Aldeanueva de la Serrezuela

The cattle grid on the approach road rattles louder than the church bell. Forty-two residents, one bar and a altitude of 1,130 m means the loudest thing most evenings is the wind combing through pinewoods that start where the stone houses stop. Aldeanueva de la Serrezuela sits so high on the Segovia shoulder of the Sierra de Ayllón that mobile phones sometimes grab signal from Guadalajara instead of Castilla y León. It is not remote for Instagram effect; it is simply far enough from the A-1 motorway that sat-navs sigh when you turn off.

A village that measures time in firewood stacks

Houses are still built from the same honey-coloured limestone that peasants prised out of nearby quarries three centuries ago. Rooflines sag like well-worn armchairs, but fresh lime mortar around the windows shows someone cares. A couple from Madrid are rebuilding the old school as a weekend retreat; their scaffolding is the newest thing in sight. Walk the single cobbled lane at 11 a.m. and you may meet the mayor—also the barman—sweeping last night’s pine needles off the pavement while the delivery van from Aranda de Duero unloads tomorrow’s beer. Tourism here is measured in pairs of boots, not coachloads: most days you will outnumber the locals only if you count the village dogs, and they are too polite to photobomb.

The Iglesia de San Juan shelters at the top of the slope, its Romanesque doorway narrowed centuries later to keep out the cold. Inside, the paint is faded enough to reveal the earlier fresco underneath; outside, swallows stitch the sky above the bell-cote. There is no ticket office, no audioguide, no closing time. If the door is locked, knock at the house opposite—Señora Iluminada keeps the key in a biscuit tin and is happy to open up provided you sign the visitors’ book that dates back to 1997 and still has empty pages.

Walking without waymarks

Maps call the surrounding upland “Montes Carpetanos”; locals just say “la sierra”. Forest tracks leave the village in three directions, signed only by the occasional stone cairn or a splash of red paint left by the shepherd’s grandson. Head south-east and you drop into the Río Sonsaz gorge where griffon vultures turn lazy circles above junipers shaped by wind. Thirty minutes north, a ruined wolf-trap—stone walls tapering into a pit—reminds you that predators were common currency here within living memory. Spring brings sheets of purple crocus and the clatter of cowbells as Rubia Gallega cattle move up to summer pasture; October smells of damp earth and boletus mushrooms that locals collect at dawn and sell illegally from car boots outside the bar.

After rain the clay paths turn slick as soap; in July the same tracks powder underfoot. Either way you will meet no one, so download the free IGN map before leaving civilisation. A circular tramp to the abandoned hamlet of La Mata and back is 12 km with 350 m of ascent—think Yorkshire Dales severity, minus the dry-stone walls and tea vans.

One bar, zero cashpoints

Mesón El Pinar opens when the owner says so, which usually means 13:00–15:30 and 20:30–22:00 unless his granddaughter has a football match. Inside, the television is tuned to sheep-auction results and the menu is written on a paper tablecloth. Order the cordero asado: half a kilo of milk-fed lamb slow-roasted in a wood-fired brick oven until the bones pull free like drawn curtains. A plate costs €18 and feeds two; chips are extra but nobody bothers. The local sheep cheese is firmer than Manchego, nutty rather than sharp, and travels well if you ask them to vacuum-seal a wedge for the journey home. Wash it down with Ribera del Duero crianza poured into a glass that could double as a goldfish bowl—€2.50. Cards are accepted only if the data machine can be bothered to connect; bring euros.

There is no shop. The nearest supermarket is 22 km away in Covarrubias, so fill the boot before you climb. Petrol stations are equally scarce: the last reliable pump is at junction 135 of the A-1, so top up the tank when you leave the motorway even if the gauge still reads half.

Where to sleep (and why you should)

Unless you fancy a 45-minute mountain drive after dinner, stay in the village. El Señorío de la Serrezuela is a 16th-century manor house turned posada with twelve rooms, beams the width of railway sleepers and a fireplace you could roast a deer in. Doubles start at €90 including breakfast—strong coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and toast rubbed with tomato and garlic in the Catalan fashion, a reminder that even here people watch what happens east of the Ebro. Parking is round the back where the stable used to be; wifi reaches the upstairs rooms if the weather is kind. Book ahead for August fiesta weekend when the population swells to 200 and the lamb runs out by Saturday lunch.

Alternatives lie down the hill: Hotel Las Casitas in Boceguillas has an indoor pool and staff who speak English, useful if your Spanish stalls at “una cerveza, por favor”. Self-caterers can rent La Casita del Carretero in Bercimuel, a converted cart-shed with UK television and a barbecue big enough for a whole chorizo festival.

Seasons that bite back

At 1,130 m winter arrives early. Snow can fall from November to March; the road is cleared eventually but not before the school bus route is cancelled. January nights drop to –8 °C and the wind whistles through keyholes. Come properly booted and bring a fleece even in July—after-dark temperatures of 12 °C surprise sunburnt Brits who assumed all Spain swelters. May and late-September are kindest: daylight lingers, wildflowers or autumn colour turn every track into a calendar shot, and the bar terrace catches the sun until the church shadow creeps across at six.

How to get here (and why you probably need a car)

Fly to Madrid, collect a hire car, head north on the A-1 for 90 minutes and leave at kilometre 135 signed “Condado de Castilla”. From the slip road it is another 25 km of empty CL-114, winding through wheat fields that look like East Anglia until the mountains muscle in. There is no railway and the once-daily bus from Madrid was axed in 2022. Taxis from Aranda cost €70 if you can persuade a driver to make the climb.

Aldeanueva will not keep you busy for a week unless you adore the sound of your own footsteps. What it offers is a place to reset the senses: nights so dark you can read by starlight, lamb that tastes of thyme and woodsmoke, and the realisation that Spain still has corners where the timetable is dictated by livestock, not Google. Turn up with sensible shoes, a full tank and an appetite, and the village will do the rest—quietly, thoroughly, and without asking for a hashtag.