Navalucillos (Los)

The morning mist lifts at 740 metres, revealing a village where house martins dive between granite balconies and the smell of woodsmoke drifts from chimneys. Los Navalucillos doesn't announce itself with dramatic vistas or honey-coloured stone. Instead, it sits quietly on the northern edge of La Jara, that forgotten corner of Toledo province where Castilla-La Mancha forgets about vineyards and remembers it has mountains.

This is gateway country. Drive ten kilometres south and you're in Cabañeros National Park, the 40,000-hectare expanse that British bird-watchers call 'the Spanish Serengeti'. The comparison isn't entirely fanciful. Between May and June, the dehesas—those parkland pastures of cork oak and wild olive—turn ochre and gold, while imperial eagles circle overhead and groups of four-wheel-drive vehicles follow rangers in search of grazing deer. But Los Navalucillos itself remains resolutely local, a place where farmers still gather at 8 am for coffee and brandy before heading to fields that have been in their families for generations.

The Altitude Changes Everything

At this height, the climate refuses to play by Castilian rules. Summer mornings might hit 35°C by eleven, but evenings drop to a comfortable 18°C—pack a jumper even in August. Winter tells a different story. January nights regularly touch -5°C, and when the snow comes (perhaps twice each winter), the CM-4108 becomes impassable until the plough arrives from neighbouring Horcajo de los Montes. The village shop stocks bread, milk and tinned goods for exactly this reason; locals know that self-sufficiency isn't quaint, it's survival.

The altitude also means the walking season extends well into October, when chestnut woods above the village turn copper and the Chorrera de San Martín actually lives up to its waterfall status. The three-hour circuit from the cemetery gate through Castañar de San Martín delivers proper mountain walking—granite outcrops, sudden clearings where wild boar have rooted up the earth, and views across La Jara that on clear days pick out the wind turbines on the Toledo horizon. But this isn't Lake District path-marking. The yellow paint splashes fade, and phone signal vanishes within ten minutes. Download the route beforehand, or better yet, ask at Bar Central. Someone's cousin will probably offer to guide you for twenty euros and a beer afterwards.

Coffee, Cork and Car Essentials

Los Navalucillos makes no concessions to the car-free traveller. The daily bus from Talavera de la Reina stopped running in 2018. Without wheels, you're stranded. Madrid-Barajas to the village takes two hours fifteen on good roads—A-5 to Navalmoral, then the CM-4108 that winds through 40 kilometres of evergreen oak and grazing land. Hire cars should be collected from the airport; attempting to reach Los Navalucillos via public transport involves three changes and a taxi fare that costs more than the entire journey from London.

Once here, parking proves refreshingly straightforward. The Plaza de España accommodates perhaps forty cars, rarely more than ten. Side streets require some manoeuvring—many date from the 1950s when SEAT 600s were the largest vehicles their builders imagined—but nothing that would trouble someone used to Devon lanes. Just remember: Spanish villages observe siesta with religious devotion. Between 2 pm and 5 pm, the only thing moving is the occasional cat.

What Passes for Cuisine Here

Food arrives in two varieties: what your grandmother would recognise, and what she might cook if she'd been born in Extremadura. Restaurante Las Becerras, the village's sole hotel, serves secreto ibérico that British visitors inevitably describe as 'the best pork I've ever eaten'. The meat comes from black-footed pigs that spent their lives grazing among the very cork oaks you drove through. A plate costs €14, accompanied by patatas revolconas—mashed potatoes with sweet paprika and torreznos, essentially roast pork scratchings by another name. Vegetarians get pisto manchego, a thick ratatouille topped with fried egg, though ordering it without the egg causes mild confusion.

Bar Central operates different rules. Open at 7 am for the farming trade, it serves coffee strong enough to etch steel and tostadas—thick bread rubbed with tomato and olive oil—for €1.80. By 11 am the counter fills with empty caña glasses and the remains of tortilla portions cut into doorstop wedges. They don't do lunch, closing at 3 pm sharp. Try returning at 3.15 and you'll find the metal shutter already half-down, proprietor heading home for his own meal.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring delivers the goods. April orchids appear in roadside verges, nights remain cool enough for proper sleep, and Cabañeros bursts with birdlife. British tour companies run specialist trips then—expect to pay £1,400 for a week including guiding, accommodation and most meals. Independent travellers find hotel rooms from €55, though Casa Rural El Cerrillo (three bedrooms, wood-burning stove, binoculars provided) works better for groups who don't mind self-catering.

September brings the rut. Stag bellowing echoes across the dehesas at dawn, and Los Navalucillos fills with Spanish wildlife photographers who speak in whispers and carry lenses longer than your arm. The village's single cash machine sometimes runs dry during these weeks—bring euros.

Avoid August unless you enjoy temperatures that hit 38°C by mid-morning. Park authorities close trails between 1 pm and 6 pm for safety. The village pool helps, but it's basically a concrete rectangle filled with mountain water so cold it takes your breath away. Spanish families treat it as a social club, arriving at 11 am with cool boxes and staying until the lifeguard blows his whistle at 8 pm.

The Honest Truth

Los Navalucillos won't change your life. It lacks the architectural drama of medieval hill towns, the boutique hotels of Andalucía, the easy charm that fills Instagram feeds. What it offers instead is authenticity at altitude—a working mountain village where farmers discuss rainfall over breakfast, where the church bell still marks the hours, where night skies remain dark enough to pick out the Milky Way. Come for the wildlife, stay for the silence, leave before the winter snow arrives.