San Juan de Gredos

The church bell strikes nine and the only other sound is a tractor reversing into a barn. At 1,348 m above sea level, San Juan de Gredos feels like someone forgot to tell the village that modern Spain runs on late-night momentum. Stone houses with wooden balconies shut their shutters, the single ATM locks its flap, and the darkness between the pines becomes absolute. This is the moment most visitors realise they have come not for a town but for what sits behind it: the granite wall of the Circo de Gredos, snow-patched until June, glowing faintly under the stars.

A village that exists for the path above it

The paved road ends at the upper car park; beyond that, the PR-242 footpath climbs straight towards Laguna Grande, the glacial lake that every British hiking blog insists is “the best day-walk in central Spain”. The statistics are blunt: 900 m of ascent, seven hours round trip, zero shade after the first hour. Yet at 07:30 on a July morning the trailhead already looks like a mini Pen-y-Pass: groups tightening boot laces, guides counting heads, a farmer loading goats into a Land Rover for the higher summer pastures. Start late and you meet the Spanish families descending in flip-flops, wondering why the lake is still two hours away.

Lower routes exist for anyone who prefers oxygen to masochism. A 45-minute loop follows the Garganta de San Juan between broom and bird-cherry, ending at a chest-high waterfall just cold enough to numb your wrists. Evening strolls head south along the cattle track to Navacepeda; stiles are non-existent, so expect to climb stone steps polished smooth by hooves. Maps are sold at the tiny information hut opposite the pharmacy—open hours erratic, stock usually one dog-eared sheet.

When the weather writes the timetable

Altitude turns forecasters cautious. A midsummer day can swing from 28 °C in the plaza to sleet on the ridge within six hours. British visitors pack merino and a shell out of habit; locals simply add a fleece and carry on mending walls. Spring brings the sharpest contrasts: almond blossom at 900 m while the peaks still wear a white ski-cap. Autumn is the pay-off month—stable highs of 22 °C, beech woods the colour of burnt toast, and the rut echoing across the valleys like someone dragging furniture.

Winter is serious. The AV-931 from Hoyos del Espino is cleared daily, but the last 17 km can still close after an overnight dump. Chains are rarely requested, yet hire companies in Madrid charge extra “mountain insurance” once they spot the postcode. Inside the village the roads are gritted with local granite grit—grey on grey, invisible until you slip. Accommodation drops to two hostals and the Parador in Navarredonda (12 km away); the rest of the season’s beds hibernate behind wooden shutters.

One bar, one butcher, zero souvenirs

The shopping list is short. Carnicería Julián opens at 09:00, sells local ternero a 14 €/kg, and is usually out of chorizo by Thursday. Across the lane, Panadería Rosa bakes a single batch of baguette-shaped “pistolas”; arrive after 11:00 and you’ll get yesterday’s. The lone supermarket, hidden inside what looks like someone’s garage, stocks UHT milk, tinned squid and fire-lighters—perfect for that spontaneous stew you definitely planned.

Meals centre on protein and beans. Chuletón de Ávila arrives sizzling on a cast-iron plate, a T-bone thick enough to feed two hungry walkers and bloody enough to make a vegetarian weep. Judiones del Barco—buttery white beans stewed with chorizo and pig’s ear—taste mild, comforting, ideal after eight hours of scree. The local goat cheese, wrapped in chestnut leaves from La Cabezuela dairy, crumbles like a Spanish Wensleydale and lacks the usual goaty tang. Beer is cheap (1.80 € a caña) but measures are strictly 200 ml; ask for “una doble” if you want a British half.

Beds, buses and the booking panic

Seventeen properties offer rooms, only nine accept online reservations. The rest rely on handwritten ledgers and the willingness to answer a Spanish phone. Mid-July to end-August is Spanish family season: prices jump 30 %, plaza fiestas run until 02:00, and the sound of toddlers racing scooters echoes off granite at dawn. Book six weeks ahead or arrive mid-week outside school holidays and you can still get a double for 55 € with breakfast tostada thick enough to hold up a fried egg.

Public transport exists but demands optimism. One daily bus leaves Madrid’s Estación Sur at 15:00, reaches Arenas de San Pedro at 17:30, and connects with a minibus that crawls up the mountain at 18:15. Miss the link and a taxi costs 60 €. Sunday service is cancelled without warning if the driver decides the road is too icy. British hikers typically hire a car at Madrid airport; the final 40 km after Ávila is twisty but scenic—vultures overhead, cows on the verge, stone walls patched together without mortar.

What you won’t find (and might miss)

There is no petrol station, no cash-point that reliably works on a Saturday, no Wi-Fi faster than a distracted sparrow. Mobile coverage hops between Vodafone and Orange depending which side of the street you stand. Souvenir shops are zero; the nearest fridge magnet is 25 km away in Arenas, next to the pharmacy and the cash machine that still dispenses notes. Some visitors hate the silence after dark; others discover they can hear their own heart beat for the first time in years.

Leaving without regrets

San Juan de Gredos does not court you. It offers granite, cold water, rare steak and a bed that smells faintly of woodsmoke. Take it or turn the car around. Those who stay return with dusty boots, sunburned necks and the sudden ability to sleep at 22:00 without a phone in sight. The village will still be there next year, shutters creaking, cows crossing the main road at sunrise, the bell counting the hours no one asked to be counted.