Cabañas del Castillo

The village fountain still runs. Push the brass tap and cold mountain water arcs out, straight from the quartzite ridge above. That single fact tells you most of what you need to know about Cabañas del Castillo: the place is high, stubbornly alive, and in no hurry to please tourists. At 786 m it is the balcony of Extremadura, yet the only crowd you are likely to meet is a flock of sheep clocking off the evening shift in the dehesa.

Stone, Slope and Silence

Houses climb the hillside like irregular steps, their whitewash blinking between holm-oak green. Streets are too narrow for anything wider than a pick-up; some simply give up and turn into footpaths. The gradient is honest about what comes next: if you continue upwards you will reach the ruined castillo, if you drift downwards you are back on the EX-11 and civilisation. There is no flat middle ground, a quirk that keeps the village population at 402 and the average visitor age closer to boot-wearing fifty than flip-flop twenty.

The parish church of Nuestra Señora de la Encarnación squats halfway up the slope, its bell tower doubling as the village time-piece. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; the stone floor is worn into shallow dishes by four centuries of farming boots. There is no charge, no attendant, just a printed A4 sheet that asks you to close the door against swallows.

The Ridge That Used to be a Seabed

From the fountain, Calle Castillo snakes uphill for exactly 1.2 km until the tarmac crumbles into scree. The final 400 m are a calf-stretching scramble over biscuit-coloured quartzite, the same rock that once formed the seabed of the Iapetus Ocean 550 million years ago. Geology here is not a museum display; it is under your boots and, on windy days, in your eyes.

Reach the crest and the reward is a 360-degree cockpit view: north to the Gredos snowline, south over the Trujillo plains, east to the Toledo hills. British bird-watchers set up telescopes by the tumbled keep and tick off griffon vulture, peregrine and, if the thermals are right, a wandering golden eagle. Bring binoculars; phone cameras flatten the scale until everything looks like a lumpy tablecloth.

The castle itself is little more than waist-high walls and a doorway to nowhere. Information boards were promised five years ago; they never arrived. History buffs should download notes before leaving home, or be content with the summary offered by a local shepherd: “We built it high because the Moors liked horses and we liked throwing stones.”

Walking Tracks that Punish the Over-Confident

Cabañas sits inside the Villuercas-Ibores-Jara Geopark, so footpaths are way-marked but rarely busy. The easiest circuit is the 5 km “Ruta de las Cruces” which ambles through dehesa to three weather-beaten stone crosses and back in time for lunch. The serious hike is the 14 km ridge walk to Guadalupe; it gains another 500 m of height, involves a limestone scree descent that eats walking poles, and requires a car pick-up at the far end unless you fancy retracing every step in the afternoon heat.

Summer walking is for early risers. By 11 a.m. the sun has the consistency of a hot coin pressed to skin; shade is theoretical and water sources nil. Spring and autumn are kinder: wild cyclamen in April, wild mushrooms in October, and temperatures that let you contemplate the landscape instead of your heartbeat.

Food Meant for People Who Worked Up an Appetite

Back in the village the culinary agenda is short and sturdy. Mesón La Muralla serves a €12 menú del día: grilled pork shoulder, chips, iceberg salad and a quarter-bottle of local red. Vegetarians can request “patatas revolconas”, a smoky mash of potato, sweet paprika and streaky bacon that tastes like Spanish bubble-and-squeak. The cheese board is strictly regional: mild sheep queso de oveja, rough-skin olives and a dribble of chestnut honey. If you are expecting aioli drizzles or micro-herbs, you have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Supper options shrink to one: Bar La Plaza opens when the owner finishes his fieldwork. Order a “tostada de tomate” and he will disappear next door to fetch the bread, still warm from his sister’s oven. Closing time is when the last customer leaves, usually before the village generator starts its night-time hum.

Getting There, Staying Over, Getting Out

Public transport does not reach Cabañas. Fly to Madrid, collect a hire car and head west on the A-5 for 200 km; after Navalmoral de la Mata switch to the EX-11 and count 23 km of cork-oak forest until the village sign appears. The final approach is a single-track ribbon with passing bays; meeting a tractor means reversing downhill, so pack a cool head and functioning clutch.

Accommodation is limited to three guest-houses, none with more than eight rooms. Casa Rural El Castillo has stone floors, wood-burning stoves and nightly rates around €70 for two, breakfast included. Wi-Fi exists but wobbles when the wind swings north; phone signals prefer the church square to your bedroom. Book ahead for Easter week and the August fiestas; the rest of the year you can usually arrive unannounced and knock on doors.

When the Village Throws a Party

Mid-August fiestas turn the main street into an open-air kitchen: paella pans the width of satellite dishes, vats of caldillo stew and a travelling disco that packs up promptly at 02:00 because the mayor needs his sleep. The programme is pure neighbourhood reunion – processions, brass bands, plenty of local politics discussed over plastic cups of beer. Visitors are welcome but not announced; if you want to join in, stand near the cheese stall and look interested. Someone will hand you a spoon.

Worth the Detour – Just Don’t Expect Hand-Holding

Cabañas del Castillo will never feature on a coach-tour circuit. It offers no gift shops, no audio guides, no sunset yoga. What it does offer is a ridge-line that feels like the roof of Extremadura, a fountain that still runs, and a pint of beer that costs two euros. Bring boots, binoculars and a sense of proportion; leave the castle better buttressed than you found it, and the village will quietly do the same for you.