Endrinal

The church bell strikes midday and the only reply is a dog barking two streets away. At 924 metres above sea level, Endrinal’s soundtrack is wind in the oaks and the occasional tractor. No cafés spill onto plazas, no souvenir racks block the pavement. What you get instead is a village that still functions for its 201 residents, not for passing trade, and the honesty of that arrangement is disarming.

Approach from the south and the stone tower appears long before the houses, a medieval lighthouse rising from a ridge of chestnut and broom. Park on the rough forecourt by the cemetery—there are no yellow lines, no ticket machines—and the whole comarca opens northwards: the smooth cereal plains of Salamanca sliding towards Portugal, while behind you the Sierra de Francia folds into blue distance. It is the sort of split-level panorama that normally demands a funicular; here you get it free with a thirty-second stroll.

Stone, Adobe and the Smell of Woodsmoke

Endrinal’s streets are barely two metres wide, angled to shrug off winter wind that can slice across the plateau at minus eight. Granite thresholds wear smooth dips where generations have kicked boots clean; adobe walls bulge gently, their straw flecks glinting like bronze in low sun. Some houses carry half-erased coats of arms—one shows a boar and a five-pointed star—reminders that local nobility once taxed the surrounding dehesa for acorn-fattened pork. Walk further and you’ll find corrugated iron patched onto ancient roofs, a tractor tyre holding down a tarpaulin, a hen coop built from wardrobe doors. Nothing is staged, which means nothing is picture-perfect either; if you like your rural Spain sanitised, stay in nearby La Alberca.

The parish church itself is locked more often than not, but the key hangs on a nail inside the baker’s letterbox-style hatch (open 08:30–11:00, closed Tuesday). Inside, the single nave smells of candle wax and damp sandstone; a 16th-century panel of Saint Barbara, patron of thunderstorms, has been hung backwards to protect it from sunlight. Drop a euro in the box and the sacristan will swing the bell rope so you can hear the same note that once warned workers in the field of approaching hail.

Walking the Invisible Map

There are no glossy way-marked loops here, and that is precisely the draw. A spider’s web of livestock tracks, drover’s roads and farm lanes radiates for kilometres, all public, all largely empty. From the upper fountain follow the concrete slab road signed simply “Dehesa” and within fifteen minutes you are among holm oaks spaced like parkland, Iberian pigs rustling last year’s leaves for acorn fragments. Keep ascending and the track narrows to a stony blade; red kites circle overhead, eyeing the same pigs with professional interest. At the col—1,130 m—an abandoned stone hut offers the only windbreak for miles; inside, someone has chalked “Casa de Piedra, 1949” and wedged a rusted bedstead against the wall. Beyond, the path drops towards the village of Villanueva del Conde, three hours distant and served by a single daily bus. You probably won’t meet another walker all day.

Spring arrives late up here; crocuses push through frost as late as April. Come in May and the broom flashes neon yellow against black trunks; night temperatures still dip to 6 °C, so pack a fleece even if Salamanca is sweltering at 28 °C. October is the sweet spot: days mellow to 20 °C, the dehesa smells of fungus and woodsmoke, and the weekend influx of Spanish language students hasn’t yet begun. In January the village can be snow-locked for days; the council grades the approach road but 4×4 or chains are sensible if a whiteout is forecast.

What You’ll Eat (and When You Won’t)

Endrinal itself has no restaurant, no pintxos crawl, no evening bar scene. The grocer’s opens 09:00–13:00, shuts for siesta, and may sell you tinned tuna, local eggs and a packet of digestive-style biscuits past their sell-by. Plan accordingly: stock in Béjar’s Carrefour on the way up, or phone ahead to Casa Paco in La Alberca (20 min) and collect a vacuum-packed loin of Iberico for the grill. Most visitors self-cater; cottages come with properly sharp knives and barbecues sturdy enough for a chuletón the size of a laptop.

If you’d rather be cooked for, drive ten minutes to Hotel Restaurante Racha in neighbouring Fuente de San Esteban. Weekday menú del día runs €14 for three courses including patatas revolconas—mashed potato stained brick-red with pimentón and topped with crunchy pork belly scratchings. Vegetarians get judiones, giant butter beans stewed with saffron and bay; order a half-litre of house red from Sierra de Salamanca and you’ll still have change from a twenty.

Sunday lunch is sacred, so every nearby eatery will be rammed by 15:00. Arrive before 14:00 or after 17:30 or you’ll queue with three generations of Salamanca families arguing over the last portion of roast suckling pig.

The Quiet Money

Tourism here is low-key but vital. A cluster of stone cottages has been restored by families from Madrid and Valencia who rent them to British walking groups; mid-week in March you might pay £75 a night for a three-bedroom house with log burner and unlimited logs. The owners pay village water rates, employ local cleaners and keep the bakery turning over. Yet the place never tips into twee: satellite dishes bloom like grey mushrooms, someone’s still raising fighting cocks behind a corrugated shed, and the mayor’s 1994 Toyota pickup lists sideways on shot suspension. The balance feels sustainable—for now.

Mobile coverage is patchy on Vodafone and EE; most houses have fibre faster than rural Devon, but if you need to take that Zoom call, sit on the east side of the church where the mast has line of sight. There is no cash machine—draw euros in Béjar before the final climb. And if you blow a tyre on the stony track, hope it’s during banking hours; the nearest garage closes at 13:30 on Saturday and won’t reopen until Monday.

Last Orders

Leave on a weekday morning and you’ll share the road with one school bus and a lorry full of chestnut fencing posts. By nine the sun has burnt off the valley mist; the bell tower recedes in the mirror until it’s just another spike of rock among the oaks. Endrinal doesn’t wave you off with gift-shop bags or promises to return. It simply gets on with mending roofs, fattening pigs and waiting for rain. For some travellers that indifference is the greatest luxury of all; for others it will feel like the middle of nowhere. Decide which camp you’re in before you book.