Collado del Mirón

The church bell strikes noon, yet only three chimneys smoke in Collado del Mirón. At this altitude—1,166 metres above sea level—the air carries a clarity that makes every slate roof and granite wall stand out in sharp relief. Winter has only just loosened its grip, and the village's handful of permanent residents are emerging to assess what the snow has damaged this year.

This is mountain Spain stripped bare. No souvenir shops, no weekend craft markets, no boutique hotels occupying restored manor houses. Just forty-odd dwellings huddled around a 17th-century church, their walls built from the same stone they stand on, their existence justified by centuries of livestock and subsistence farming that most of Britain abandoned two generations ago.

The Architecture of Survival

Walk the village's single proper street and you're witnessing a masterclass in practical building. The two-storey houses face south whenever possible, their wooden balconies deep enough to shelter firewood from autumn rains. Slate roofs pitch steeply—anything shallower and the winter snow would linger, melting through to rot the beams. Granite walls, sixty centimetres thick in places, keep interiors cool during July's thirty-degree heat and retain warmth when January temperatures drop to minus eight.

These aren't museum pieces. Look closer and you'll see satellite dishes bolted to medieval walls, solar panels squeezed between traditional haylofts. One house maintains its original stable door, though the horse has been replaced by a Seat Ibiza parked in what was once the animal enclosure. The tension between continuation and change defines every building here—unlike Britain's prettified villages, where authenticity often means adhering to conservation area guidelines, Collado del Mirón's residents modify their homes according to need, not heritage officers.

The church of San Pedro stands at the village's highest point, not for spiritual elevation but because this was the only ground flat enough for construction. Inside, the single nave measures just twelve metres by eight. The altar's painted in blues and ochres that would have arrived here via mule train from Ávila, a three-day journey until the 1950s. Sunday service still draws worshippers from neighbouring hamlets—though now they arrive in 4x4s rather than on foot.

Walking Into the Past

Three footpaths radiate from Collado del Mirón, following routes that predate the Reconquista. The most accessible heads south-east towards Navalacruz, dropping 400 metres through oak and ash forest before climbing again. It's six kilometres each way, taking around two hours if you're fit and haven't been derailed by the mushroom-collecting opportunities autumn provides. Spring walkers should budget extra time—the track becomes a carpet of wild daffodils and purple orchids during April.

The northern route proves more demanding. Following the ridge towards the Sierra de Gredos, the path climbs steadily to 1,600 metres before dropping into the Tormes valley. Markers exist but require interpretation—stacked stones here, a blaze on an ancient chestnut there. British walkers accustomed to Ordnance Survey precision will need to adjust: these paths evolved from shepherd routes, not surveying teams. GPS helps, though phone signal disappears within five minutes of leaving the village.

Winter changes everything. Snow arrives reliably by December, sometimes October, and doesn't clear from north-facing slopes until late March. The access road from Barco de Ávila—twelve kilometres of switchbacks—carries snow chains in every vehicle's boot for good reason. When conditions turn properly bad, Collado del Mirón becomes temporarily inaccessible, its residents stocked up on supplies and quite comfortable with temporary isolation.

What Passes for Entertainment

Evenings revolve around the village's single social space: a bar that opens when the owner's around, which means weekends and fiesta days. Inside, the television shows Spanish football while elderly men play cards with the intensity of tournament bridge. Order a caña and you'll receive a glass of Mahou plus complimentary tapas—perhaps chorizo from the pig slaughtered last month, or potatoes revolconas mashed with paprika and pork fat. Payment operates on an honesty system; tell them what you had when you leave.

Food shopping requires planning. The nearest supermarket sits twelve kilometres away in Barco de Ávila, open 9am-2pm then 5pm-8pm except Sundays. Locals maintain huertos—vegetable plots—behind their houses, growing potatoes, beans and hardy greens that survive the altitude. Many keep chickens, though foxes from the surrounding forest ensure free-range actually means free-range until inevitably caught. The village bread van arrives Tuesdays and Fridays, honking its horn to announce fresh loaves at €1.20 each.

For proper restaurants, head to Barco or Piedrahíta. Mesón El Cazador serves exceptional cabrito asado—kid goat roasted in a wood-fired oven until the skin crackles like pork crackling. Expect to pay €18-22 for a main course, less than you'd pay for a pub sandwich in the Cotswolds. The wine list features local tempranillo at €12 a bottle, though ordering the house red at €8 rarely disappoints.

The Honest Truth

Collado del Mirón won't suit everyone. The silence can feel oppressive rather than peaceful, especially when fog rolls in and visibility drops to twenty metres. Mobile reception is patchy at best, non-existent at worst. There's no petrol station, no cashpoint, no pharmacy. If the weather turns during your visit, you might find yourself stuck for days—not catastrophically, but inconveniently.

Yet for those seeking genuine mountain Spain without the ski-resort artifice of nearby La Covatilla, this village delivers something increasingly rare: authenticity without performance. The houses aren't restored to within an inch of their lives. The locals aren't wearing traditional costume for tourists. The paths exist because people need to reach their goats, not because walking magazines need content.

Come prepared. Bring cash, proper walking boots, and a sense that you're visiting someone's actual home rather than a heritage attraction. Stay at Casa Rural La Escuela—converted from the village school, sleeps six, costs €80-120 per night depending on season. Or don't stay overnight at all; base yourself in Barco and visit for the day, walking the paths before retreating to somewhere with restaurants and heating that doesn't rely on wood you've chopped yourself.

Either way, you'll experience a Spain that most British visitors miss entirely. Not better, not worse—just real.