Castillejo de Mesleón

The bar opens when the owner wakes up. On weekdays that can be half past ten; on Sundays it might be noon. Either way, the key to the church hangs behind the coffee machine, and anyone who orders a café con leche can borrow it. That single fact tells you most of what you need to know about Castillejo de Mesleón, a stone-and-adobe scatter of houses that sits exactly one kilometre above sea level on the wind-scoured meseta north-east of Segovia.

Height and Light

Altitude here is not a footnote. At 1,003 m the air thins enough to sharpen every outline: the Roman roof tiles glow terracotta at dawn, and the distant peaks of the Sierra de Ayllón appear so crisp they look detachable. Summer midday sun is brutal; bring a hat or retreat to the single row of plane trees that shade the plaza. After dark the temperature drops ten degrees in an hour; even in July you will want a jumper for the walk back to your room. Winter is simpler—snow arrives by December and the SG-911, the only road in, is left ungritted. When the drifts settle, the village’s 130 residents stay put until the farmer who owns the yellow tractor clears a single lane.

The upside of all this height is sky. Light pollution is measured in single digits: on moonless nights the Milky Way drips across the horizon like spilled sugar. A £30 pair of binoculars is enough to split the Pleiades; shooting stars are too common to bother wishing on.

What Passes for a Centre

There is no monumental core, just a slight widening where three lanes meet. On the north side stands the sixteenth-century church, Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, its bell tower patched with mismatched limestone after an 1880 lightning strike. Inside, the single nave smells of candle wax and paraffin heaters. The altar rail is walnut, worn silky where forearms have rested through four centuries of communion. Ask politely at the bar—Café-Bar Castillejo, green awning, no other option—and María will fetch the key, but only after she finishes the crossword.

Opposite the church, the panadería produces twenty loaves a day. When they are gone, the shutter comes down. Behind it, the owner’s living-room television competes with the hum of the dough mixer. Whole-wheat is considered exotic; ask for pan de pueblo if you want the crusty oval with the open crumb that locals tear apart and dunk in coffee.

Walking Without Signposts

Footpaths exist because tractors, sheep and shepherds need them. Markers are absent, but logic works: keep the cereal field on your right, the stone wall on your left, and you will loop back to the cemetery in 45 minutes. For something longer, set off south along the track signed “Sepúlveda 12 km”—a white-painted stone, half-buried—and climb gently onto the paramera. The plateau rolls like a gentle sea, each wave a low ridge of holm oak. After 6 km the land drops; vultures turn overhead, eyeing the thermals. Turn back when the path splits at the abandoned corral; the left fork ends in a quarry the army uses for target practice and is best avoided at weekends.

Spring arrives late: colour splashes the verges in early May, starting with magenta Silene colorata and finishing with yellow Spanish broom that smells of coconut. Autumn is the sweet spot—warm days, cool nights, and the stubble fields glow bronze under a low sun. In August the thermometer touches 34 °C; start walking at seven or accept defeat.

Food that Fits the Weather

The village menu is short and seasonal. At the bar, order judiones—butter beans the size of conkers, stewed with morcilla and a single bay leaf. The portion feeds two; add a plate of migas (fried breadcrumbs, garlic and bits of bacon) and you will not need supper. On Saturdays a van from the valley brings chuletón, a T-bone cut three fingers thick, priced at €32 a kilo. It arrives at the table sizzling on a terracotta tile, still bleeding, with a warning that sending it back “well done” causes offence.

Vegetarians get eggs—revueltos with wild asparagus in April, with setas after the first October rain. Pudding is ponche segoviano, a dense almond sponge that survives being wrapped in a napkin and stuffed into a rucksack. The local wine comes from Valladolid and tastes of ink and blackberries; order “una jarra” and you will receive half a litre in a pottery jug, cold from the fridge.

Getting There, Getting Out

From Madrid-Barajas, take the A-1 north for 70 minutes. Exit 110 appears suddenly after the Somosierra tunnels; miss it and you face a 20-km detour to Aranda. The SG-911 wriggles uphill for 6 km; phone signal dies after the second cattle grid. Fill the tank in Sepúlveda—after that the nearest fuel is 40 km north on the motorway. There is no bus on Sundays, one bus on weekdays, and it is full of schoolchildren. Taxis must be booked a day ahead from Riaza and cost €35 each way.

Accommodation is limited. Three village houses have been converted into rentals; expect stone floors, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that flickers when the microwave is on. Prices hover round €80 a night for two, linen included. Breakfast is DIY—milk and croissants are delivered the evening before.

The Fine Print

Crowds are not a problem; tour buses cannot negotiate the final bend. What you will find instead is wind, church bells that mark the quarters, and a silence so complete you can hear your own pulse. Bring cash, a coat, and a sense of rhythm slower than the one you left on the motorway. If the bar is shut, knock on the door next to the panadería; someone will eventually appear, wiping flour from their hands. They will not offer a brochure, but they might lend you the church key again—provided you return it before closing time, which is whenever they feel like it.