Torres de la Alameda

The 22:30 bus to Madrid is already idling when the last customers drift out of Saez Lucas, wiping pork fat from their fingers. Half an hour earlier the dining room sounded like a family wedding; now the plaza belongs to teenagers on benches and a pair of Guardia Civil checking their phones. At 658 m above sea level the night air carries a nip you don’t expect this close to the capital, and the church tower that has oriented locals since the sixteenth century looms black against the sky. This is Torres de la Alameda at closing time—no souvenir stalls, no taxi touts, just the certainty that tomorrow the same bread van will arrive at 07:30 and the same retired men will occupy the same bar stools.

A Plateau That Still Feels Like Countryside

Drive east on the A-2 for 28 km and you leave Madrid’s apartment blocks behind faster than the M25 gets you from Heathrow to Slough. The exit slip road deposits you on CM-2014, a single-carriageway that unravels across cereal plains the colour of digestive biscuits. Wheat and barley alternate with fallow strips; irrigation channels glint when the wind ruffles the water. The village appears suddenly—a compact knot of ochre roofs—then disappears again behind a rise, which explains why the Moors never fortified here and why modern developers haven’t bothered either.

Altitude keeps the climate honest. In July the thermometer hits 36 °C by noon; by midnight it can drop to 18 °C, so locals still drag blankets onto balconies. Frost arrives earlier than in the capital—first week of November rather than late December—and lingers longer, ideal for the hardy rose bushes that lean against every whitewashed wall. Spring is the payoff: green creeps across the plateau week by week, starting with wild sorrel along the verges and finishing with poppies so red they seem to hum. October turns the stubble fields bronze and brings mushroom hunters out at dawn, carrier bags in hand, following tracks that pre-date Google Maps.

What You Actually See on Foot

Start at the Plaza Mayor, really more of a widening in the main street. Benches face the 1950s town hall; its stone coat of arms still shows five towers and a poplar tree—torres y álamos, the village’s medieval rebrand. The church of Santiago Apóstol stands ten paces north, its Renaissance portico carved with grapes and pomegranates that once held paint. Inside, the nave smells of candle wax and floor polish; the priest leaves the door open because nobody steals anything except maybe the mints by the font.

From the church door follow Calle Real uphill for four minutes and tarmac turns to dirt. The ermita de la Virgen de la Soledad perches on a low ridge, walls the colour of pale honey. Step through the iron gate and the plateau opens like a theatre curtain: 180 degrees of ploughed circles, wind turbines on the horizon, and the faint silhouette of the Gredos mountains 80 km west. A stone bench faces the view; sit long enough and a villager will nod good-afternoon, then add, “First time? You’ll be back.” They’re usually right—there’s something addictive about a landscape that big yet empty.

Cycling, Strolling, Getting Mildly Lost

The tourist office doesn’t exist, so the best map is the one painted on a tile by the bus stop. It shows three signed walks: the 4 km “Ruta del Cigarral”, the 7 km “Ruta de los裸rboles”, and the 12 km “Ruta de los Pantanos”. All start at the ermita and all are really farm tracks used by tractors rather than hikers. Stout shoes suffice; the only hazard is the occasional loose Alsatian that trots out to bark, tail wagging. Cyclists favour the loop south to Ambite and back—24 km of gentle undulation with one 3 km drag that feels longer because the wind is usually in your face. Road bikes cope fine; mountain bikes are overkill unless you detour onto the goat paths by the Henares river.

Winter changes the rules. When the meseta wind arrives it can push 60 km/h and flings grit into your eyes. Between December and February the fields look bleak, the ermita’s door stays locked, and bars close at 20:00 instead of 23:30. Come prepared: a fleece, a buff, and the realisation that you’re witnessing the season locals call “la mudanza”, when even Madrid feels far away.

Food Without the Fanfare

British visitors expecting a tapas crawl will be disappointed; here you choose a bar and stick with it. Saez Lucas on Calle San Roque roasts Segovian suckling pig in a wood-fired oven built 1947. Half a ración (€12) arrives as three squares of crackling-covered meat, a dish of roast potatoes and a lemon wedge—no garnish, no apology. Order a glass of Ribera del Duero (€2.80) and the owner, Jesús, will ask whether you drove or took the bus, then advise the safest place to park overnight.

If pork feels excessive, Mesón la Plaza grills cordero lechal—milk-fed lamb—until the bones pull out like lollipop sticks. They also keep a freezer bag of salmon fillets for children who refuse anything with a face; chips are hand-cut and arrive scalting. Pudding options rarely stray from natillas (cold custard with a biscuit) or arroz con leche scented with cinnamon. Vegetarians get migas—breadcrumbs fried with garlic and grapes—though staff eye you for signs of moral superiority.

Tuesday is market morning. Stallholders from Ciudad Real unload crates of oranges and avocados onto the Plaza de España; the only touristy gesture is the woman who sells €1 slices of tortilla wrapped in paper. Stock up here if you’re self-catering—the village supermarket shuts 14:00-17:00 and all day Sunday.

Fiestas: When the Volume Goes Up

For fifty weeks Torres murmurs; for two it shouts. The fiestas de Santiago (25 July) begin with a paella contest in the street: neighbours haul dining tables outdoors, gas rings hiss, and someone’s uncle guards a pan the width of a tractor tyre. Night-time brings a fairground that occupies the football pitch; British parents note the bumper cars still use 240 V overhead wires, so small children require hoisting in and out. At 02:00 a disco starts beside the church; bring earplugs or join in—nobody cares whether your Spanish stretches beyond “¡otra cerveza!”

September belongs to the Virgen de la Soledad. A romería sets off at 11:00 on the second Sunday: residents walk 2 km to the ermita behind a brass band, then sit on the grass sharing tortilla and red wine from plastic cups. The scene resembles a church fête until someone produces a battery-powered sound system and bachata drifts across the fields. By 16:00 half the village is dancing; by 18:00 the Guardia Civil are politely shepherding people onto the road home.

Getting There, Getting Out

Public transport exists but demands patience. Bus 256 leaves Madrid’s Conde de Casal platform at 45 minutes past the hour; journey time is 50 minutes and the single fare is €2.40. The last return service departs 22:30 sharp—miss it and a taxi to the city costs €50-60. Drivers should leave the A-2 at exit 28, follow signs for Torres, and expect free parking everywhere except Tuesday morning when market vans hog the plaza.

Overnight accommodation is limited to two guesthouses and a handful of Airbnb flats let by teachers who commute to Madrid. Expect €55-70 for a double room, slightly more during fiestas. Rooms are clean, Wi-Fi is patchy, and breakfast is usually tostada with tomato plus coffee that arrives in a glass. If you need reliable internet, sit outside the library on Calle Pablo Neruda; the password is written on the door.

Worth It?

Torres de la Alameda will never feature on a “Top Ten Day Trips from Madrid” list, and that is precisely its appeal. Come for the plateau light at 19:00 when shadows stretch like elastic, stay for the bar conversation that starts with the weather and ends with your life story translated by a retired English teacher. Leave before the bus driver turns the engine off and the plaza lights blink out, because once that happens the village reverts to its true owners: the commuters who wake at 06:00, the farmers who check the wheat, and the church bell that marks the hours whether anyone is listening or not.