Anchuelo

At 756 metres above sea level, Anchuelo sits high enough that the air feels thinner than Madrid's, yet low enough that the city still glints on the horizon. Thirty-five kilometres east of the capital, this village of 1,400 souls occupies a ridge where the Henares basin tilts toward the meseta's open steppe. The altitude matters: mornings arrive sharp, afternoons can turn brisk even in May, and winter wind carries a bite that rural folk call cierzo—a reminder that continental Spain begins here.

Stone, Tile and Silence

The parish church of San Bartolomé rises from the village centre like a ship's mast on a calm sea. Its tower—squat, stone-grey, visibly patched through centuries—works as both landmark and compass point. Approach from the south-east and the building looms suddenly after a bend; arrive from the north and you see only the tower cap peeking above terracotta roofs. Either way, the structure anchors a street plan that predates cars: lanes barely two metres wide, houses set flush to the cobbles, timber doors painted the same oxidised red found across Castilla-La Mancha.

Anchuelo never bothered with grand plazas. Its main square is simply a widening of the road where the chemist, bakery and Bar Niño face off across twenty metres of concrete. Metal tables appear outside the bar at 07:30 when the owner rolls up the shutters; by 08:00 half the counter is packed with farmers who have already checked barley moisture and fed hunting dogs. Order a café con leche here and it costs €1.20—twenty cents less than in the metro zone—served in glassware thick enough to survive repeated washing.

Behind the bar runs Calle del Medio, the village's informal spine. Walk north and the houses thin into paddocks; walk south and you reach a ridge path that drops toward the dry riverbed of the Torote. The transition from settlement to farmland takes under four minutes. One moment you're passing stone walls with jasmine trailing from grills; the next you're amid wheat stubble and the only sound is a tractor gearbox grinding in middle distance.

Walking the Dry-land Circuit

Anchuelo's agricultural tracks form a loose figure-of-eight that can be covered in ninety minutes if you keep moving, longer if you stop to read field margins. The soil is poor—chalky, pale, littered with flint—so crops alternate between barley, vetch and fallow. Footpaths are signed simply as "senda" with no distance given; locals measure by time ("a quarter hour to the threshing floor") rather than kilometres.

Spring brings the most comfortable hiking: green shoots soften the landscape, skylarks hover overhead, and the thermometer hovers around 18 °C at midday. Autumn shifts the palette to gold and rust; morning mist can hide the church tower until 10 a.m., then evaporate within minutes. Summer walking is possible only at daybreak: by 11 a.m. the thermometer tops 34 °C and shade is restricted to the lee of scattered holm oaks. Winter daylight is bright but thin; when snow reaches the Guadarrama it often dusts Anchuelo too, turning the dirt tracks white within an hour and making descents slippery.

There is no tourist office, so pick up a free photocopied map from Bar Niño. The suggested loop heads south past abandoned corrals, swings west to an old threshing circle, then returns via the cemetery on the northern edge. Total ascent is under 100 m—enough to raise heart rate but manageable for anyone who walks regularly. Carry water: the only public fountain stands beside the church and rural taps were disconnected years ago.

Food Without Fanfare

This is not the Spain of tasting menus. Anchuelo's kitchens deal in cuchara dishes—spoon food—built from chickpeas, pig bones and whatever the garden yields. Thursday is traditional cocido day at the bar: a clay bowl of broth, noodles, then second-course meat and cabbage for €11. Migas—fried breadcrumbs streaked with garlic and chorizo—appear on Saturday menus, served from a cast-iron pan heavy enough to need two hands. Vegetarians will struggle; vegans should bring supplies.

Sweet choices depend on the calendar. In late October baker Gloria produces bizcochos de aceite flavoured with aniseed; by December she switches to mantecados so crumbly they disintegrate in transit. Nothing is packaged for souvenirs, so buy a quarter-kilo wrapped in white paper and expect crumbs in your rucksack.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

Fiestas honour San Bartolomé every 24 August. The programme feels copied from a 1950s parish newsletter: dawn churros, mass with choir, children's sack race, then evening dance under strings of bulbs powered by a chugging generator. What makes it work is return migration—grandchildren of locals arrive from Madrid or Guadalajara, tents sprout in back gardens, and someone inevitably produces a guitar. Accommodation within the village fills early; if you miss a room, neighbouring Villar del Olmo has a basic hostal.

Easter is quieter but visually richer. On Good Friday the confraternity walks the boundaries, pausing at field chapels once used by wheat threshers. The procession starts at dusk; by the time it re-enters the church the only illumination comes from handheld candles and the moon reflecting off stone walls.

Getting There, Staying Over

No train reaches Anchuelo. From Madrid's Conde de Casal bus depot, service 260 departs at 07:15, 13:30 and 19:00, reaching the village in 55 minutes (€3.40 single). The bus stop is a metal pole beside the plaza; drivers will drop luggage-laden hikers at the church if asked politely. A return taxi from Madrid costs around €60—worth considering if you miss the last bus.

Rooms are limited. Three villagers rent spare bedrooms advertised by handwritten notes in the bakery window. Expect ceiling fans rather than air-conditioning, shared bathrooms, and prices between €25–35 including breakfast (toasted bimbo loaf, olive oil, coffee). The nearest hotel is ten kilometres away in Campo Real; it's comfortable but defeats the purpose of staying in Anchuelo.

The Honest Verdict

Anchuelo offers half a day's wandering at most. Its charms are granular: the way afternoon light catches ochre plaster, the smell of barley straw after rain, an unexpected conversation about rainfall records with a retired farmer. Come expecting blockbuster sights and you'll leave within an hour. Treat it as a breathing space between Madrid's traffic and the better-known towns of the Henares corridor and the village repays with clarity—clean air, open horizons, and the realisation that Spain's capital city sits just beyond these last modest ridges of dry farmland.