Anaya

The cereal fields look like corduroy from the air, long golden ridges pressed against the Meseta wind. Touch down at Madrid-Barajas, drive north-west for an hour, and the ridges narrow into the province of Segovia. Fifteen minutes before the city’s Roman aqueduct appears on the horizon, the sat-nav loses its confident tone and the tarmac thins to a single-track lane. You have arrived in Anaya—population 112, altitude 889 m, noise level zero.

A grid of stone and silence

Anaya is not a film set, though the stone walls, adobe patches and timber doors look almost too neat. The houses sit flush to the lane; washing lines stretch across tiny corrals where hens investigate the dust. There is no centro histórico to tick off, merely a grid of five streets that meet at the parish church. The building is locked most days, but the key hangs on a nail inside the bakery in Carbonero el Mayor, ten kilometres away. That tells you everything about how things work here.

The village supplies three commodities the city cannot: quiet, darkness and space. Mobile reception flickers in and out; WhatsApp voice notes arrive hours late. By night the Milky Way spills across the sky with an intensity that makes first-time visitors step backwards. Bring a blanket, not an app—the constellations are brighter than any screen.

Why people come (and why they leave the car running)

Most guests treat Anaya as a sleep aid. By day they tour Segovia’s alcázar, sip verdejo in the Judería and queue for cochinillo at José María. By 18:00 they are back on the CM-110, windows down, letting the pine-scented air scrub the city from their clothes. The round trip is 34 km—shorter than crossing central London in rush hour.

Walkers arrive for the agricultural lattice that surrounds the village. Camino-ancho tracks join Anaya to Brieva and Ortigosa del Monte; no waymarks, no interpretive panels, just red earth, poppies and the occasional tractor that will brake so you can pass. Summer hikers need water and a hat: the plateau offers shade only where a lone holm oak has survived the plough. In winter the same paths ice over; a dusting of snow can last a week because no one thinks to grit a lane that ends in a wheat field.

What you will not find (and what to do about it)

Anaya has no shop, no bar, no filling station. The last public phone was ripped out in 2009. Plan accordingly:

• Pre-book a supermarket delivery slot for your day of arrival; Mercadona will drive the 20 km from Segovia for €7 if you spend over €80.
• Bring cash for the neighbouring villages—card machines fail as often as the 4G signal.
• If you need a coffee before 10:00, start the engine: the nearest bar is a six-minute drive in Carbonero el Mayor and it shuts at noon for siesta.

The absence of commerce is marketed by rental hosts as “digital detox”. The phrase is only half accurate. Fibre reaches most cottages, so Netflix streams perfectly while you sit on a stone bench that once held a mule. The contradiction feels oddly Spanish.

Seasonal arithmetic

Spring arrives late on the plateau. Expect fresh mornings until mid-May, when the wheat suddenly greens and the night temperature catches up. By July the fields bleach to straw colour and the air smells of warm pine resin; midday hits 34 °C, but the low humidity makes it tolerable. Autumn is the photographers’ favourite—ochre stubble, violet saffron crocuses and migrating storks gliding overhead on thermals that still feel like summer. Winter is sharp: blue skies, hard frost, the occasional week trapped indoors when the CM-110 becomes a bobsleigh run. Snow chains are compulsory gear from December to March; the council clears the road eventually, not urgently.

Eating without leaving postcode 40491

No chef in Anaya means you cook, drive, or starve. The kitchen becomes part of the holiday. Local ingredients arrive in the grocery van: judiones from La Granja (buttery white beans the size of conkers), chuletón de Ávila (a T-bone that covers the hob) and Verdejo wine that tastes like Sauvignon Blanc with extra stone fruit. If the oven looks medieval, it probably is—firewood is sold in 10 kg sacks at the petrol station in Carbonero. Segovia’s roast suckling pig travels well; order a quarter pig, pick it up at 13:00, serve it on the terrace at 20:00 and the skin still crackles.

Should you crave table service, three choices lie within a 15-minute radius:

1. Mesón de Cándido in Segovia—touristy, reliable, €24 for a plate of cochinillo.
2. Asador El Tablón in Palazuelos—locals’ choice, no English menu, €18 half-ration feeds two.
3. La Tahona de la Abuela in Carbonero—modern tapas, craft vermouth on tap, closes Sunday night without warning.

Beds, beams and blackout blinds

Accommodation is self-catering cottages, all converted within the last decade. Expect underfloor heating, rainfall showers and French doors onto a wheat view. Three properties dominate the British reviews:

• Solaz de los Moros: two-bedroom suite, salt-water pool shared with three other units, Segovia skyline in the distance. From €110 weeknights, €150 weekends.
• Casa Rural Mi Descanso: 200-year-old labourer’s house, wood-burner, English-speaking owner who texts satellite photos of incoming snow. €95 flat rate, three-night minimum.
• Entre Piedras y Estrellas: studio for two on the edge of the village, retractable roof for stargazing from bed. €120, breakfast basket delivered if you ask nicely.

All provide electric heaters for April mornings and portable fans for August nights—air-con is still considered un-Spanish this far inland.

How to get here without crying

Public transport does not reach Anaya. The simplest route from the UK is: fly to Madrid, AVE to Segovia-Guiomar (28 min), pre-book a taxi (Taxi Segovia Intercity, €30). A hire car from Barajas adds flexibility and costs about the same as two return taxis; take the A-6 to Villacastín, then the A-601 towards Valladolid, exit at kilometre 67. Parking is wherever the verge is wide enough—traffic wardens have never been seen in the province.

Worth it?

Anaya will not change your life. It offers no epiphany, no Instagram jackpot, no story that beats a night in Seville. What it does, with stubborn efficiency, is slow the clock. You will read 200 pages of a book before lunch, identify three constellations without an app, and realise the city noise still humming in your ears has finally stopped. That might be enough for a long weekend; stay a week and you will start recognising the neighbour’s dog by its bark. After ten days you will know the bread delivery schedule and catch yourself gossiping about the price of diesel. That is the moment to leave—before the village claims you as its newest, quietest resident.