Castillejo de Martín Viejo

The granite church bell strikes noon, yet only a handful of villagers emerge into the single main street. At 670 metres above sea level, Castillejo de Martín Viejo keeps its own clock. Traffic is so scarce that the village dogs nap in the roadway, confident they will not be disturbed before the evening herd returns from pasture. This is rural Salamanca at its most matter-of-fact: no gift shops, no interpretive centre, just 200 souls, a bar that opens when the owner feels like it, and a landscape shaped by eight centuries of grazing.

Stone, Adobe and the Smell of Oak Smoke

Houses here were built for work, not ornament. Walls are thick granite at ground level, rising to adobe brick above the reach of livestock. Timber doors hang on hand-forged strap hinges; many still bear the diagonal scars of ancient plough shares dragged inside for safe-keeping. A few façades have been repointed with cement the colour of toothpaste, but most retain their original mortar the shade of weathered tweed. Walk the narrow lanes and you will pass working corrals where straw is stacked higher than a tractor cab; look the other way and you will see roofless cottages quietly returning to earth. The village is alive, not curated, and the contrast gives it traction.

The parish church of San Sebastián squats at the top of the gentle hill, its tower more like a fortified granary than a Baroque extravaganza. Inside, the air carries cold stone and candle wax; outside, swallows stitch the sky above the slate roof. There is no ticket desk, no multilingual panel—just a wooden door that may be locked if the priest is in Ciudad Rodrigo. If it is open, step in: the single-nave interior is the village ledger, recording births and deaths in fading wall plaques. The font where every local since the 1500s was christened sits beneath a crude carving of the saint, arrows still lodged in his torso.

Walking Among Cork Oaks and Iberian Pigs

Leave the last electricity pylon behind and the dehesa closes in. These open woodlands of holm and cork oak are Spain’s most underrated ecosystem, a man-made savannah that feeds both wild creatures and the economy. Public footpaths are unmarked, so pick up the sandy farm track heading west past the ruined threshing floor. Within twenty minutes the only sounds are grasshoppers, the distant clank of a cowbell and the soft thud of acorns dropping on hides. Between October and January the montanera season is in full swing: Iberian pigs wander free, hooves dyed black by moist earth, snouts rooting for the acorns that give jamón ibérico its nutty marbling. Keep a respectful distance—farmers notice unfamiliar cars and will appear from nowhere to check you have not opened a gate.

Early risers are rewarded. Dawn mist pools in the hollows, turning the oaks into grey silhouettes; red kites lift off their roosts, wings catching the first sun like burnished copper. By eleven the heat builds, and in July the thermometer can reach 36 °C with no shade but what the trees throw. Carry more water than you think necessary—there are no cafés in the wood. Mobile reception is patchy; download an offline map before setting out, or better still, ask at the bakery for Señora Pilar’s grandson, who will walk with you for ten euros and an endless stream of questions about British football.

What You’ll Eat and Where You’ll Sleep

Back in the village, the only certain catering is the bar-cum-shop opposite the stone cross. Opening hours are taped to the door in biro: usually 09:00–14:00 and 17:00–21:00, unless Elena’s granddaughter has a school recital. Order a caña and you will be handed a plate of jamón sliced so thin you can read the newspaper through it. The house special is patatas meneás: boiled potatoes crushed with paprika and streaky bacon, stirred until the fat emulsifies into a smoky dressing. A plate costs €4 and will keep you walking all afternoon. If you ask the day before, she will prepare hornazo, the local meat pie stuffed with pork loin, hard-boiled egg and chorizo—perfect picnic ballast.

Staying overnight inside Castillejo is tricky; there are no hotels and rooms in private houses appear and disappear with the agricultural calendar. Most visitors base themselves 20 km away in Ciudad Rodrigo, whose medieval walls enclose dozens of small guesthouses. Alojamiento Samumari (doubles from €70) offers under-floor heating for February nights that can drop to –5 °C, while the rooftop terrace gives a soldier’s-eye view of the 800-year-old cathedral ramparts. Book ahead during the February carnival, when the entire province seems to squeeze into the old town for bull-running and fancy-dress chaos.

Seasons and How to Reach Them

Spring is the kindest introduction. From late March the dehesa floor is painted yellow with cowslips and the temperature hovers around 18 °C—ideal for walking without the aggressive sun of high summer. Autumn brings the grape harvest across the border in Portugal and the first woodsmoke spiralling from village chimneys; mornings can start at 5 °C, but by midday you will walk in shirtsleeves. Winter is not for the faint-hearted: when the wind drags across the high plateau, even the pigs retreat to stone huts. Access is rarely blocked by snow, but the single daily bus from Salamanca is cancelled at the first flurry.

Speaking of access, public transport is more theoretical than practical. There is no railway; the Monday-to-Friday bus departs Salamanca at 14:15 and returns at 06:30 next day—fine if you fancy a 16-hour stay. Car hire from Madrid or Salamanca airport is the realistic option. The drive takes two hours from Madrid via the A-50 and EX-398, the last 30 km a rolling road where you are more likely to meet a tractor than a lorry. Petrol stations are sparse; fill the tank in Ciudad Rodrigo before the final hop.

January Fires and August Dancing

Turn up on 20 January and you will stumble into the fiesta de San Sebastián. A pyre of vine prunings and old pallets is stacked in the plaza the night before; at dusk the match is struck and the entire village forms a circle, passing chorizo sausages and clay jugs of new wine. Tourist numbers rarely exceed half a dozen, so do not expect choreography—just accept the offered plastic plate of roast pork and step back when the fireworks start. August’s summer fiesta is louder: a travelling funfair sets up on the football pitch, and fluorescent lights swing from cables between houses. Accommodation within the village is impossible, but the atmosphere is generous; strangers are handed beers and pressed into service carrying trestle tables for the communal paella.

Leave before midnight and you will miss the best part. When the DJ packs up at 03:00, villagers drift to the edge of town, where the Milky Way spills across the sky with a clarity impossible in southern England. The dehesa is quiet except for the soft grunt of sleeping cattle; somewhere an owl drops from an oak, silent as a glove. At that altitude the air tastes metallic, and the silence feels almost structural, as though the valley itself is holding its breath. No souvenir shop sells that sensation, which is precisely why you came.