Riaguas de San Bartolomé

The church tower appears first, a stone finger pointing skywards above wheat stubble. From the approach road it seems to float, disconnected from whatever settlement might exist beneath. This is how Riaguas de San Bartolomé announces itself: not with a flourish of whitewashed houses or a dramatic gorge, but with a single medieval tower rising from the rolling plains of northeast Segovia.

At 929 metres above sea level, the village sits where Spain's central plateau starts its gentle fracture into the foothills of the Sierra de Ayllón. The altitude matters here. Summer nights drop to 14°C even in July, and winter brings sharp frosts that silver the stone walls. What the guidebooks call "refreshingly cool" translates to "bring a fleece" for anyone expecting Andalusian warmth.

Thirty registered inhabitants. The figure appears in every document about Riaguas, repeated with the reverence usually reserved for UNESCO sites. In reality, the census captures little of the village's rhythm. Weekenders from Madrid restore crumbling houses, their BMWs parked beside tractors that predate Spain's entry into the EU. On Sundays the population triples. By Tuesday afternoon it's back to the core of retired farmers and remote workers who've discovered that fibre optic reaches even here.

The architecture refuses to pose. Houses lean at angles that would give Brighton builders nightmares, their stone walls patched with concrete where original masonry collapsed. Adobe walls bulge like overproofed loaves. One property has a satellite dish bolted directly onto a 16th-century lintel, the cables snaking through a window frame carved when Elizabeth I was still negotiating with Mary Queen of Scots. This isn't picturesque decay – it's simply how things are when maintenance costs exceed property value.

Walking the single street takes seven minutes if you dawdle. The church of San Bartolomé Apóstol occupies roughly a fifth of that distance, its proportions suggesting ambitions the modern village never fulfilled. Inside, the air carries dust and incense from centuries past. The altar cloth features saints whose faces have worn away from candle smoke, creating accidental abstracts that would fetch serious money in a Shoreditch gallery. Photography is permitted, though the elderly sacristan will watch with the intensity of a Tate security guard.

Beyond the village, agricultural tracks fan out across cereal fields that shift from emerald in April to bronze by July. These aren't signed footpaths with reassuring waymarks. They're working routes created by tractors accessing remote plots, their surfaces depending on recent weather. After rain the clay becomes a skating rink. During drought it powder to ankle depth. Proper walking boots aren't fashion here – they're survival equipment for anyone planning more than a casual stroll.

The absence of facilities requires planning. No café, no shop, no ATM. The nearest bar sits four kilometres away in Fuentepelayo, open only on weekends outside summer. Smart visitors pack water and provisions, treating Riaguas as they would a Scottish bothy. The comparison holds: both offer shelter and atmosphere rather than services. Picnicking on the church steps isn't just acceptable – it's practically traditional, though locals will judge your choice of cheese with the seriousness of a Madrid food critic.

Night transforms the village completely. Street lighting consists of four lamps that switch off at midnight, leaving darkness so complete it feels physical. The Milky Way appears not as a poetic concept but as a dense river of light, so bright it casts shadows. On moonless nights the stars provide adequate illumination for walking, though torch batteries drain quickly in the cold. The silence carries its own weight, broken occasionally by dogs barking across kilometres of empty farmland.

Spring brings the most forgiving conditions, when temperatures hover around 20°C and wild poppies streak the wheat with red. September offers similar comfort plus the drama of harvest, though combine harvesters throw up dust that hangs in the still air like photochemical smog. August is simply foolish – the sun at this altitude burns through SPF 50 with contemptuous ease, and afternoon temperatures of 35°C feel hotter than Seville's 40°C thanks to the thinner air.

Reaching Riaguas requires commitment. Public transport doesn't. The nearest bus stop sits 12 kilometres away in Carbonero el Mayor, served twice daily by services from Segovia that connect with Madrid's Pitis station. Hiring a car becomes essential unless you're prepared for taxi fares exceeding €50 each way. The final approach involves five kilometres of local road so narrow that passing requires one vehicle to pull onto the verge. Meeting a grain lorry here provides an education in Spanish agricultural vocabulary.

The village's annual fiesta on 24 August transforms this equation temporarily. Former residents return from Valladolid, Barcelona, even Frankfurt. The population swells to perhaps 200, enormous by Riguas standards. A sound system appears in the square, playing Latin pop until 3am. Someone's cousin runs a temporary bar from their garage, selling beer at €1.50 and wine that arrives in unmarked bottles from uncle's vineyard. For 48 hours the village achieves the critical mass necessary for spontaneous conversation. By the 26th it's over, leaving only overflowing bins and the smell of garlic from paella pans soaking in back gardens.

This isn't a destination for ticking off sights. The Moorish castle remains stubbornly non-existent. No artisan workshops sell overpriced ceramics. What Riguas offers instead is scale – the rare experience of a place small enough to comprehend, where human presence feels temporary against the vastness of sky and field. It suits travellers who've grown suspicious of superlatives, who find satisfaction in watching wheat bend in wind that travelled 500 kilometres without encountering another building.

Bring walking boots and realistic expectations. Leave before you need lunch, unless you've arranged to eat with someone local. And remember that thirty inhabitants doesn't mean thirty people waiting to validate your journey. They're living their lives, not maintaining a museum. The tower will be there whether you visit or not, pointing at stars older than any empire, above fields that will outlast every nation currently drawing maps.