Campo de San Pedro

The bells ring at 972 m and the sound rolls across wheat stubble that stretches to a horizon you could measure with a ruler. In Campo de San Pedro nobody asks why they chime; the day is simply announced, the way weather is announced by the smell of dry straw or the way winter is announced by the first wood-smoke that drifts over the stone roofs at dusk. At this altitude the air thins enough to make the sky feel larger than it has any right to be, and the village – 255 permanent souls – keeps its back turned to the hurry that reigns 95 km away in Madrid.

High-plateau hours

Time is negotiated differently up here. Summer mornings start cool; by 11 a.m. the adobe walls radiate stored heat and the only movement is a tractor shifting hay bales from one side of the lane to the other. Afternoons vanish behind closed shutters until the thermometer slides back below 30 °C. In winter the same thermometer can flirt with –8 °C; northerly winds sweep the plateau, and the road from Segovia (45 min on the CL-601) sometimes carries the first warning of snow before the radio remembers to mention it. April and late September give you the easiest compromise: daylight without furnace heat, fields green enough to soften the stone, and the GR-88 footpath actually passable instead of a dust bowl or a mud slide.

The village itself is a single climb: Calle Real leaves the main road, passes the bakery that opens three days a week, and tops out at the parish church whose tower doubles as the mobile-phone mast. Stone, timber, and the occasional coat of arms remind you that even a grain hub could, in the fifteenth century, produce a family wealthy enough to quarrel over titles. The houses have not been “restored” into holiday pastels; most still shelter tractors in the ground floor and chickens round the back, which means photography is welcome but silence is appreciated at siesta.

Walking without way-marks

Maps will show a tangle of farm tracks heading north toward Carrascal del Río and south to Valle de Tabladillo. None are signed for tourists, and that is the point. A 7 km loop eastward brings you to the abandoned cortijo of El Mesto: roofless walls, a threshing circle colonised by poppies, and, if you sit long enough, a pair of short-toed eagles sliding overhead on the thermals. Stout shoes are enough; boots are overkill unless you plan the full 22 km haul to Ayllón in the Sierra de Ayllón proper. Carry water – the bars back in the village shut by 9 p.m. and the springs are for livestock, not litres.

Cyclists find the same tracks ideal for gravel bikes. gradients rarely top 4 %, but the altitude can still sting lungs used to sea-level spins. A popular out-and-back follows the ridge above the Cega River; the return leg delivers a straight 10 km descent that lets you freewheel almost to the door of the only garage-cum-bar in town. Coffee is €1.20 if the owner likes your jersey, €1.50 if he doesn’t.

Roast lamb and other uncertainties

There is no restaurant in Campo de San Pedro. What passes for gastronomy happens in neighbouring villages: Asador El Yugo in Samboal (12 km) does cochinillo for four at €22 per head, but you must reserve before noon. Local tradition is to cook in your own kitchen or be invited to someone else’s. The Saturday market in Cuéllar (25 km) supplies chorizos that still hold the shape of the intestine they were stuffed into, and jars of white beans the size of thumbnails; bring them back, add water from the village fountain, and the altitude somehow shortens cooking time. If you lack both invitation and kitchen, pack a picnic and head for the ruined Moorish watchtower above the cemetery – the wind keeps flies away and the view stretches 40 km on clear days.

Fiestas that fill the place

For 49 weeks of the year silence dominates. Then, during the last weekend of June, the population quadruples. San Pedro’s eve starts with a procession, continues with a foam party in the polideportivo (children first, adults after midnight), and finishes with an open-air mass that no one attends for the liturgy. The council lays on one bullock, released in a makeshift corral so the teenage boys can prove whatever it is they feel needs proving. By British standards the event is tame; by Spanish standards it is tiny. August repeats the formula, only hotter and with a bigger disco tent that pumps reggaeton until 5 a.m. If you require sleep, book a room in Villaverde de Montejo 8 km away – the same wind that cools the plateau also carries bass lines further than seems reasonable.

Where to lay your head

Accommodation inside the village limits itself to four rooms above the bakery, reached by external stairs that wobble more than insurers would like. They cost €45 a night, breakfast of toast and olive oil included, sheets that smell of line-drying whatever the weather. Hot water arrives via solar panels; on cloudy days you wait, or you don’t bother. The alternative is a casa rural in Carrascal del Río (6 km): thicker walls, wood-burning stove, and owners who leave you a bottle of local red but expect the kitchen spotless on departure. Either way the night sky is the same – minimal light pollution, the Milky Way so bright it reflects off parked cars.

Honest footnotes

Come for the horizon, not for amenities. Mobile coverage is patchy below the church, non-existent in the bakery’s back room. The nearest cash machine is in Ayllón, 19 km of bends away, and it empties at weekends. If you arrive after 10 p.m. the street lights (all six of them) switch off automatically; bring a torch or navigate by starlight. And remember the altitude: even a modest bottle of wine hits harder at 972 m, especially when the only taxi home is your own two feet.

Campo de San Pedro will never appear on a “top ten” list, and the villagers are perfectly content with that. Visit once and the place may feel empty; visit twice and you start recognising the rhythm behind the quiet. The third time you will probably arrive with your own shopping, stay longer than planned, and leave before the bells ring you back again.