Escalona del Prado

The church bell tolls twice. Nothing else happens for five minutes, then a farmer in a battered Land Cruiser appears, raising two fingers from the steering wheel in silent greeting. That's morning rush hour in Escalona del Prado, population five hundred and a few dogs who have worked out the exact spot where the afternoon shade begins.

At eight hundred and ninety metres above sea level, the village sits high enough for the air to feel thinner, cleaner, almost rationed. The cereal plains around it roll like a calm yellow sea all the way to Segovia's distant blue ridges. In July those fields shimmer and crackle; by February they are stubbled, earthy, and the horizon feels ten kilometres nearer. Either way, whatever weather is coming arrives twenty minutes before you hear about it, carried on a wind that has had no obstacle since Portugal.

There is no ticket office, no interpretation centre, no bilingual signage pointing to "authentic Castile." Instead, the place offers space. Streets are wide enough to turn a tractor with trailer attached; the stone houses, many still roofed with old terracotta, stand a polite distance apart so neighbours can dry laundry without it flapping into someone else's breakfast. Adobe walls two feet thick keep interiors cool at midday and warm after midnight, which explains why generations stayed put long after the railway company forgot to lay track here.

A Roofline That Tells the Story

The parish church of San Miguel squats at the top of a gentle rise. Its tower is stubby, rebuilt in 1890 after a lightning strike, and it functions less as spiritual beacon than as geographical compass: lose sight of the stone belfry and you have probably wandered into the next municipality. Step inside and you will find faded frescoes, a Christ figure whose polychrome is blistering in the dry air, and a memorial plaque to three local boys who left for Cuba in 1901 and never came back. No audio guide will explain it; the custodian, if he can be found, unlocks the door for anyone who asks politely and doesn't mind him continuing to sweep while you look.

Below the tower, alleyways follow medieval animal tracks. House numbers go up to 67, then stop, resume at 101, and finally give up altogether. Some façades have been sand-blasted back to honey-coloured stone; others slump under decades of whitewash the colour of weak tea. Half-restored dwellings sit beside empty lots where stork families have built stick nests on telegraph poles. The overall effect is not shabby, merely honest: this is what happens when a place grows old at its own speed instead of borrowing someone else's facelift.

Bread, Beans and the Occasional Miracle

Hunger is easily fixed. The grocery on Plaza Mayor doubles as the only cashpoint for fifteen kilometres; if the machine flashes "sin fondos," the owner will often hand over notes from the till provided you buy a loaf of bread first. The bakery opens at seven, sells out of rosquillas (crusty doughnuts rolled in sugar) by nine, and closes when the tray is empty. For anything more ambitious than tinned sardines you need to be on first-name terms with the delivery van driver who brings frozen fish every Thursday.

Meals are taken at El Chiringuito, despite the misleading seaside name. Its terrace faces west across pine-dark hills; at sunset customers fall silent, mesmerised by a sky that turns from peach to copper while swifts dive for mosquitoes. Order the pincho moruno—pork marinated in mild cumin and paprika—plus a plate of judiones, butter beans the size of squash balls stewed with chorizo. House white from Rueda arrives in an ice-cold ceramic jug; the waiter will keep replacing it until you place your palm over the glass. Expect to pay around €12 a head, assuming you can find the menu—it's usually written on the back of yesterday's football coupon.

Vegetarians should speak up: "sin carne" is interpreted as "only a little bit of jamón for flavour." Vegans are advised to pack sandwiches and a sense of humour.

Walking Until the Road Becomes a Path

Distance here is measured by how many songs a nightingale can sing before you reach the next fence post. Three minutes beyond the last streetlamp you are on dirt tracks used by shepherds moving flocks between winter pastures and the summer uplands around Cuéllar. Footpaths form rough loops of six, ten or fifteen kilometres; none are way-marked, so download the free IGN map or simply keep the church tower over your left shoulder and you will eventually arrive back where you started.

Spring brings carpets of purple flax and poppies so red they seem to vibrate. Autumn smells of crushed fennel and gunpowder from distant partridge shoots. In both seasons golden eagles ride thermals above the wheat stubble, scanning for unwise rabbits. Summer is less forgiving: shade is scarce, the sun has a courtroom glare, and the only water fountain sits outside the cemetery wall—locals swear it's safe, but the iron aftertake suggests a recent encounter with somebody's grandfather.

Cyclists like the CV-150 that links Escalona with Carbonero el Mayor: smooth tarmac, negligible traffic, one long drag that rewards with two kilometres of freewheeling while skylarks throw insults from above. A warning—headwinds can turn the return leg into a slow-motion comedy; allow an extra thirty minutes and carry a second bottle because garages are as rare as level crossings.

The Calendar No One Prints

Fiestas honour Santa Rita on 22 May with a procession, a brass band that appears to know only one tune, and a communal paella cooked in a pan wide enough to double as a paddling pool. The serious party begins fifteen days around 15 August when emigrants flood back from Madrid, Barcelona, even Reading. Population swells to two thousand; sofas appear on doorsteps, courtyards echo until four in the morning, and someone inevitably drives a quad bike into the fountain. Book accommodation in April unless you fancy bedding down in the football changing rooms.

The rest of the year time is kept by agricultural rituals: sowing after the first October rain, threshing before the June heat, the sheep fair every second Sunday in November where prices are still shouted out in duros, an old coin no longer legal but universally understood. Visitors seeking craft markets or artisan cheese tastings will be disappointed; the nearest souvenir is probably the stamp on your hand at El Chiringuito's monthly karaoke night.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Escalona del Prado lies forty minutes north of Segovia by the CL-601 and a further ten along the SE-20. Car is essential: buses from Madrid stop at Cuéllar, eighteen kilometres away, on Tuesdays and alternate Thursdays. Fill the tank before leaving the A-60 because the village pump closed in 1998 and no one has missed it enough to reopen. Winter tyres are not obligatory, but the final slope can glaze over in January; locals throw ash from last night's chimney and carry on regardless.

Mobile coverage improves if you stand in the church porch and face south-east; WhatsApp voice notes will still sound as though recorded from inside a biscuit tin. Treat the silence as part of the package rather than a fault.

Leave before dawn at least once. The sky bruises from ink to pale lemon, a rooster mistakes the glow for sunrise and the echo of his miscalculation bounces off stone walls. Mist pools in the low fields so only the church tower and the tops of poplars pierce the surface, looking like a fleet becalmed on a cotton sea. Nothing moves except a single tractor light crawling across the plain, slow as a planet. It is the kind of moment guidebooks call unforgettable; here it is simply Tuesday, and the bread will be warm in twenty minutes.