Robledo del Mazo

At 737 m above sea level, Robledo del Mazo is high enough for the air to smell of thyme instead of diesel. The village squats on a ridge in the Sierra de Altamira, 149 km south-west of Madrid-Barajas, and the last 35 km are on the CM-4100, a single-lane road that narrows to a goat track whenever two tractors meet. Mobile coverage drops to one bar somewhere around the Gévalo valley; by the time the stone church tower appears, Google Maps has given up and the car thermometer has fallen five degrees. That is the first hint that daily life here still answers to altitude, not algorithms.

Why the map looks empty (and the village likes it)

La Jara, the wider comarca, was bypassed by every major Roman road, railway and AVE line. The region’s reward for centuries of geographical bad luck is a mosaic of dehesa—open oak forest—where black vultures outnumber tourists. Robledo’s year-round headcount is 247; in August it doubles when descendants of emigrants return for the fiestas, park hatchbacks in the plaza and compare London rents with the price of a ruin that still has a bread oven. Outsiders who arrive expecting souvenir stalls find only a single hand-painted sign: “Se alquila burro” (donkey for hire). The notice is faded; the donkey retired years ago.

What passes for sights

The parish church of San Pedro has no Gothic vaults or Baroque theatrics—just a squat bell-tower patched after lightning in 1892. Inside, the temperature is cellar-cool even at midday; the priest unlocks it ten minutes before Mass, and if you ask nicely he’ll point out the wooden choir stall where someone carved “AÑO 1634” with a dagger. Around the village, houses are built from the same honey-coloured stone, roofs weighted with curved Arab tiles that sing in high wind. Woodpiles fill every alley, stacked with mathematical precision; locals judge character by whether the logs are split small enough for a woman to carry. Peek through an open gateway and you may see a paved courtyard, a tin bath planted with geraniums and a tethered kid goat polishing a rope like a bored prisoner.

Walking without waymarks

There are no ticketed trails, just traditional cañadas—drovers’ roads—radiating into the dehesa. Park by the cement picnic tables at the entrance and follow the widest track south-east; within 20 minutes the village sounds—dog, chainsaw, church bell—fade behind cicadas. Holm oaks spaced 20 m apart give shade; the understory is white rockrose and flowering thyme that releases scent when crushed under boot. At sunrise the Sierra de Altamira glows pink; by noon thermals rise and griffon vultures appear, wingspan the length of a British living room. The going is easy— gradients rarely exceed 8 %—but carry more water than you think; the only fountain marked on the 1:50,000 map dried up in 2017. A circular loop to the abandoned stone sheepfold of Majada Honda and back takes two hours, or three if you stop to watch imperial eagles being shouted at by magpies.

Eating what the day provides

The only public food outlet is Bar La Plaza, open from 08:00 until the owner, Concha, runs out of beer. Menu del día is €10 mid-week: pisto manchego topped with fried egg, followed by carne en salsa and a plastic bowl of local almonds in honey. Vegetarians get a larger portion of pisto; vegans should ask for migas—fried breadcrumbs with grapes—hold the chorizo. Everything is cooked in olive oil pressed 30 km away; nothing arrives with chilli heat. If you need coffee stronger than Nescafé, say “café de máquina, bien cargado” or Concha will top up the cup with hot water from the kettle. on Saturdays she bakes almond biscuits that crumble like Scottish shortbread; they sell out by 11:00, so don’t plan a lie-in.

When to come (and when to stay away)

April–May turns the dehesa purple with jaras (rockrose) and the temperature hovers around 19 °C—perfect for walking without carrying three litres of water. Late September brings mild days plus mushroom picking; locals will point out níscalos (saffron milk-caps) if you ask politely in Spanish. July and August push 35 °C by 13:00; the village fountain becomes social centre and the only shady parking space is under the church wall. Winter is crisp—night frosts are common—but snow rarely settles more than a day. The CM-4100 can ice over in January; carry chains or you’ll be the morning entertainment as grandmothers critique your reversing technique from doorways.

Practicalities your phone won’t tell you

Fly to Madrid, pick up a rental car and head west on the A-5. Fill the tank at Navalmoral de la Mata; the last station before Robledo closed in 2011. There is no ATM—Concha accepts cash only and the nearest machine is 18 km back towards the motorway. Vodafone and EE roam on Movistar, but data drops to 3G inside stone houses; download offline maps before you leave the ring-road. Sunday arrivals find the bakery shuttered and the village shop closed until Monday morning; stock up on milk and sliced bread on Saturday afternoon or you’ll breakfast like a shepherd: red wine and stale toast.

Leaving without the gift-shop moment

Robledo del Mazo will not give you Instagram tiles or a fridge magnet. What it offers is the sound of a place that still measures time by goat bells, firewood stacks and the slow turn of vultures overhead. Drive out early, windows down, and the smell of thyme will follow the car for kilometres—an airborne postcard no stamp can carry.