La Horcajada

The church bell strikes noon, and the only other sound is a tractor grinding through second gear somewhere beyond the stone houses. At 1,033 metres above sea level, La Horcajada doesn't do noise. What it does do is remind visitors that Castilla y León still belongs to cattle and sheep, not to tour operators.

This Avila mountain village—482 permanent residents, one main street, zero traffic lights—sits on a shoulder of the Sierra de Gredos where the pastures are green enough to feel Swiss until the granite walls and terracotta roofs snap you back to Spain. The air carries pine resin and wood smoke; the valley view stretches south until the peaks block any thought of rushing back to Madrid.

Stone, Snow and the Smell of Proper Stew

Architecture here is climate control by other means. Houses are two-storey cubes of rough granite, walls half a metre thick, windows small enough to keep January winds outside. Wooden balconies sag under geranium pots; ground-floor stable doors once led to the family cow rather than a holiday rental. Some properties have been restored with London-level budgets, others slump gently beside them, their roofs patched with corrugated iron that flaps like loose change. Planning regulations exist, but the council meets in a room above the bar and decisions can take longer than the gestation period of the local fighting bulls.

Winter arrives early. The first snow usually dusts the Gredos crests in late October; by December the access road from the N-110 can ice over enough to make winter tyres essential. Daytime temperatures hover just above freezing, nights drop to minus eight, and the village's only hotel keeps rooms warm with oil heaters that clank like medieval armour. Summer compensates with 25-degree afternoons and zero humidity—perfect for walking, hopeless for tomatoes.

Walking Tracks That Expect You to Know What You're Doing

Footpaths radiate from the upper edge of the village like spokes from a broken wheel. The most straightforward is the 6-kilometre loop that follows the Arroyo de la Horcajada through pine plantations and back across flower meadows. Markers are small piles of stones or the occasional stripe of faded yellow paint; if you need signposts every 200 metres, stay on the road. More ambitious hikers can link up with the GR-86 long-distance trail, which climbs to the 1,800-metre Puerto de Chía before dropping into the Tormes valley—allow six hours and carry water because streams dry up between June and October.

Spring brings a brief, outrageous burst of colour: purple orchids, yellow cytinus, wild peonies that locals call "rosales de monte". Griffon vultures ride the thermals overhead; if you're lucky you'll spot a Spanish imperial eagle scanning the slopes for rabbits. The council recently installed a wildlife hide two kilometres west of the village, but forgot to add a car park—walk in quietly and you might have it to yourself.

Food That Apologises to Nobody

There are two places to eat. The Bar-Restaurante Laura opens at seven for coffee and churros, serves a three-course menú del día at midday for €12, and closes when the last customer leaves. The speciality is patatas revolconas, a brick-red mash of potatoes, paprika and pancetta that sits in your stomach like a hot water bottle. If you ask nicely, they'll add a fried egg on top—accept it, you'll need the calories. Evening options are limited to raciones: morcilla de Burgos, grilled lamb cutlets, pimientos de Padrón that taste faintly of the neighbouring farmer's pesticide if the wind was wrong during spraying season.

The other choice is Mesón El Puente, five minutes down the road towards Barco de Ávila. Weekend booking is essential because half of Madrid descends on Saturday lunchtime expecting cocido stew and beef from Avila's white-charolais cattle. Portions are built for men who have spent the morning hacking oak branches; order the half-ración unless you fancy waddling back to the car.

Getting Here Without Losing the Will to Live

Public transport is a myth. The nearest railway station is in Ávila, 65 kilometres north—rent a car there or face a €70 taxi ride. From Madrid, take the A-6 motorway to Ávila, then the N-110 south towards Plasencia; turn off at Puerto Castilla and follow the AV-901 mountain road for 12 kilometres of hairpins that would give an Alpine goat vertigo. Fuel up beforehand: the village garage closed in 2009 and the nearest pump is 25 kilometres away in Barco de Ávila.

Accommodation is similarly straightforward. Posada de la Sierra has eight rooms above the village square, beams you could ski down, and Wi-Fi that remembers dial-up fondly. Doubles start at €70 including breakfast—strong coffee, supermarket toast, and homemade jam that may or may not set off UK agricultural scanners on the way home. The alternative is Casa Rural El Cueto, a converted farmhouse two kilometres outside the village with its own vegetable patch and a donkey that brays at dawn whether you ordered the wake-up call or not.

Fiestas, Fireworks and Why August Isn't Always Ideal

The fiesta mayor happens around 15 August. The population quadruples, every balcony sprouts a plastic awning, and the plaza becomes a dance floor until five in the morning. If you want authenticity, arrive then; if you want sleep, book elsewhere. The highlight is the "encierro de vaquillas"—young heifers released through fenced-off streets while teenage boys prove Darwin wrong. Health and safety consists of a man with a whistle and prayers to the Virgin.

Autumn is kinder. Mushroom hunters head into the pine woods from mid-September, armed with wicker baskets and family secrets about where the best níscalos grow. The village hosts a modest mycology weekend with lectures in the church hall and a tasting menu that pairs local red with boletus risotto. October weather is stable, daytime 18 °C, cool enough for walking, warm enough to sit outside with a beer and watch the sun turn the Gredos peaks the colour of burnt toffee.

Leave before November. Once the clocks go back, mist fills the valley until midday, cafés reduce their hours, and the road can close without warning if snow drifts across the pass. La Horcajada doesn't mind; it has spent centuries preparing for winter, and the few visitors who make it through the cold months are treated like eccentric relatives rather than paying customers. Bring cash, bring boots, and bring a sense of proportion—this is a working village that happens to have beds, not the other way round.