffee strong enough to revive a mule. Sunday is the day for patatas revolconas, paprika mash topped with crisp pork belly; order before 2 p.m. or they run out. Vegetarians get tortilla or a toasted bocadillo of tomato and olive oil; vegans get sympathy and a bag of crisps. Torta del Casar, the local sheep-and-goat cheese, is served whole and runny: cut the top off, scoop with bread, pretend you aren’t eating 60 g of fat per portion. House wine comes from nearby Tierra de Barros and tastes like alcoholic Ribena—drinkable, just, and cheaper than the bottled water.

Do not expect dinner after 9 p.m.; the kitchen shuts when the cook goes home to watch Pasapalabra. If you are staying overnight, buy fruit and yoghurt by 8 p.m. or you will go hungry.

Beds, Banks and Buses: The Logistics Bit

Accommodation is limited to three options, none luxurious. The smartest is Casa Rural La Tala, 500 m west of the centre, where €55 buys a double room overlooking a paddock of dozing mules. Heating is by pellet burner that the owner lights if you look cold enough to complain. Hostal Galisteo above the bar of the same name has four rooms sharing two bathrooms; pay €30 cash, ignore the corridor smell of damp dog, and remember you are halfway between Seville and Santiago, not at the Ritz. There is no bank in the village; the nearest ATM is in Galisteo, 18 km away, and the bars prefer notes to cards. Monday-to-Friday bus 524 (Plasencia–Coria) will drop you at the turn-off on the EX-390; ring Taxi Fuentes (+34 636 475 858) for the final 4 km. There is no service on Saturday afternoon or Sunday, so arrange a lift or prepare to thumb one—tourists with British accents get picked up faster than you might expect.

Fiestas, Heat and the Art of Timing

Come for the fiestas and the village doubles in population. San Juan Bautista on 24 June means a paella the size of a swimming pool in the square, followed by fireworks that rattle off the surrounding cliffs. Mid-August brings the verbenas: plastic tables, 1-litre bottles of warm lager, and cover bands murdering Sweet Child O’ Mine until 4 a.m. Spring and autumn are kinder. In April the night temperature drops to 12 °C, perfect for sleeping with the window open and the smell of orange blossom drifting in. October means mushroom season; locals head for the sierra at dawn and return with wicker baskets of níscalos that they will fry with garlic and freeze for winter. January is crisp, bright and empty—ideal if you want the plaza to yourself, but be aware the sun sinks behind the church at 5 p.m. and then it is very, very quiet.

The Catch (There Is Always One)

Guijo de Galisteo is not pretty-pretty. Power lines bisect every view, the river carries more plastic bottles than otters, and the interpretation centre has been locked since 2019. If it rains, the streets run the colour of curry sauce and the only shelter is the bar, which may already be full of tractor drivers discussing EU subsidies in impenetrable castizo Spanish. Sunday closures are absolute: even the bakery pulls down its shutter, so stock up on Saturday or breakfast on biscuits.

And yet. Stand on the church tower at dusk, when the plain turns violet and the swifts wheel overhead, and you will understand why people stay. The village offers 24 hours of slow time: no souvenir tat, no audio guide, just the creak of a weather vane and the certainty that tomorrow the bell will toll twice again and the dogs will answer.