Arevalillo de Cega

The church bell tolls twice at noon, and only eighteen people hear it. That's the entire population of Arevalillo de Cega, a granite hamlet perched at 1,004 metres on Segovia's wind-scoured plateau. At this altitude, the air thins enough to make Madrid's traffic noise—a ninety-minute drive south—seem imaginary.

Walking Through Vertical Spain

British visitors expecting whitewashed courtyards and orange trees will find something sharper here. The landscape rolls in biscuit-coloured waves, each crest revealing another horizon. Stone houses hunker low against the wind, their slate roofs weighted with rocks that have held since the 1800s. Adobe walls the colour of weathered Cotswold stone absorb the day's heat, releasing it slowly through knife-cold nights that can touch -12 °C even in March.

Summer brings relief of sorts. While Seville melts at 40 °C, Arevalillo sits in its own micro-climate where mid-July peaks at 28 °C and the breeze carries the scent of dry thyme. The trade-off is exposure: there's no shade along the village's single street, and sunburn arrives faster at this height. One walking group from Leeds learned this the hard way last June, turning the colour of their native brick after a three-hour loop to the abandoned threshing circles.

Those circles—era in Spanish—mark the real attraction here. Circular stone platforms where villagers once beat wheat now serve as natural viewing decks. Stand on the southernmost and you can trace the Cega River's glinting thread fifteen kilometres north toward medieval Pedraza. Bring binoculars: this is golden eagle territory, and the local farmer keeps a chart by his stable door marking the last 200 sightings.

What Passes for a High Street

There isn't one. Arevalillo's nucleus is a triangle of packed earth between the church, the former school (closed 1978, windows now bricked), and the fuente where women washed clothes until 1993. The fountain still runs; fill your bottle and taste water that has filtered through quartz for three centuries. Just don't expect a pub. The nearest beer sits six kilometres away in Carbonero el Mayor, served in a bar that opens only when the owner's television detects a football match.

Food works on the same principle. No restaurants, no shop, not even a vending machine. Self-catering is mandatory, which means stocking up in Segovia before the final 35-minute climb. The village bakery vanished with the last baker's funeral in 2019, so bring your own loaf—or knock on door number 14. María, 78, will sell you a still-warm bollo de chicharrones for €1.50 if she recognises your accent as foreign. She collects pound coins "for my nephew in London," though no one can confirm the nephew exists.

When the Mist Rolls In

October delivers the plateau's signature weather event: the neblina, a low fog that forms when Atlantic air hits the central meseta. Mornings begin clear, then suddenly the world shrinks to twenty metres. Stone walls emerge like shipwrecks; distant tractor engines fade to ghostly hums. Walking becomes navigation by intuition—dangerous, since the surrounding fields hide old wells uncovered after decades of erosion. Local advice: download the free IGN Spain map app before leaving Wi-Fi range, then drop a pin at your parked car. The fog lifts as abruptly as it arrives, usually by 11 a.m., revealing a landscape rinsed to impossible clarity.

Winter transforms the approach road into a different challenge. From December through February the provincial gritter treats the CV-601 as lowest priority. A 5 cm snowfall—common—can strand vehicles for two days. Last January a Sheffield couple in a hired Fiat 500 spent 36 hours in the village hall sharing emergency soup with two farmers and a lost German cyclist. They still rate the experience five stars on TripAdvisor, proof that adversity bonds strangers faster than sangria.

A Festival That Doubles the Headcount

The fiesta of the Assumption, 15 August, is the only date when Arevalillo feels crowded. Former residents return from Valladolid, Barcelona, even a branch from Manchester. Population swells to roughly 120. A sound system appears—one speaker balanced on a tractor's fork lift—and the triangle becomes a dance floor. At midnight the mayor (also the shepherd) fires a rocket that lands somewhere in the wheat. No one flinches; they've seen it before. For outsiders the highlight is the communal paella cooked over vine prunings in a pan two metres wide. Bring your own plate and expect to wash it in the fountain afterwards.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Madrid-Barajas remains the only practical gateway from the UK. Ryanair, easyJet and Iberia Express run multiple daily flights from London; Manchester offers three direct services weekly. Car hire desks sit in Terminal 1; ignore the motorway sales pitch and specify the CL-601 route when setting GPS—it's 18 km shorter and avoids the toll. Petrol stations thin out after Segovia, so fill the tank. Electric vehicle? The closest charger is back in the city; bring a granny cable and sweet-talk María for a three-pin plug.

Accommodation demands creativity. The village itself offers two restored cottages booked through Pedraza's tourist office (€70–90 nightly, two-night minimum). Both retain original beams, stone sinks and Wi-Fi that crawls at 3 Mbps—enough to send a WhatsApp location pin, not to stream Netflix. Hot water arrives via rooftop solar tubes; shower before dusk or risk a tepid rinse. Alternative: stay in Pedraza's medieval fortress-parador (from €150) and day-trip. The drive takes 22 minutes, but you'll miss the 3 a.m. sky—unspoilt Milky Way visibility that makes the altitude headache worthwhile.

Leaving Without Buying a Key-Ring

Arevalillo won't suit everyone. Guidebook tick-box hunters leave disappointed; there's no castle, no gift shop, no selfie-frame. What exists is subtler: the realisation that Spain contains places where electricity arrived in 1967 and where every stone wall aligns to a compass point older than the Reconquista. Come for the silence, stay for the sky, leave before the wind convinces you to miss your flight. And if María offers you a second pork bun, accept—it tastes of something Britain lost around the time we installed our first motorway service station.