Hontanares de Eresma

The church bell strikes seven and the day's first tractor rumbles past the Bar Eresma, its trailer loaded with last night's irrigation pipes. This is Hontanares de Eresma's version of rush hour—five minutes of agricultural machinery before the village settles back into its natural rhythm of slow conversations and even slower coffees. At 878 metres above sea level, where the Meseta's endless wheat fields begin their gentle roll towards the Sierra de Guadarrama, this Castilian village offers something increasingly rare in modern Spain: a place where tourism feels almost accidental.

The Morning Routine

By nine o'clock, the bakery on Calle Real has sold out of its crusty pan de pueblo, and the smell of roasted coffee drifts from houses where elderly residents still observe the strict timetable of village life. The stone and adobe buildings, some bearing the weathered coats of arms of long-forgotten noble families, show the scars of centuries—wooden doorways worn smooth by generations, iron balconies rusted to a particular shade of Castilian brown. This isn't a carefully preserved museum piece but a working village where new builds sit alongside 16th-century farmhouses, and where the occasional satellite dish reminds you that even rural Spain has Netflix.

The Iglesia de San Juan Bautista squats at the village's highest point, its medieval tower visible from every approach road. Unlike Segovia's tourist-thronged cathedral twenty minutes away, this church opens only for mass and the occasional funeral. There's no gift shop, no multilingual audio guide—just cool stone walls, the faint smell of incense, and the creak of heavy doors that have been closing on worshippers since before Elizabeth I took the English throne. The nave's simple barrel vault and modest altarpiece speak of a community that has always invested its wealth in land and livestock rather than baroque excess.

Between Two Worlds

Hontanares de Eresma's greatest asset is its position straddling two very different Spains. To the south lies the provincial capital with its Roman aqueduct and tour buses disgorging cruise-ship passengers for €15 set lunches. To the north, the countryside spreads in an almost hypnotic pattern of cereal fields and olive groves, interrupted only by the occasional pueblo that appears on the horizon like a stone ship adrift in an ocean of gold and green.

The village name itself—literally "springs of Eresma"—hints at the water sources that first attracted settlers to this slight rise above the river valley. The Eresma River, more stream than torrent at this altitude, meanders past fields where irrigation channels built during Moorish rule still divide the land into the characteristic geometric patterns of Spanish agriculture. Spring brings a brief explosion of green before the relentless Castilian sun bakes everything to the colour of lions, while autumn paints the poplars along the riverbank in shades that would make a Kentish apple orchard jealous.

Walking tracks radiate from the village like spokes, following ancient rights of way that predate the A-601 motorway. The most straightforward route follows the river for five kilometres to Valverde del Majano, where a 12th-century Romanesque church sits locked for 364 days each year. The path is flat, well-marked, and mercifully shaded—essential in summer when temperatures regularly touch 35°C and the only sound is the crunch of your boots on gravel and the distant hum of a combine harvester.

The Reality of Rural Life

Let's be honest about what Hontanares de Eresma isn't. There are no boutique hotels occupying converted palaces, no Michelin-starred restaurants reinterpreting grandmothers' recipes with foam and microherbs. The village's single accommodation option, Hotel Cetina Palacio Ayala Berganza, occupies a restored 17th-century mansion on Plaza de España. At £85 per night for a double room, it's comfortable rather than luxurious, with Wi-Fi that works most of the time and a breakfast that understands the British obsession with proper tea.

The dining scene consists of three bars serving variations on the same Castilian theme: roast suckling pig, judiones (butter beans) stewed with chorizo, and tortillas thick enough to use as building materials. Lunch menus del día cost €12-15 and arrive with the speed of someone who hasn't quite decided whether they're pleased to see you. The local wine, a robust red from the nearby Ribera del Duero, costs less than a London pint and arrives at room temperature—proper room temperature, not the overheated stuff that passes for warm red in British restaurants.

Practical Considerations

Getting here requires either a car or a tolerance for Spanish rural bus services that operate on a timetable seemingly designed by someone who hates public transport. From Segovia, the 15-kilometre drive takes twenty minutes on the N-603, a road that winds through wheat fields so uniformly golden they look photoshopped. Public transport involves a bus that leaves Segovia at 7:15 AM and returns at 2:30 PM—fine if you fancy spending six hours watching village life, less ideal for a flying visit.

The best times to visit are May-June and September-October, when temperatures hover around a civilised 22-25°C and the fields offer either the fresh green of new growth or the harvest bustle of combines working until dusk. July and August turn the village into a furnace, with afternoon temperatures that make the Spanish siesta seem less like laziness and more like basic survival. Winter brings its own challenges: when the famous Castilian fogs roll in, the village can disappear entirely, its church tower emerging like a ship's mast from a grey sea.

The Unvarnished Truth

Hontanares de Eresma won't change your life. You won't discover a secret tapas bar that serves the world's best tortilla, or stumble upon a festival where villagers reenact medieval battles with historically accurate costumes. What you will find is a place where the barman remembers how you take your coffee on your second visit, where the evening paseo sees three generations walking arm-in-arm around streets they've known since childhood, and where the loudest noise at midnight is the church clock marking the hour.

This is rural Spain without the Instagram filter—a village that understands its future lies not in becoming the next tourism sensation but in remaining exactly what it is: a place where tractors still outnumber tourists, where lunch is the most important event of the day, and where the British obsession with queuing is viewed with the same mild bewilderment as a three-hour siesta might be back home. Come for the authenticity, stay for the judiones, and leave before you start finding the silence slightly unnerving.