Arcones

The road climbs steadily from the Segovian plain, each bend revealing another granite outcrop until Arcones appears at 1,150 metres, its stone houses huddled against the wind that sweeps down from the Sierra de Guadarrama. At this altitude, the air carries a different weight—thinner, sharper, scented with pine resin and something indefinably ancient that makes you roll down the window despite the December chill.

Stone, Silence and the Art of Doing Nothing

Arcones doesn't announce itself. The village simply materialises around a bend, population 179, give or take whoever's left for Madrid that morning. There's no medieval gateway or baroque plaza to announce your arrival—just a gradual thickening of stone walls and the realisation that the tarmac has narrowed to a single track where meeting another car requires one of you to reverse.

This is precisely the point. The village functions as a natural pause between the golden wheat fields below and the proper mountains above, where Spain's geographical drama begins in earnest. Granite defines everything here: the church walls, the cottage foundations, even the dry-stone walls that parcel up the surrounding hillsides into bite-sized grazing plots. Local builders worked with what the land provided, creating houses that squat low against winter storms, their wooden balconies painted the deep green that seems obligatory in these parts.

Walk the three main streets—Calle Real, Calle de la Iglesia and the imaginatively named Calle Nueva—and you'll notice how the village architecture solves problems that British builders never faced. Windows sit smaller here, positioned to capture maximum light while minimising heat loss. Doorways incorporate granite seats where elderly residents still gather at dusk, watching the light fade over peaks that top 2,400 metres just beyond the village boundary.

The 16th-century church of San Juan Bautista anchors everything, its fortress-thick walls built by people who understood that winter lasts six months at this altitude. Inside, the single nave feels more Scandinavian than Spanish—austere, practical, designed for survival rather than grandeur. The wooden ceiling beams, blackened by centuries of candle smoke, show axe marks from when local craftsmen felled pines from these same mountains.

Walking Country Where Madrid Disappears

Within five minutes of leaving the village centre, you're in walking country that stretches, largely uninterrupted, all the way to the province boundary. The PR-SG 12 trail heads north-east towards the cherry-growing village of Valdeprados, following an old drove road where bronze-age traders once moved livestock between summer and winter pastures. The path climbs gently through Scots pine and Pyrenean oak, crossing seasonal streams that dry to trickles by August but roar with snowmelt in April.

More ambitious walkers can tackle the 14-kilometre loop that connects Arcones with the abandoned village of El Quintanar, now reduced to roofless stone houses slowly being reclaimed by brambles and wild fig trees. The route gains 400 metres of elevation—enough to feel it in your thighs but not requiring alpine equipment—before dropping into a valley where griffon vultures circle overhead and the only sound comes from your boots on granite scree.

Winter transforms these paths entirely. When snow arrives—usually reliable from January through March—the same trails become suitable for snowshoeing, though you'll need to bring your own equipment. The village has no rental shops, no ski school, no infrastructure beyond a small information board that might, if you're lucky, show current trail conditions. This is mountain access stripped back to basics: turn up, check the weather, make your own decisions.

Spring arrives late and reluctant. Even in May, morning frost isn't unusual, and the surrounding peaks retain snow caps that feed wildflower meadows below. By June, the hillsides explode with colour—purple thyme, yellow broom, white chamomile—creating a natural rock garden that puts anything Chelsea might offer to shame. The flowering season is brief but intense, lasting barely six weeks before the summer drought turns everything biscuit-brown.

What to Eat When the Nearest Shop is 25 Kilometres Away

Food here follows mountain logic: cook what grows locally, preserve what doesn't, and make everything substantial enough to fuel a day on the hills. The village's single restaurant, La Cerca, occupies a converted farmhouse on the main street, its dining room thick with the smell of oak smoke and slow-roasting lamb. The menu doesn't change much—why would it when judiones (giant butter beans grown in nearby La Granja) cook for three hours with morcilla and chorizo, arriving at your table in earthenware bowls that could double as hard hats?

Cordero asado arrives as a quarter section, the meat falling from bones that have spent four hours in a wood-fired oven. It's designed for sharing, though hungry hikers have been known to tackle individual portions. The wine list runs to six bottles, all from Castilla y León, with house red served in plain glasses that cost €2.50 and perform their job admirably.

For self-caterers, the situation requires planning. The nearest proper supermarket sits 25 kilometres away in Pedraza, meaning most visitors arrive with cool boxes already stocked. The village does maintain a tiny shop that opens for three hours each morning, selling tinned goods, UHT milk and those Spanish staples—tinned tuna, olives, over-sweet biscuits—that keep body and soul together when the nearest Tesco Metro exists only in memory.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

The drive from Madrid takes 90 minutes via the A-1 autovía, then increasingly minor roads that demand concentration as they twist through mountain passes. Public transport exists in theory—a daily bus from Segovia that deposits you three kilometres from the village—but requires patience and a willingness to walk the final stretch along a road without pavements. Most British visitors hire cars at Madrid airport, though the last 15 kilometres demand nerves of steel when meeting Spanish drivers who treat mountain roads as personal rally stages.

Accommodation options reflect the village's size. Hostal La Berrocosa offers eight simple rooms above the bar, each with en-suite bathrooms that were probably installed during Spain's building boom but have been maintained with pride. Prices hover around €60 per night including breakfast—coffee, toast, and that strange Spanish habit of serving tomato separately for you to rub on bread yourself. El Refugio del Dragón provides more character in a converted 17th-century house, its three rooms named after local peaks and decorated with furniture that probably predates the Spanish Civil War.

The practical stuff matters more here than in most destinations. Mobile phone signal comes and goes depending on which network you're with and whether the weather's feeling cooperative. WiFi exists in most accommodation but moves at speeds that remind you why Spain invented the siesta—perfect for checking weather forecasts, hopeless for streaming. Bring layers regardless of season; mountain weather changes faster than British rail timetables, and that perfect May morning can transform into sleet by lunchtime.

Leave Arcones the way you arrived: slowly, deliberately, with windows down to catch that final scent of pine and woodsmoke. The village won't have changed you—it's too honest for such promises—but you'll understand something about Spain that the Costas never reveal. Some places exist purely as themselves, asking nothing from visitors except respect for their rhythms and the good sense to know when mountain weather says no.