Serradilla del Arroyo

Granite, goats and a single petrol pump

The road folds upwards from Ciudad Rodrigo, leaving the Duero plains behind like a discarded map. At kilometre 25 the tarmac narrows, the verges sprout granite boulders the size of garden sheds, and mobile signal flickers out. Serradilla del Arroyo appears round one last bend: 239 souls, 856 metres above sea level, and a petrol pump that locks its shutters at seven sharp.

First impressions are of stone the colour of burnt cream and roofs the shade of weathered slate. The houses are low, built for winter wind rather than summer show. Chimneys smoke even in May; locals swear the nights bite until mid-June. Walk uphill past the church, whose bell tolls the half-hour whether anyone is listening or not, and you reach the mirador. From here the view is all dehesa – cork oak and holm oak spaced like thoughtful spectators – until Portugal dissolves into haze forty kilometres west.

Walking tracks that remember shepherds, not Strava

The village sits on the western lip of the Sierra de Francia, though the mountains here feel more like rumpled hills than serious peaks. That makes the walking gentle rather than Himalayan. An old mule track leaves from the top of Calle Real, drops to the Arroyo de Serradilla, then climbs again towards the hamlet of El Payo. The round trip is 8 km, takes two hours, and you will meet more goats than people. Waymarking is sporadic: a faded yellow splash on a rock, the occasional cairn. Download the track before you leave British coverage; EE drops to one bar by the first ford.

Spring brings wild peonies and the sound of cuckoos echoing across the valley. Autumn smells of wet chestnut leaves and wood-smoke. July and August are too hot for serious mileage unless you start at dawn; fortunately dawn happens early – the sun clears the ridge by seven. In winter the same paths turn to red mud; if snow reaches the rooftops the road from Ciudad Rodrigo is chained off and the village stocks up on bread like a Cornish fishing port in a storm.

A plaza without Wi-Fi, but with storks

British second-home owners prize Serradilla for what it lacks: no souvenir shops, no craft ale bars, no Instagram-friendly neon. The single colmado sells tinned tuna, washing powder and local chorizo that arrives wrapped in white paper like contraband. It opens at nine, closes for lunch, and will cash up early if trade is slow. There is no cash machine; the nearest is inside a medieval wall in Ciudad Rodrigo, twenty-five minutes down the mountain. Stock up before you wind back up.

Evenings revolve around the Plaza de España, a rectangle of granite slabs shaded by a single walnut tree. Pensioners occupy the bench beneath the storks’ nest; the birds clatter their bills like castanets whenever conversation slows. Teenagers drift in on scooters bought second-hand in Salamanca, engines echoing off stone. Visitors are noticed, nodded at, then ignored – the politest form of acceptance rural Spain can manage.

Food that tastes of firewood and time

There is no restaurant, only a weekend bar that opens when the owner fancies a night off from his tractor. Self-catering is the norm, which suits the local produce. Try the queso de oveja from the dairy in neighbouring Cepeda: semi-curd, faintly sharp, perfect grilled on sourdough if you packed a portable toaster. The butcher visits on Thursday morning with a white van full of vacuum-packed chuletones – T-bones the thickness of a house brick, aged fourteen days and priced at €22 a kilo, half what you would pay in Borough Market.

If you would rather someone else lights the stove, drive fifteen kilometres to El Cabaco. Casa Macario grills Judiones de la Granja – butter-bean stew enriched with saffron and chunks of black pudding – then serves it in an earthenware bowl big enough to use as a helmet. Expect to pay €12 for a main, €2 for a caña of beer, and to be back in Serradilla before the village petrol pump closes.

When fiestas outrank Brexit

Festivity here is measured, not marketed. The fiestas patronales fall on the second weekend of August, timed to coincide with the return of sons and daughters who left for Madrid or Barcelona. A marquee goes up in the plaza, the church bell rings out a peal that makes the storks shift nervously, and cider flows from plastic barrels. Saturday night features an orchestra that looks suspiciously like the same three men who repaired your roof tiles earlier in the week. Dancing starts at midnight and finishes when the generator runs out of diesel. Visitors are welcome but not announced; buy a raffle ticket and you might win a ham.

The practical grit beneath the romance

Altitude keeps nights cool even in August – pack a fleece and socks for bed. Most cottages rely on log-burners; the first basket of oak is complimentary, the second costs €5 left in an honesty jar. Phone signal inside two-foot walls is patchy; stand in the plaza and WhatsApp will ping again. Driving time from Madrid is two-and-a-half hours on the A-50, then forty minutes of mountain switchbacks; Salamanca’s airport offers no UK flights, so most Brits land at Valladolid and hire a car. In winter carry chains – the pass at 1,100 m drifts shut after January storms.

Leaving without promising to return

Serradilla del Arroyo will never feature on a glossy regional cover. It offers no souvenir beyond the echo of church bells and perhaps a smear of oak-smoke in your hair. That, for some, is recommendation enough. Drive away at dawn and you will meet cattle being herded along the road, a man with a stick who raises two fingers in salute. The tarmac straightens, signal bars reappear, and the Sierra shrinks in the rear-view mirror. You carry no fridge magnet, only the knowledge that places still exist where time is told by storks, not notifications.