Ciempozuelos

Thirty Minutes South of Atocha

The C-3 train from Madrid pulls in at 568 metres above sea level, doors hissing open onto a platform that smells of warm rail-dust rather than orange blossom. Ciempozuelos announces itself with a single tiled sign and a queue of parents waiting in hatchbacks. No one offers a map; the station café shutters are already half-down although it’s only three o’clock. This is commuter country, but the town’s heartbeat still follows the grain harvest rather than the metro timetable.

Walk straight ahead and the blocks thin out within five minutes. One moment you’re passing estate agents and Chinese bazaars, the next the pavement simply stops and the Castilian plain begins—wheat stubble stretching to a horizon so wide it seems to bend. The contrast is blunt, almost comic, and it explains why weekend visitors from the capital treat the place as two different towns: a handy dormitory with free street parking, and, just behind it, a slice of la España vacía you can reach on a €2.60 off-peak ticket.

A Plaza That Still Belongs to the Locals

Plaza de la Constitución keeps the rhythms of an older Madrid that the capital itself mislaid decades ago. Grandmothers occupy the benches in strict shifts; the chemist shuts for lunch at two and reopens when the church bell hits four. The iron balconies are painted the same ox-blood red as the soil, and the only chain in sight is a solitary Santander cash machine bolted to the ayuntamiento wall. Order a cortado at Cafetería Plaza 8 and you’ll get change from a euro coin—something that hasn’t happened in Puerta del Sol since the peseta disappeared.

Santa María Magdalena, the sandstone church that anchors the square, is open roughly when the sacristan feels like it. Push the heavy door on a Thursday evening and you’ll catch the last of the sunlight sliding across a nave that smells of candle wax and floor polish. The side chapel still stores the standard of the local agricultural co-op, carried in the July procession when the fields have been cut and the town can finally exhale. There’s no audioguide, no gift shop, just a clipboard asking for quiet and a plastic tub marked para la limosna.

Eating Without Showmanship

Ciempozuelos doesn’t do tasting menus; it does cocido on Wednesdays and grilled lamb on Saturdays. At Restaurante El Volante, three courses plus a half-bottle of house wine costs €12.50—cheaper than a single pint back home. Waiters will swap the callos (tripe) for a plain chicken fillet if your Spanish stretches only to “sin especias, por favor”. La Tinaja serves the same chickpea stew in the proper three-stage ritual: broth first, then pulses and cabbage, finally the boiled meats. You can bail out after the soup and no one minds; the table next to you will happily finish the leftovers.

Sunday lunch is the week’s main event, which means kitchens close by five and the streets fall silent until well past seven. Plan supermarket runs for Saturday: on the Lord’s day only the Chinese bazar and a single garage keep their lights on. If you’re catching the 21:30 train back to Madrid, pick up supplies before dessert.

Flat Paths, Fierce Sun

The town edges dissolve into dirt tracks used by tractors rather than hikers. Signposts are spray-painted on breeze-blocks, and the only shade is an occasional line of poplars planted to stop the soil blowing away. In April the verges are bright with poppies; by July the earth is pale as biscuit and just as crumbly. Early mornings smell of fennel and diesel, an oddly comforting mix that tells you work starts at sunrise to beat the heat.

Cyclists use the network of caminos agrícolas to rack up kilometres without a hill in sight. A popular 25-km loop heads south to Seseña and back, passing abandoned grain stores and the new slate-grey logistics park that’s creeping closer each year. Take two bottles: once you leave the irrigation ditches behind, the only water fountain is outside the cemetery on the return leg.

What the Brochures Leave Out

There is no old-town boutique shopping, no Saturday craft market, no riverfront bars. The Parque Warner theme-park lies fifteen minutes away by car, and most foreign families treat Ciempozuelos as a cheap place to sleep afterwards. They’re right: double rooms near the station go for €55–70, half the price of the on-site hotel, and you can park your hire car on Calle Real all weekend without feeding a meter. Just don’t expect medieval alleyways or Moorish walls when you wake up.

Evenings are low-key. Youngsters cluster on the benches outside the polideportivo, sharing tins of mahou bought from the 24-hour chino. The lone British-style pub gave up a decade ago; its neon Guinness sign now hangs in a dentist’s waiting room. If you want flamenco or fusion tapas, stay on the train for another forty minutes and get off at Atocha.

How to Do It Properly

Arrive on a Friday so you can browse the weekly market that takes over Avenida de Castilla: socks, saffron, and jamón serrano sliced while you wait. Buy a return Cercanías ticket at Atocha before you leave—staff at Ciempozuelos rarely speak English and the machines sometimes switch to Spanish only. The last service back to Madrid is 23:30; miss it and a taxi to the city centre will cost around €70, assuming you can find one.

Pack footwear that can handle loose gravel as well as pavement, and carry water if you plan to wander the fields. In July and August the difference between shade and sun can be fifteen degrees; early starts or late strolls are the only sensible option. If you’re allergic to pollen, take antihistamines—the surrounding cereal belt pumps out grass spores from April to June.

Worth the Detour?

Ciempozuelos makes no grand claims. It offers a straight look at how most Madrilenians actually live once the tourist cameras switch off: commuter trains, set-menu lunches, and grandparents who still remember when the road to the capital was a single carriageway lined with elm trees. Come for half a day, linger over a three-course lunch that costs less than a Tube fare, then walk the dusty track beyond the last roundabout until Madrid’s skyline shrinks to a grey smudge. You’ll leave with wheat chaff in your cuffs and the quiet realisation that “real Spain” was never hidden—merely parked thirty minutes south of the ring road.