Ayllón

The petrol gauge flirts with empty as you leave the A-1, Madrid's thundering north-south artery, and climb into country where mobile reception flickers like a dodgy lighthouse. Thirty minutes later, Ayllón appears—no fanfare, just a medieval arch punched through honey-coloured stone and a road that narrows until wing mirrors kiss the walls. You've reached 1,093 metres, higher than Ben Nevis's summit, yet the village sits on a plateau that feels more Tuskeegee than Highland. The air thins and sweetens; suddenly that £19.99 rental upgrade for a bigger engine seems money well spent.

Inside the walls, time loosens its grip. The Plaza Mayor isn't a museum piece but a working courtyard where grandmothers edge Fiats between 500-year-old columns and teenagers swap Instagram handles beneath wooden balconies that creak with the same timbers their great-grandparents knew. Morning light pools on stone the colour of digestive biscuits; by late afternoon it turns to burnt umber, the sort of light painters chase across Europe and never quite bottle. Bring a jumper even in July—once the sun drops behind the Sierra de Ayllón, temperatures plummet faster than a British summer barbecue.

Stone, Wood and the Smell of Roast Lamb

Start at the porticoes. They're not uniform: some columns twist slightly, victims of centuries of freeze-thaw; others carry mason's marks that look suspiciously like football club crests. Above, first-floor galleries lean out just enough to make you step backwards into the path of a delivery van—proof that health-and-safety consultants remain a 21st-century invention. The arcade shelters a handful of cafés; order a cortado (stronger than a flat white, half the price) and watch villagers conduct entire conversations without removing their hands from coat pockets. It's theatre, minus the ticket price.

From here, alleyways spider uphill towards the two churches. San Miguel's Romanesque apse squats like a bulldog beside a later Gothic tower; inside, the air smells of candle wax and old parchment. Santa María la Mayor, two minutes farther up, offers a different sermon: Renaissance portals grafted onto earlier bones, plus a retablo gilded enough to make a Bond Street jeweller blink. Neither charges entry, though a discreet donation box helps fund roof repairs. Between them, the callejón de los Positos narrows until elbows scrape; at number 14, a 1499 coat of arms shows a wolf and a barrel—local legend claims it commemorises a peasant who outwitted both the taxman and a particularly thirsty predator.

The castle ruins crown the hill. The climb takes ten minutes if you're fit, twenty if you're stopping to photograph every geranium in a terracotta pot. What's left is less Disney, more Game of Thrones storyboard: a curtain wall here, a murder-hole there, plus views that roll south until the land blurs into the meseta. Interpretation boards are in Spanish only, but the gist is simple—this place was once the cork in a very important bottle between the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon. Pack water; the only bar up here closed in 1834 and hasn't reopened.

Back in the maze, the Palacio de los Contraterrenos (ignore the guidebooks that still call it Contreras—locals renamed it after a boundary dispute) flaunts a Renaissance façade sharp enough to slice prosciutto. Knock and the caretaker, Julián, might let you into the courtyard where a 1530s well still draws drinkable water. He'll point out a stone pineapple—symbol of hospitality, or possibly just what the mason fancied carving after too many lunches. Either way, the shade provides blessed relief when the thermometer nudges 34 °C.

Walking the Line Between Silence and Civilisation

Ayllón sits on the southern lip of the Sierra de Ayllón, a chunk of the Sistema Central that few British walkers have on their radar. That means empty trails, but also minimal signage. From the castle, a farm track heads north-west into the Cañón del Rio Duratón where griffon vultures circle on thermals wide enough to lift a hang-glider. The going is straightforward for four kilometres, then the path dissolves into sheep tracks. Download an offline map; there is no café, no water fountain, and the only other humans you're likely to meet wear berets and carry shotguns during autumn boar season. Spring brings wild peonies and the faint hope of mobile signal; winter can dump 20 cm of snow overnight, turning the return journey into a slip-and-slide that would shame a pantomime.

If that sounds too committed, stroll the 3-km Senda de las Encinas instead. It loops through holm-oak pasture where black Iberian pigs snuffle for acorns; the local chorizo (£8 a loop, vacuum-packed for customs) tastes of sweet paprika and woodland truffle. Start early—by 11 a.m. the sun is brutal, and the only shade belongs to a 900-year-old oak that once served as a gallows. History here is never picturesque.

Eating Like You Mean It

Lunch starts at 14:00 sharp. Turn up at 13:45 and the waiter will polish glasses while you hover; arrive at 15:30 and the kitchen is closed until the next geological era. Mesón de la Villa, under the Plaza Mayor arcades, does a half-ración of lechazo (roast suckling lamb) that's still too much for two hungry teenagers. The meat arrives on a clay dish, blistered and bronze, with only a wedge of lemon for company—no mint sauce, no gravy boats, just flavour that makes British Sunday roast taste like rehearsal dinner. Vegetarians aren't ignored: judiones de la Granja, butter-white beans the size of conkers, come stewed with saffron and bay. Pudding is ponche segoviano, a layered custard-and-marzipan slab first created for a 1920s royal wedding; it's sweeter than a Jeremy Clarkson apology and twice as sticky.

Budget £25 a head for three courses with a bottle of local rosé (D.O. Cebreros, properly chilled). Cards work, but the machine sometimes "falls over" during siesta—cash ends arguments. If you're self-catering, the tiny SuperSol on Calle Nueva stocks UHT milk, tinned chickpeas and surprisingly good cheddar for homesick children. Bread appears at 09:00 and is usually gone by 10:30; after that you'll be eating yesterday's baguette, which could double as scaffolding.

Beds, Blondes and the British Invasion

There are no international chains, thank God. Options cluster into two camps: stone mansions inside the walls and converted farmhouses down dirt tracks. Hotel Viejo Ayllón occupies a 16th-century merchant's house opposite the medieval gate; rooms have beams, wifi that obeys the laws of quantum physics (there until you need it) and minibars stocked with €1.50 cans of Estrella. Weekend rate hovers around €90 for a double, including a breakfast of torrijas (Spanish eggy bread) strong enough to fuel a small crusade.

Further out, Posada del Cordón offers silence so complete you can hear your own retina flicker. The last kilometre is unmade; after rain it becomes an episode of Top Gear. Once arrived, however, the stars arrive in HD—no streetlights, no neighbourly security lamps, just the Milky Way spilled across the sky like a drunk with a paintbrush. Bring slippers: stone floors at 03:00 are colder than a solicitor's letter.

Whichever you choose, book dinner too. Taxis back from neighbouring villages cost more than the room, and the local police breath-test with medieval enthusiasm after 23:00.

When to Bail Out

Ayllón repays patience but punishes poor planning. Monday and Tuesday see half the town shuttered; arrive then and you'll picnic on crisps. August brings Madrilenian families, quadrupling the population and halving the water pressure. Winter weekends can be magical—snow on the roofs, roast chestnuts sold from a barrow—but the road from the motorway is salted, not gritted, and hire-car tyres are often "ecological" (code for useless). Spring means pollen; autumn means hunters. There is no perfect month, only the month you decide matters less than the experience.

Leave early for Madrid Barajas. The map swears 125 km, 90 minutes; the Guardia Civil swear otherwise when they close the A-1 for a lorry fire. Fill the tank in Riaza—petrol stations on the motorway are further apart than diplomatic compliments. And reset the sat-nav to avoid tolls; the scenic N110 adds twenty minutes but saves €25 and passes through Sepúlveda, another stone village worth a coffee stop if you have time to spare.

Ayllón won't change your life. It will, however, remind you what Spanish villages looked like before souvenir shops replaced shoe-repairers, and before every bar served eggs Benedict. That's worth a detour, even if the hire-car company charges you €120 for the stone-chip you picked up on the final bend.