San Martín del Pimpollar

The goats have right of way on the final bend.
Climb the N-502 from the amber wheat fields of the Ávila basin, rise through holm-oak and scree, and the tarmac suddenly flattens beside a low stone wall. Beyond it, slate roofs tip towards the valley like uneven stairs. You have reached San Martín del Pimpollar, population 212, petrol station none, attitude refreshingly indifferent to whether you stay or leave.

At 1,335 m the air is thin enough to make car doors slam differently. Even in July the breeze carries a needle of chill; nights drop below 15 °C while Madrid, 160 km south-east, still swelters at 30 °C. Locals claim—only half-joking—that the village is the “last balcony before Castile tips into Portugal”. From the upper lanes you look south over a wrinkled cloth of ochre plains; swivel north and the Sierra de Gredos rears up, granite walls already streaked with snow by early October.

Granite, Timber and the Smell of Burned Oak

Every house here is a geology lesson. Walls are chunked together from chestnut-sized granite picked off the surrounding hills; roof tiles are heavy slabs of grey slate hauled up from the quarries at Puerto de la Piñuela. Timber balconies, once Scots-pine, are now mostly replanted Douglas-fir after the 2017 fires. Walk the main street at 6 p.m.—the hour when wives still throw buckets of water across the dust before evening paseo—and the smell is woodsmoke and cattle, not coffee and pastries.

The church of San Martín de Tours squats at the top of the gradient, a single-nave box finished in 1692. Its bell turret doubles as the village time-piece: two strikes for half, four for the hour, none for the quarter. Inside, the altarpiece is plain polychrome rather than gilded extravaganza; the priest only appears on alternate Sundays, driving up from El Barco. Visitors expecting cloisters and chapels will be underwhelmed; those who like buildings that still earn their keep will appreciate the stack of hay bales propped against the sacristy wall after harvest festival.

Walking Boots Beat Guidebooks

San Martín does not “do” sights; it lends itself to altitude. Three way-marked loops leave from the last lamppost:

• Ruta de las Dehesas (6 km, 200 m ascent) circles through sweet-chestnut groves where black pigs snuffle for acorns.
• Cuerda de los Cotos (11 km) climbs to a fire-watch hut at 1,750 m with straight-on views of the Gredos cirque.
• Paseo de los Barrancos (3 km) is a pre-dinner stroll along cattle tracks scented with wild thyme.

None require technical kit beyond shoes with grip, but carry water: streams run dry by mid-June. Spring brings drifts of lavender and yellow broom; October turns the oaks copper and the locals out with shotguns for boar. Expect to meet one farmer, two dogs and no other tourists on an average weekday.

Serious walkers usually drive the extra 15 minutes to Plataforma de Gredos, the trail-head for the 2,592 m summit of Almanzor. San Martín serves as a quieter, cheaper base: beds here run €55–€70, half what you pay in Hoyos del Espino, and you still reach the parking by 08.30—before the Madrid coaches arrive.

Steak, Beans and the Blackberry Liqueur That Warms 1,335 m

The village itself offers exactly one bar and two restaurants. Weekday lunch is the liveliest slot; arrive after 15.30 and the cook has probably gone home. At Venta San Miguel, on the main road before the final bend, the chuletón for two arrives sizzling on a cast-iron plate, butter-yellow fat already rendered into the chips beneath. Brits who like their beef “proper rare” will be pleased: the chef pulls the 1 kg T-bone when it is still cool in the centre, lets the residual heat finish it at table. Expect €45 for two, including a tin jug of local red whose label never quite matches the vintage advertised.

In the village proper, El Yantar de Gredos dishes out a €12 menú del día that starts with judiones del Barco—butter beans the size of conkers stewed with morcilla and bay—followed by roast chicken, chips and rice pudding thickened with cinnamon. Vegetarians can ask for patatas revolconas, a paprika mash stretched with spinach, but the default is carnivore. Finish with a patxarán or a thimble of blackberry liqueur distilled by the owner’s sister; the fruit comes from brambles along the Arroyo de San Blas and tastes like Christmas pudding in liquid form.

Shops? One tiny ultramarinos sells tinned tuna, UHT milk and the last copy of ¡Hola! from 2019. Bring your own picnic, or plan a 25 km round-trip to the supermarket in El Barco de Ávila. The nearest cash machine is there, too; San Martín stopped pretending to need one years ago.

Snow Gates, Goats and the Sound of Silence

Winter transforms the access. The N-502 is gritted up to the village, but the final 3 km can close after heavy snow; keep chains in the boot between December and March. Temperatures dip to –8 °C inside the houses, so most owners switch off the water and head for cousins in Talavera. What sounds like hardship to outsiders feels like common sense here: why pay heating when you can simply leave?

If you do stay, the reward is acoustic. No tractors at dawn, no mopeds at dusk—just the creak of expanding roof beams and, if the sky is clear, the crunch of your own boots on frozen gravel. The ski resort of La Covatilla is 45 minutes away by cleared road; day-trippers reverse the journey in the evening, happy to trade nightlife for a bed where you can read by log-fire without earphones.

Mobile reception is patchy. Vodafone picks up one bar on the upper corner by the church bench; EE usually gives up halfway up the hill. Download offline maps before you leave Arenas de San Pedro, and tell your boss you are “working remotely” only if your conscience stretches to asynchronous e-mail.

When to Come, When to Leave

May and late-September give the kindest light: daytime 22 °C, nights cool enough for a jacket, wildflowers or autumn colour depending on the month. August fiestas fill the plaza with smoke from sardine grills and a playlist that bounces from pasodoble to reggaeton until 03.00; fun if you like village discos, less so if you came for silence. November brings the patronal weekend around San Martín: roast chestnuts, new wine, and emigrants back from Madrid who speak English with a Birmingham accent because they spent ten years laying tarmac in the West Midlands.

Leave before Sunday lunchtime if you need public transport. There is none. The weekday bus from Ávila to El Barco connects with a school minibus that occasionally reaches the village gate at 14.15, but the driver reserves the right to skip the run if only the same three pensioners are waiting. Hire a car in Madrid or Salamanca, enjoy the mountain loop, and accept that San Martín del Pimpollar works best as a comma in a longer sentence rather than the full stop.

You will not tick off masterpieces here, but you might remember the moment when the engine cools, the goats wander off the road, and the only decision left is whether to walk another kilometre or order a second coffee while the clouds creep over Almanzor. Bring cash, bring layers, and leave expectations at the same altitude where the air begins to bite.