Alconada de Maderuelo

The tractor arrives before breakfast. By seven o'clock its diesel note ricochets off the granite houses, bounces down the unsurfaced lanes and fades into cereal fields that run clear to the horizon. Twenty-three permanent residents hear the same sound every dawn in Alconada de Maderuelo, a single-street village that sits on a wind-scoured ridge 946 metres above sea level, forty minutes' drive northeast of Segovia city.

High-Plateau Life, Winter and Summer

At this altitude the Meseta's weather rules. Frost can nip well into April; in July the thermometer still drops to 12 °C at night. Snow closes the approach road from the A-1 motorway perhaps four or five times each winter; the council grades it, but no promises. Come properly equipped: the chemist, cash machine and petrol pump are all 19 km away in Ayllón, so forgetting gloves or filling the tank on arrival is a genuine inconvenience.

Summer brings the opposite problem. Sunscreen is not optional: the air is thin, shade scarce, and the stone houses reflect heat like storage radiators. Afternoon siesta is still observed; locals shutter windows at 13:00 and reappear at 17:00 when the light turns honey-coloured and the stone walls release their stored warmth. Hikers who set out at midday return pink and breathless; smarter visitors walk at sunrise, when larks rather than tractors provide the soundtrack.

What Passes for a Centre

There is no plaza mayor, no souvenir shop, no menu-del-día board. The village heart is the church of San Andrés, a twelfth-century rectangle of rough masonry whose squat bell tower doubles as a stork platform each spring. Step inside: the nave smells of sun-warmed timber and candle smoke, and a single Romanesque window throws a lozenge of light onto flagstones worn smooth by five centuries of farming boots. Sunday mass is at 11:00; turn up ten minutes early and someone will unlock the door whether you look devout or simply curious.

Around the church the lanes narrow to shoulder width. Adobe walls bulge like well-fed ponies, timber doors hang from hand-forged hinges, and every second gateway reveals a corral where chickens pick between cart wheels and rusted ploughshares. Some houses have been patched with cement and uPVC windows; others stand roofless, their beam-ends blackened like burnt toast. It is untidy, authentic, and entirely free of the rustic-chic varnish applied to many Spanish hill towns.

Walking Without Waymarks

Maps here are conceptual. A spider's web of agricultural tracks links Alconada to its neighbours—Maderuelo 4 km west, Valdepeñas de la Sierra 7 km south—across rolling paramera whose only vertical features are stone boundary walls and the occasional dovecote. Pick any track at dawn and within thirty minutes you will share it only with crested larks and, if you're lucky, a pair of kestrels hunting the field margins.

The most straightforward circuit heads south along the ridge, drops into the shallow valley of the Río Caslilla, then climbs back past threshing circles now used as sheep folds. Total distance: 8 km; cumulative ascent: 220 m; duration: two hours including stops to watch harriers quarter the wheat stubble. After rain the clay sticks to boots like wet cardboard; in high summer the same soil turns to talc and drifts into socks. There are no fountains, so carry at least a litre per person.

Eating: Bring an Appetite and a Car

Alconada itself offers zero food outlets. The closest dining room is the asador in Maderuelo, housed in a former olive mill and open weekends only. Order lechazo—milk-fed lamb roasted in a wood-fired brick oven until the skin crackles like thin ice. A quarter portion feeds two (£18), arrives with nothing more than a wedge of lemon and a basket of local bread, and justifies the drive on smell alone. For lighter fare, Ayllón has two cafés serving sopa castellana (garlic bread soup, £4) and tortilla that oozes potato rather than the set yellow frisbee found in city bars.

Self-caterers should shop in Sepúlveda before leaving the N-110. The market there stocks chorizo from nearby Villarejo, sheep's-milk cheese wrapped in plaited grass, and jars of judiones—giant butter beans that collapse into silky stews after two hours' simmering with ham bone and bay.

When the Village Wakes Up

Fiestas are short, loud, and intended for locals. Around 15 August the population quadruples as emigrant families return from Madrid and Barcelona. A sound system appears on a flat-bed lorry, the single street is closed to tractors, and dancing continues until the generator runs out of diesel. Visitors are welcome but not catered for: bring your own chair, your own beer, and expect to be quizzed about why on earth you came. Fireworks echo across the plateau like rifle shots; dogs howl, babies cry, and by dawn on the 18th the village has shrunk to twenty-three again.

Holy Week (March or April) is quieter. A small procession leaves the church at 19:00 on Good Friday, walks the length of the village behind a plain wooden cross, then dissolves into private houses for plates of torrijas—fried bread pudding soaked in wine and cinnamon. Tourists sometimes outnumber locals; if you attend, stand back, remove your hat, and accept the slice offered; refusal is read as criticism of the cook rather than dietary caution.

Getting There, Getting Away

From Madrid Barajas take the A-1 north to km 124, then the SG-232 towards Ayllón. After 14 km turn right at the cement works; the asphalt stops 2 km later. A normal car survives provided you dodge the larger potholes, but a small SUV makes the final climb less theatrical. There is no bus; the twice-daily service from Segovia to Maderuelo demands a 4 km walk along the ridge track, feasible with a day pack, foolish with wheeled luggage.

Accommodation is limited to three rural houses in Maderuelo (doubles £55–£70, breakfast not included) and a clutch of apartments in Sepúlveda twenty-five minutes away. Book ahead for weekends and for the first half of October when city dwellers descend to photograph the oaks turning copper. Wild camping is tolerated if you pitch after dusk, pack up at sunrise, and leave gates exactly as you find them.

Worth the Detour?

Alconada de Maderuelo will never feature on a glossy regional brochure. It offers no souvenir, no soundtrack except wind and birds, and no guarantee the weather will cooperate. What it does provide is a place where geography still dictates tempo, where stone walls outnumber people by a thousand to one, and where the night sky—uncluttered by street lighting—drops a glittering curtain so low you feel you could snag it on the church tower. Arrive with realistic expectations: a full tank, a half-full water bottle, and enough Spanish to say "buenos días" to the tractor driver who woke you up. After that, the plateau does the rest.