Hoyos del Espino

The bronze goat at the village crossroads lifts one hoof as if to say, “That way, if you’re serious.” Follow its gaze and the road climbs through Scots pine to La Plataforma, 1,484 m above sea level, where the Central Iberian plateau suddenly cracks open into the Circo de Gredos. On a clear morning you can watch the granite wall of Almanzor—at 2,592 m the province’s high point—catch the first sun like a blade being sharpened.

Hoyos del Espino never lets you forget the number. The altitude is painted on the local signposts, stamped on the beer mats in the two village bars, and recited by landlords when they hand over keys: “Remember, you’re at one-thousand-four-hundred-and-eighty-four metres; water boils at 95 °C and red wine should never be served above 16 °C.” The advice sounds pedantic until you step outside after dusk in October and feel how thin the air has become.

A Base Camp with Stone Roofs

Barely 350 people live here year-round, yet the place functions like a miniature Chamonix without the prices. Stone houses roofed with dark slate line a single main street wide enough for hay bales and the occasional 4×4. Chimneys smoke from October to May; stacks of oak firewood reach first-floor windows. At weekends Madrilenños fill the rental casas rurales, arriving with zip-up boot bags and folding walking poles. They come for the same reason British visitors do: you can be on a high-mountain path by ten, back down for a three-course lunch that costs less than a single London pint, and asleep to the sound of the Tormes river before the evening news.

Walk the village in twenty minutes. There is no ATM—cash was removed years ago when the machine froze one January and nobody noticed until March. The small supermarket opens 09:00-14:00, shuts for siesta, then reappears at 17:00 until 20:30. If you need oat milk or hummus, drive 20 min to Arenas de San Pedro before you come up the mountain. What Hoyos does have is a tiny interpretation centre that stays open even when it looks locked; push the door and you’ll find free topo maps, advice on where the ibex are grazing, and a wall chart that explains why your morning coffee tastes odd (lower boiling point, again).

Walking Grades from Stroll to Scramble

The classic outing starts at La Plataforma car park, 3 km above the village. Aim to arrive before 10:00 at weekends; by 11:30 the single-track access road is nose-to-tail with Seville-registered SUVs and the Guardia Civil occasionally turn latecomers away. From the upper gate the path to Laguna Grande is obvious: 8 km return, 550 m of ascent, four-and-a-half hours if you stop to photograph every bouquet of purple digitalis. The first hour is a gentle romp along an old Roman causeway; British walking magazines call it “a scenic amble shareable with horned goats,” and they are right—ibex graze so close you can hear them chew.

Harder options fork left: the Almanzor ridge requires a dawn start, sure feet, and the ability to read scree. In May patches of hard snow still hide the gullies; by September the same slope is a bowling alley of loose slate. Come properly booted; the mountain rescue team in yellow helicopters are friendly but expensive.

Prefer horizontal ground? Follow the signposted loop through the Pinar ravine. It’s 5 km, mostly flat, and ends at a riverside meadow where local families picnic on chorizo sliced with penknives. You’ll share the grass with semi-wild horses that have learned to approach for apples; keep your flapjack inside your rucksack or it will be nosed out in seconds.

Weather that Forgets the Season

Altitude makes its own climate. In April the valley below can be 24 °C while Hoyos wakes to frost on the windscreens. July afternoons regularly hit 34 °C, but the moment the sun drops behind El Morezón jumper weather returns. August brings thunderstorms that crack like artillery; if you’re still above the tree line after 15:00 expect a soaking and possibly hail. Winter is serious: the access road to La Plataforma is chained from December to March, daytime highs stay below freezing, and the village fountain ices over so thickly children skate on it. Yet the cold is dry, skies are cobalt, and you can snow-shoe straight from your guest-house door—rentals €15 a day at the petrol station in nearby Navarredonda.

Pack as you would for a British hill day, then add one extra layer; the sun feels Mediterranean but the wind remembers the Atlantic. A buff is useful against the dust that blows up from the Ávila plains when the levante fans the pass.

What Lands on Your Plate

Menus are short, carbohydrate-heavy, and unapologetically meaty. Breakfast might be toast rubbed with tomato, a drizzle of local olive oil, and coffee strong enough to restart a heart. Mid-hike fuel is usually a bocadillo of salty sheep’s cheese wrapped in foil and carried in a jersey pocket. Lunchtime favourites include patatas revolconas—mashed potato tinted brick-red with pimentón and studded with crisp pork fat; it tastes like smoky bubble-and-squeak. The judías del Barco stew is milder than it looks: white beans, chorizo, bay leaf, nothing that will frighten a sensitive palate. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and grilled pimientos, though one guest-house will do a goat-cheese lasagne if you ask the night before.

Evening meals start late; even in winter nobody sits down before 21:00. La Galana, the restaurant with the green shutters, fires a wood oven that doubles as village radiator. Their chuletón—a sharing steak the width of a notebook—costs €28 per kilo and feeds two hungry walkers. Pair it with a local tempranillo; the altitude keeps the wine’s alcohol in check, so you stand a chance of remembering the walk tomorrow.

When the Village Closes

Come November the fiesta bunting is packed away, rental prices halve, and several houses simply shut their shutters. The weekend trade keeps one bar open, but mid-week you may find yourself the only customer while the owner watches the news. Mobile reception drifts in and out; WhatsApp voice notes stutter unless you stand on the church steps. Snowploughs grind past at 06:00, headlamps carving tunnels through the flakes. It is quiet enough to hear your own blood.

Some travellers hate the hush; others discover they have been looking for it all their lives. Hoyos del Espino will not entertain you after dark—bring a book, or learn to like the sound of the river. If that feels like a prison sentence, stay in lively Arenas de San Pedro below and drive up for the day. But if the idea of granite glowing under starlight, of ibex silhouettes on a moon-white ridge, of waking to a breakfast table that smells of woodsmoke and strong coffee sounds like the point of leaving Britain in the first place, then follow the bronze goat. Just remember to fill your wallet in Ávila first.