Ercina (La)

The first thing you notice is the silence. Not the hush of a library, but the complete absence of mechanical noise that makes your ears ring. Then a shadow passes overhead – a griffon vulture with a two-metre wingspan, cruising the thermals that rise from the stone rooftops of La Ercina. At 1,100 metres, this Leonese village sits high enough for the air to taste thin, yet low enough for the surrounding peaks to feel protective rather than oppressive.

Stone, Slate and the Smell of Woodsmoke

La Ercina's buildings huddle along a ridge like they've been poured there. The older houses wear thick coats of granite, their slate roofs weighted down with stones against the mountain winds. Balconies of dark timber jut out at odd angles, following the slope rather than any architect's straight edge. Between them, newer concrete boxes painted peach or mint green stick out awkwardly – proof that even here, the 1970s happened.

The village proper holds maybe sixty dwellings, half occupied by ageing residents who still keep chickens in the back gardens and stack firewood against the southern walls. Tractors park wherever there's a flat bit of road wide enough, which isn't saying much. On washing day, colourful lines of laundry flap between balconies at heights that would give health-and-safety officers palpitations.

The parish church squats at the highest point, its modest bell tower more functional than decorative. Inside, the walls bear the soot of centuries from candles lit during winter services when temperatures drop below freezing. The priest visits twice a month; the rest of the time, locals make do with recorded masses played through crackling speakers.

Walking Where Shepherds Once Trod

From the village edge, ancient paths fan out across the mountainsides like veins. These caminos reales weren't built for recreation – they're the routes shepherds used to move sheep between summer and summer pastures, their stone surfaces worn smooth by centuries of hoof and boot. Today, they serve walkers willing to trade comfort for solitude.

The most accessible route follows the Arroyo de la Ercina for three kilometres to a ruined lime kiln, where charcoal burners once supplied the village's heating. The path climbs gently through hay meadows where cattle graze alongside stone huts whose roofs collapsed decades ago. In May, these slopes explode with colour – yellow broom, purple digitalis, and white cherry blossoms from abandoned orchards.

More ambitious hikers can tackle the 12-kilometre circuit to Villabandin, crossing the 1,500-metre Puerto de la Madera. The ascent rewards with views across four provinces on clear days, though clear is relative – clouds often roll in by lunchtime, reducing visibility to metres. The descent passes through beech forests where wild boar root for chestnuts, their fresh tilling obvious along the path edges.

Navigation requires attention. Waymarking consists of occasional yellow paint splashes on rocks, easily missed when autumn leaves carpet the ground. Mobile signal dies completely within 500 metres of the village – download offline maps beforehand or risk joining the list of embarrassed tourists who've had to be guided back by local farmers.

Seasons That Dictate Everything

Winter arrives early and stays late. By November, the first snows can block the access road, a twisting 12-kilometre climb from the valley floor that's scary enough in good weather. Temperatures regularly hit minus fifteen, and heating becomes a full-time occupation. Most houses rely on wood-burning stoves fed with oak and beech cut during spring – gas bottles arrive by truck twice monthly when conditions allow.

Yet winter brings its own rewards. The mountains transform into a monochrome world where sound travels differently, and animal tracks tell stories in the snow. On clear nights, the Milky Way appears close enough to touch, with zero light pollution between you and the stars. Just don't expect nightlife – the single bar closes at nine, earlier if the owner's arthritis is playing up.

Spring emerges reluctantly in late April, when primroses push through melting snow and migrating cranes pass overhead on their way north. This brief season, lasting maybe six weeks, sees the meadows turn impossibly green before summer's heat browns everything. It's also when villagers emerge from winter hibernation, repairing roofs and mending walls before the tourists arrive.

Summer brings Spanish families escaping coastal heat, though even in August, nights require jumpers. The population swells to maybe 150, mostly grandparents entertaining grandchildren who complain about the lack of Wi-Fi. Days follow a rhythm: early start to beat the heat, siesta during the fierce afternoon sun, evening strolls when shadows lengthen.

Food That Sticks to Your Ribs

The village's single restaurant opens weekends only, and that's being optimistic. When it's shut – frequently, and without notice – options reduce to whatever you've brought with you. The nearest supermarket sits 25 kilometres away in Igüeña, a drive that feels longer thanks to the winding mountain road.

When the restaurant does operate, expect portions sized for people who've spent the day hauling hay. The menu never changes because it doesn't need to – this is food designed to fuel agricultural labour, not impress food critics. Cocido montañés, a hearty stew of beans, cabbage and pork, arrives in bowls big enough to bathe a small child. Cecina, air-dried beef sliced paper-thin, tastes like Spain's answer to biltong but costs a fraction of London prices.

Local cheese comes from cows that graze the surrounding meadows, giving it a flavour that changes with the seasons – herbaceous in summer, richer in autumn when the animals feast on fallen chestnuts. The region's answer to blue cheese, Valdeón, packs a punch that makes Stilton seem mild – approach with caution and plenty of bread.

The Honest Truth

La Ercina isn't for everyone. If you need constant entertainment, reliable internet, or restaurants that cater to dietary requirements, stay in the valley. The village offers no souvenirs beyond memories, no guided tours beyond what locals share over coffee, no spa treatments beyond soaking tired muscles in a hot bath.

What it does provide is authenticity in an age of manufactured experiences. Here, tourism hasn't replaced tradition – it's a sideshow to the main event of daily life. You'll wake to church bells rather than alarm clocks, shop at tiny stores where stock depends on what the delivery van brought yesterday, and learn that "mañana" doesn't mean tomorrow – it means when we get around to it.

Come prepared for weather that changes faster than British politics, for roads that test both car suspension and nerve, for conversations conducted largely through gestures and goodwill. But mostly, come prepared to slow down to a pace where you notice vultures riding thermals, where lunch lasts two hours because nobody's rushing anywhere, where the night sky still has the power to make you gasp.

Just remember to fill up with petrol before you leave the main road. The village pump ran dry in 1998 and nobody's bothered to fix it since.