Burguillos del Cerro

The first thing you notice is the castle, clear as a warning from the motorway twenty minutes out. Perched on its own knuckle of rock, the thirteenth-century fortress keeps uninterrupted watch over mile after mile of oak pasture, olive groves and the thin silver seam of the A-66. Most traffic whistles past on the way to Seville or the Algarve, but the exit for Zafra is sign-posted, and from there it's barely fifteen minutes to a place that still shuts for lunch at two and has no cash machine.

A town that grew downwards from its walls

Burguillos del Cerro sits four hundred metres above sea level, high enough for the air to feel sharper than the surrounding lowlands yet low enough for summer to bite. The old centre tumbles from the castle gate in narrow lanes barely two donkeys wide; houses are daubed in ochre, sunflower yellow and the inevitable Extremaduran white. Some façades have been freshly pointed, others carry the bruises of centuries, giving the town the patched-together look of a garment repeatedly mended. Park on Avenida de la Paz (free, plenty of spaces even on market day) and the walk to the Plaza Alta is flat, mercifully shaded by plane trees. After that, everything tilts uphill.

The castle itself is open all day, every day – which really means "unlocked". There is no ticket booth, no audio guide, no gift shop selling plastic swords. You simply push the iron gate set into the granite wall and start climbing. Workmen have been relaying the path since 2023; the new stone is smooth and slippery when dusty, so trainers beat leather-soled sandals. Inside the outer bailey the wind hits immediately, funnelling up from the plains and carrying the smell of wild thyme and grazing sheep. Climb the keep and Extremadura spreads out like a map: dehesa to the horizon, the Sierra de Hornachos a blue bruise in the south-west, and the occasional glint of a long-haul lorry on the motorway reminding you the twenty-first century is still there.

What the Templars left behind – and what they didn't

Historians argue over how much of the fortress is genuinely Templar and how much was added by the Knights of Calatrava after the order dissolved in 1312. What matters to the casual visitor is the completeness of the circuit wall and the fact you can walk almost the entire perimeter. Drop-stones still sit in the machicolations, ready for an enemy who never came. A deep cistern gapes in the centre of the courtyard; parents haul small children back from the unfenced edge while teenagers pose for photos perilously close to the lip.

Back inside the walls, the late-Gothic church of San Juan Bautista squats modestly beside the castle approach. Its single nave feels taller than it is long, and the afternoon light filtering through alabaster panes turns the stone the colour of pale honey. Panels either side of the altar list Civil War casualties from the village; the same surnames recur on First World War plaques in rural British churches, giving the place an unexpected echo of home.

Lunch at ground level

By one o'clock the uphill lanes echo with the scrape of metal shutters as shops close. Down in the Plaza Mayor, metal tables appear outside Bar Central like a conjuring trick. The daily menu costs €11.50 and arrives with indecent speed: cocido extremeño first, a bowl of chickpeas, morcilla and lean pork that could moor a freighter, then a plate of roasted peppers topped with a single perfect fried egg. Locals drink house red chilled almost to Beaujolais temperature; foreigners are offered the option of "media agua, medio vino" – essentially a spritzer without the pretension. Perrunillas, crumbly shortbread biscuits flavoured with aniseed, come with the coffee and routinely disappear into coat pockets for later.

If you need something sturdier, Hostal-Restaurante El Camionero on the main through-road serves grilled pork or chicken for visitors who blanch at the thought of pig's ear stew. Truckers park their articulated lorries beside the petrol pumps, confirming the kitchen's reputation for quick, reliable food and spotless facilities. English is spoken at reception, though menus remain stubbornly Spanish-only; pointing works, smiles work better.

Walking off the calories – or the wine

The town is small: from castle to ring-road takes twenty minutes at dawdle speed. Yet the surrounding countryside invites longer strides. A way-marked path leaves the eastern gate, drops past allotments where cabbages grow to championship size, then enters dehesa – the cork-oak savannah that produces jamón ibérico and some of Spain's finest charcoal. Keep dogs on leads; this is working land, not a park, and fighting bulls have right of way. In April the ground is carpeted with wild red poppies and the air smells of broom; by late June the grass has bleached to straw and every step raises puffs of dust. Early mornings ring with the calls of cuckoos and, if you're lucky, the low, woody song of a hoopoe.

A longer circuit climbs the neighbouring ridge of Los Golondrinos, adding 250 m of ascent and rewarding hikers with a reverse view of the castle, its towers rising like broken teeth from the crest. Allow two hours, carry more water than you think necessary, and start at dawn – summer midday temperatures regularly top 38 °C and shade is theoretical.

When the past puts on fancy dress

Burguillos wakes up twice a year. The first fiesta, in early February, honours San Blas with processions, brass bands and bowls of thick chocolate handed out in the square. Nights drop close to freezing, so the scent of anisette and wood smoke drifts through the streets. The second burst arrives in mid-August, when the town stages its Medieval Fair. Suddenly every balcony sprouts banners, locals swap jeans for linen tunics, and the castle hosts candle-lit banquets accompanied by surprisingly convincing lute music. The event draws thousands from Zafra and Mérida; accommodation within the village fills fast, prices edge upwards and the usually sleepy Plaza Mayor throbs with drummers and street vendors hawking sugried almonds. If you prefer your castle empty, come the week after – the banners disappear overnight and the only sound is the wind again.

Practicalities without the checklist

The tourist office on Plaza Alta keeps eccentric hours: open 10-14:00, closed weekends out of season, telephone answered only when the single employee isn't doubling as school-trip guide. Pick up the leaflet titled Rutas de Burguillos if you can; it contains decent sketch maps of the walks and is free. There is no cash machine in the village – the nearest sits at the filling station on the N-630, five minutes by car. Cards are accepted in most bars, but market stalls and the castle's pop-up souvenir tent (open during fiestas) deal only in coins and small notes.

Accommodation is limited to two small hotels and a handful of rural houses. Rooms in the seventeenth-century Posada de San José start at €55 including garage parking; windows open onto the castle walls so close you could almost touch the stones. Breakfast is toast, local olive oil and thick, bitter coffee – exactly what you need before a hot day's walking.

Worth the detour?

Burguillos del Cerro will never fill an entire holiday, but it makes a satisfying overnight break on the long haul to southern Portugal or a half-day add-on to a trip based in Zafra, twelve minutes away by car. Come for the castle, stay for the sense that this particular patch of Spain has skipped the mass-tourism handbook. Just remember: in July the stone radiates heat like a pizza oven, in January the wind whips across the plains with nothing to stop it, and between two and five o'clock the village belongs only to swallows and the occasional clatter of a farmer's boots. Plan accordingly, bring cash, and climb the walls before breakfast – the view, and the silence, are yours alone.