Cerezo de Arriba

The petrol gauge hovers near empty as the A-1 motorway shrinks in the rear-view mirror. Ahead, the road claws upward through scrub oak and disappearing phone signal, climbing 400 metres in six kilometres until stone houses appear like a mirage at 1,100 metres. Welcome to Cerezo de Arriba, population 130 on a busy Sunday, fewer when the wind howls down from the Sierra de Ayllón.

This isn't postcard Spain. The village sits where Segovia's wheat plains fracture into granite ridges, a frontier post between plateau and mountain weather. One minute you're in dusty cereal fields, the next you're squinting through sleet at pine-dark slopes. The transition happens so fast that Madrid weekenders regularly arrive in shorts and sandals, only to borrow woolly hats from the bar owner who keeps a basket of spares by the door.

Stone, Snow and Silence

Local stone dominates everything: walls the colour of burnt toast, roofs weighted against winter gales, barns that predate electricity. Houses cluster along a single ridge, their balconies—timber, never iron—facing south to steal every ray of winter sun. The effect is less chocolate-box, more functional fortress. When snowdrifts block the access road—which they do most years—these buildings have to fend for themselves.

That happens sooner than visitors expect. The first flakes usually fall mid-October; by December the village road becomes a bobsleigh run. British hire-car drivers discover quickly that the "winter tyres recommended" clause in the rental agreement actually means "essential". Every season someone phones the Guardia Civil from a ditch, hazard lights blinking into the void while sheep wander past unconcerned.

Summer brings the opposite problem. At altitude the sun burns fierce but the air stays dry; factor 30 is pointless when the breeze sucks moisture from your skin. Walkers setting out at 9 am reach the ridge by noon, lips cracked and water bottles empty, wondering how they managed to get sunstroke and altitude dehydration in provincial Segovia.

A Mountain That Eats Plans

The Sierra de Ayllón looms directly north, its crest line running 20 kilometres east to west like a broken wall. Pico del Lobo, the highest point at 2,273 metres, starts practically at the village back gate. The trail begins politely enough past a stone water trough, then tips upward through scree and dwarf juniper until the views open onto a slate-grey plateau that feels more Scotland than Spain.

British hikers expecting a gentle afternoon stroll get a shock. The ascent gains 1,100 metres in under eight kilometres, the final stretch a calf-burning staircase of loose shale. At the summit the promised 360-degree panorama includes the abandoned café shell that every online review mentions. Graffiti inside reads "We tried" in three languages—a monument to someone's doomed business plan. The ruin spoils photographs but provides the only windbreak for miles; lunch tastes better when you're not eating grit.

Descents need care. The path forks repeatedly where shepherds have created shortcuts; follow the wrong gully and you'll end up in a different valley with a 15-kilometre road walk back to the car. Mobile mapping rarely works—Vodafone coverage gives up two-thirds of the way up—and the mountain rescue team is based 60 kilometres away in Segovia. They charge €600 per call-out, payable in cash.

Eating on Mountain Time

Food happens when it happens. The village bar opens at irregular hours dictated by farming schedules and the owner's grandchildren. If the metal shutter is half-up, knock; if it's down, drive nine kilometres to the ski station where Hostal La Pinilla serves chuletón for two (£28) on a plank the size of a cricket bat. They'll cook it rare if you ask before they slap it on the grill—after that, you're getting whatever the chef considers properly done.

Local judiones appear on every menu: butter beans the size of 50-pence pieces stewed with morcilla and tomato. The dish tastes mild enough for children but arrives in soup bowls that could double as plant pots. Portions follow rural logic—one plate feeds two hungry walkers, or one shepherd who hasn't eaten since dawn. Don't expect salad; lettuce arrives frozen in the supply lorry during winter months, so restaurants stick to root vegetables and preserved peppers.

September fiestas change the rhythm completely. The second weekend brings free paella cooked in a pan two metres wide, disco lights strung between pine trunks, and cherry liqueur sold by village matriarchs from card tables. Brits who volunteer to stir the rice get adopted for the evening, handed babies to hold while grandparents dance. The liqueur tastes like cough medicine but costs €5 a bottle; buy two and someone's uncle insists on driving you home, never mind the mountain road.

When the Lifts Close

La Pinilla ski station sits nine kilometres up a separate access road—close on the map, useless if you fancy skiing back to your Airbnb. The resort offers 18 lifts and 35 kilometres of pistes, enough for a long weekend without the Pyrenees price tag. A day pass costs €42, half what you'd pay in the Alps, and weekday queues rarely exceed five minutes. The catch: when the wind hits 60 km/hr everything closes. British visitors arrive Saturday morning to find metal chairs swinging in gale-force gusts, staff shrugging: "Mañana, perhaps."

Off-piste options exist but carry avalanche risk after heavy snow. The resort boundary is marked by nothing more than a single rope; cross it and you're on your own. Every few years someone ignores the warnings and triggers a slide that buries them under two metres of wind-loaded powder. Rescue involves dogs, shovels and a helicopter from Soria—assuming the weather allows flying.

Spring brings different hazards. Snowmelt turns forest tracks into axle-deep mud; what looked like a solid verge swallows rental cars to the door handles. Farmers tow at least one vehicle per week back to tarmac, charging whatever the driver looks willing to pay. They prefer cash—there's still no ATM in the village, and the nearest bank machine is a 30-kilometre round trip via Riaza.

Leaving the Empty Quarter

By late afternoon the church bell tolls six times and the temperature drops ten degrees in as many minutes. Stone walls release stored heat slowly; shadows lengthen across the single street while headlights begin their descent from the pass. In half an hour the bar will fill with men discussing rainfall statistics and women comparing mushroom spots in lowered voices—information traded like state secrets.

Check-out involves leaving the key on the kitchen table and pulling the door until the ancient lock clicks. No one appears to inspect for damage or collect payment for extras; the owner trusts you'll transfer the balance when phone signal returns. Driving back down the mountain feels like descending through geological time: granite giving way to shale, then clay, finally the wheat plains where the motorway hums with Madrid traffic and the real world starts again.

Cerezo de Arriba doesn't suit everyone. It offers no souvenir shops, no evening entertainment beyond conversation, and weather that can ruin plans faster than you can say "travel insurance". What it does provide is space—physical and mental—at a price that undercuts anywhere within two hours of London. Bring cash, chains and realistic expectations; leave the rest to the mountain.