Becedillas

The church bell strikes noon and nobody stirs. A tethered mule swishes its tail outside a granite house. Somewhere down the lane a tractor idles, then cuts out. At 1,080 m above sea level, Becedillas trades in silence the way other villages trade in postcards.

Seventy-three residents are registered here, though you will be lucky to see half that number on an ordinary weekday. The settlement clings to a spur above the Arroyo de Becedillas, its stone roofs the colour of weathered barley and its streets just wide enough for a cattle truck to squeeze through. There is no centre to speak of—only a brief widening where the road forgets to climb and the church of San Andrés presents its plain Romanesque doorway.

Why altitude matters

The air is thinner than most British visitors expect. Even in May the night temperature can dip to 4 °C, and in January the granite doorjambs glitter with frost. Summer, by contrast, is mild; the thermometer rarely troubles 28 °C, making the village a refuge for Madrileños fleeing the furnace of the capital two hours away. What this means in practice is that you pack a fleece whatever the season, and you do not attempt the final 12 km from the N-502 after a heavy snowfall unless you have snow chains. The regional plough clears the AV-931 eventually, but “eventually” is a flexible concept here.

The altitude also dictates the pace of life. Cattle, not clocks, set the timetable. Extremeña beef cows graze the common land above the village; their bells provide the daytime soundtrack. At dawn the herdsman moves them uphill, returning only when the shadows of the roble melojo oaks stretch eastward again. If you plan to walk, follow the same rhythm: start early, finish before the afternoon cloud rolls in.

Walking without waymarks

There are no ticket booths, interpretive panels or souvenir kiosks at the trailheads. Instead you get rough cattle tracks that double as footpaths. The most straightforward route leaves from the upper end of Calle de la Iglesia, skirts a stone watering trough, then climbs gently through gorse and heather toward the Puerto de Chilla (1,450 m). The distance is barely 5 km return, but the gradient reminds you that you are in proper mountain country. From the pass the view opens south across the Tiétar valley; on a clear morning you can pick out the granite wall of the Circo de Gredos, still streaked with snow well into June.

Navigation is refreshingly old-school: take a paper map (Editorial Alpina 1:25,000 “Sierra de Gredos”) or download the free IGN Spain layer to your phone before you lose signal. Waymarking is sporadic—an occasional stripe of yellow paint, a cairn, a hoof-scuffed junction. If you find yourself sharing the path with a chestnut-coloured mare, you have chosen correctly.

What passes for lunch

The village itself offers no public bar and only one informal casa rural where dinner can be arranged if you give 24 hours’ notice. Most visitors self-cater or drive 15 min down to El Barraco, where Mesón del Norte will grill a chuletón de Ávila the size of a steering wheel (£22 per kilo; two hungry walkers can just about finish one). Vegetarians are not forgotten: judías del Barco beans arrive stewed with saffron and bay, a mellow alternative to the ubiquitous pork.

For picnic supplies, stock up in Ávila before you leave the A-6. The Mercadona on the ring road sells local queso de cabra rolled in pimentón—peppery, crumbly, and it survives a day in a rucksack better than any Cheddar. Add a loaf of pan candeal, a knife, and you have the makings of an alpine lunch that costs under €6.

The depopulation you can feel

Half the houses are empty. Their wooden balconies sag, iron grills rusted the colour of burnt umber. Yet the place is not morose. Someone has potted geraniums on a windowsill; a fresh coat of limewash gleams on the corner where the council has renovated the old school. The demographic story is familiar across interior Spain: families left for Madrid or Valladolid in the 1960s, sending back money for refurbishments that stopped halfway when the peseta crashed. What remains is a village suspended between habitation and memory.

August fiestas briefly reverse the exodus. The population swells to perhaps 300 as grandchildren return, tents sprout in orchards, and the single village lane hosts a makeshift sound system that plays Spanish pop until 2 a.m. For three nights you will queue for beer and dance in the light of a generator. Then the drums fall silent, the tents come down, and Becedillas returns to its default setting of wind and cattle bells.

How to get here without tears

Public transport is a mirage. One school bus leaves El Barraco at 07:15 on weekdays; the return leg departs Becedillas at 14:00. Miss it and you are walking 12 km along a road with no pavement. Hire a car at Madrid airport instead (two-hour drive, mostly motorway). Take the A-6 to Ávila, then the N-502 south toward Plasencia. After El Barraco the tarmac narrows, bends multiply, and phone coverage falters—treat the final quarter-hour as a mountain road, not a Spanish M25.

Fuel up in Ávila; the village has no petrol station and the solitary card-only pump in El Barraco has a talent for declining foreign debit cards. Withdraw cash while you remember—there is no ATM in Becedillas, and the nearest bank is back down the mountain.

Where to sleep (and why you might not)

Accommodation within the village limits amounts to three privately owned cottages, two of which appear on booking sites under the generic title “Casa Rural Gredos.” Read the small print: one has no Wi-Fi, another requires a seven-night minimum in August. A safer bet is the Hotel Izán Puerta de Gredos, five minutes down the valley in Puerto Castilla. It has a pool, English-speaking staff, and doubles from £75 including breakfast—welcome after a night when the temperature drops below 10 °C.

If you crave historic atmosphere, push on another 10 min to the Parador de Gredos, a 1928 stone hunting lodge where King Alfonso XIII once holidayed. Expect tweed-covered furniture, a log fire in the lounge, and a drinks list heavy on local Ribera del Duero reds. Rooms start at £130; book early for UK half-term because Spanish families have the same idea.

When to cut your losses

Come in late April for orchids and scrambling streams, or in mid-October when the chestnut woods turn brass and the air smells of woodsmoke. Avoid August if you dislike crowds, December if you fear ice. The village will not flatter you with boutique distractions; on a misty February afternoon it can feel downright austere. That, of course, is the point. Becedillas offers no narrative beyond what you bring to it—boots, a map, and enough Spanish to ask whether the church is open. The silence will do the rest.