Campillo de Deleitosa

The stone track drops so sharply that first-timers instinctively reach for the handbrake. At the bottom of the valley the Las Herrerías aqueduct appears—sixteenth-century arches straddling a stream, built by monks who needed water to power their forge. It is the one sight the guidebooks agree on, yet you will probably have it to yourself. That single fact tells you most of what you need to know about Campillo de Deleitosa.

Administratively the hamlet belongs to the municipality of Deleitosa, a town whose name promises delight. Campillo keeps expectations lower: 81 residents, one church, two bars that open when they feel like it, and a landscape that has changed little since the forge went cold. The drive in from the EX-118 follows olive rows and cork-oak dehesa for half an hour; the last six kilometres narrow to a single lane where wild cypresses brush the wing mirrors. Mobile coverage quits two kilometres before the village, so the sat-nav dies exactly when you need it most—download the offline map while you still have 4G.

What passes for a centre

Park at the top by the cement picnic tables; anything beyond is designed for tractors. The church of San Juan Bautista stands locked unless Saturday evening mass is due, but its porch gives bearings. Whitewashed houses lean against one another for support, their wooden balconies painted the colour of ox-blood. Look down any side lane and you see straight into someone’s corral: a donkey, three chickens and a stack of olive crates. No souvenir shop, no interpretation board, no ticket booth. The only commercial activity is a refrigerated counter in the Hogar del Pensionista café where Esther dishes out coffee for €1.20 and gossip for free. She also keeps the key to the Cueva de Juan Caldilla, a tiny hermitage chapel carved into the sandstone. Ring the number taped to the door the day before; she’ll stroll over and unlock it, refusing any tip with genuine Extremeño stubbornness.

Walking without way-marks

Official hiking routes stop at the municipal boundary, which is precisely why people come. From the church a farm track heads south between wheat and vetch, then splits: left towards the abandoned hamlet of Valdehierro, right down an oak-lined gully to the river. Either way you need your own map; the Villuercas-Ibores-Jara Geopark sells a 1:50 000 sheet for €8 in Guadalupe, 35 km away. Spring brings purple tassels of Phlomis and enough grass to stain your boots; by July the same earth is powder and every step raises a pall of pale dust. Temperatures touch 38 °C at midday, so walkers set out at dawn and again after six when the nightjars start. Black vultures and Egyptian vultures ride the thermals above; hearing their wing-tips cut the air is easier than spotting them through the glare.

Autumn is mushroom season. Locals slip out at first light with curved knives and wicker baskets; níscalos (saffron milk-caps) hide under pine needles and setas de cardo sprout around thistles. Foreigners are welcome to tag along, but identify first, fry later—hospital in Plasencia is an hour away and the antidote for Amanita phalloides is in short supply.

A meal that remembers the field

Food is whatever the land yielded that week. Thursday is slaughter-day in Deleitosa village, so Friday’s menú del día features roast lamb shoulder, the skin blistered in a wood oven until it shatters like toffee. Migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic, chorizo and pancetta—arrive in a heap big enough for two; ask for a fried egg on top if cholesterol is no object. The local dairy sells soft sheep cheese wrapped in a chestnut leaf; it tastes like a British crowd-pleaser rather than something that will frighten timid guests. To drink, order “una peninque” of red wine—an enamelled tin mug that holds a third of a bottle and costs €1.50. Water comes from the stone fountain by the school; the council keeps it running all year because many houses still lack mains pressure.

Sunday lunch is problematic. Both bars may close if grandchildren are visiting or if the owner simply fancies a rest. Stock up the night before: bread from the travelling van that honks its horn at ten o’clock, serrano ham from the freezer cabinet, and tomatoes that still smell of leaf rather of the chilled aisle.

When to come, when to stay away

April and May turn the surrounding hills an almost Irish green; temperatures sit in the low twenties and night skies are clear enough for Orion to glare through. The village fiesta on 15 August drags emigrants back from Madrid and Barcelona; suddenly every house has lights on and the plaza fills with teenage cousins practising reggaeton on Bluetooth speakers. Book accommodation early—there are three rental cottages, none with websites, so Esther keeps the keys and the phone number. The other busy weekend is Semana Santa: a dozen hooded figures process behind a seventeenth-century float, the brass band consisting of two trumpets and a drum that has seen better civil wars.

Winter is underrated. Days of sharp blue alternate with fog that pools in the valley like milk. The aqueduct photographs best at dawn when frost steams off the stones, and you can walk for two hours without meeting anyone except a shepherd on a quad bike. Nights drop to –3 °C; the cottages have wood stoves and the bar stocks brandy for medicinal purposes. Snow is rare but not impossible—if it arrives the access road is gritted last, after the olive lorries, so carry chains or be prepared to wait.

Avoid July and August middays unless you enjoy the sensation of breathing through a hair-dryer. August nights are kinder, velvet-black and loud with cicadas, but accommodation prices rise to €70 a night, which feels steep for a village where nothing is officially open.

The practical litany

No cash machine: the last one is in Deleitosa proper, six kilometres back along a road where the verge is suddenly a two-metre drop. Fill the tank too—petrol stations close at 8 p.m. and none accepts UK plastic after hours. Phone signal improves if you stand on the stone bench outside the church; WhatsApp voice notes will squeeze through, but forget uploading photos until you crest the hill on the way home. Driving time from Madrid Barajas is two and a half hours on the A-5, then another hour of curves; if you arrive after dark you will meet wild boar on the tarmac, so keep the speed below 60 km/h and the headlights on full.

Public transport is a myth. The Monday school bus from Navalmoral de la Mata carries names on a list and the driver checks ID; tourists are politely turned away. A taxi from Plasencia costs €80—cheaper than a night in a Parador, but only just.

Campillo de Deleitosa will not change your life. It offers instead a pause in which traffic means a tractor and entertainment is counting how many swallows fit on the telegraph wire. Bring walking boots, a sense of direction and enough cash for coffee and lamb. Then drive out slowly, windows open, letting the smell of broom and hot stone replace the motorway. Somewhere beyond the last olive grove the phone pings back into range; the temptation is to keep going for another kilometre before answering.