Casla

The only sound at midday is a dog barking two streets away and the soft click of pine cones heating up on corrugated roofs. Casla doesn’t announce itself; it simply stops appearing on the horizon once you leave the N-110 and climb the last seven kilometres of county road. One moment you’re watching Segovia’s wheat plains fold into scrub, the next the tarmac narrows, the verges turn to granite chunks, and the village sign reads “150 habitantes”. The number feels optimistic.

Height and habit

At 1,060 m Casla sits just high enough for the air to feel thinner than Madrid, but not so high that ears pop. The difference shows in the roofs: Arab tiles weighed down with heavy stones against the winter wind, chimneys you could stand inside, and window grilles painted the same ox-blood red you’ll see 80 km away in the capital’s old town. Stone and adobe walls are thick; doors open directly onto the lane because space was never wasted on front gardens. A short stroll from end to end takes twelve minutes unless you pause to read the names on the war memorial – half the surnames repeat, evidence of families that never left or always return.

Mobile signal drops in and out; 4G appears on the upper edge of the village where the lane peters out into a forestry track. That track is the real high street. Locals in dusty 4×4 pickups greet one another by lifting a finger from the steering wheel, the Spanish version of the country nod. Visitors with walking boots and Ordnance Survey instincts soon realise paper still beats screen: signposts are occasional, distances measured in “a little beyond the bend where the big pine fell last year”.

The forest as living room

Pine plantations wrap the settlement on three sides, linking to the Guadarrama range proper a few kilometres south. The trees are commercially harvested, so clear-cuts appear suddenly, creating bright green clearings loud with cicadas in July. Paths are wide enough for timber lorries; hikers share them with the odd mountain biker and, from October onwards, mushroom hunters scanning the earth for saffron milk caps. Permits are required for picking even a handful; unmarked baskets invite fines from forest guards who drive unmarked white vans.

A 45-minute loop north of the church follows an old livestock drift to an outcrop locals call “Los Castillejos”: granite slabs that heat like storage radiators, perfect for a mid-winter lunch stop. Beyond, the track forks: left drops to the river Cega at Valsalabroso (ruined watermills, waist-high brambles), right climbs gently towards the ruined hermitage of La Blanca, elevation gain 200 m, views across to the limestone edge of the Hoces del Duratón. Neither route is arduous, but summer sun at this altitude bites; water for two hours is sensible.

Snow arrives earlier than Madrid forecasts suggest. January mornings can start at –6 °C and the village fountain ices over, forcing residents to revert to kitchen taps. The same frost cracks tarmac, so potholes reappear each spring faster than the province can fill them. Winter walking is still possible: paths turn firm and the clear-cuts become white meadows perfect for spotting ibex prints. Carry a thermos; the single bar opens only at the weekend and the owner keeps farmer hours.

Eating, or not

Casla has no shops. Bread vans visit on Tuesday and Friday, tooting their horn at 11:00 sharp; catch them or drive 14 km to Carbonero el Mayor for a supermarket. The weekend bar serves coffee, beer, and whatever María has stewing – often chickpeas with.cod and spinach, sometimes Segovia-style roast suckling pig ordered in from a cousin’s Asador in Pedraza. A menú del día costs €14 if it’s on; if not, packets of crisps and tinned nuts are the pantry. Self-catering is the practical route.

Foraging is tempting but risky. Besides the regulated mushrooms, wild asparagus lines the lanes in April and elderflowers scent the air in late May. Go easy; locals notice empty spots and remember number plates. Better to combine a stay with lunch down the road in Pedraza (15 min drive) where lamb roasted in wood ovens and sheep-milk cheese from Real de San Rafael justify the detour. Book Saturday tables; half of Segovia province seems to converge on its medieval square.

Where to sleep

Accommodation amounts to three renovated village houses. La Cija y La Tena split into two independant apartments around a shared granite patio; beams are original, Wi-Fi struggles with stone walls thicker than a London terrace. On Booking.com, “SINES housing in Casla” offers a first-floor flat with under-floor heating – welcome after a December hike – and parking space wide enough for a right-hand-drive estate. Airbnb lists the occasional cottage: check access, some lanes taper to 1.8 m and reversing uphill past a drainage ditch is not the tranquil start one hopes for. Prices hover €90–110 per night year-round; weekends fill with Madrilenians May–October so mid-week stays cost 15 % less and guarantee silence.

When the village wakes up

Fiestas run 15–18 August, timed for returnee families rather than tour buses. Events centre on the plaza: Saturday evening mass followed by potato-omelette contest, Sunday livestock fair (mainly kids showing goats), and midnight fireworks launched from the threshing floor above the pine wood. Visitors are welcome but there are no programmes in English; timing is word-of-mouth. Spring fiestas – 1 May “romería” picnic at the hermitage – attract even fewer outsiders and offer a glimpse of village cohesion: everyone brings folding chairs, someone roasts a whole lamb on a makeshift spit, and teenagers DJ reggaeton from a Peugeot hatchback until the Guardia Civil remind them of rural noise bylaws.

Outside those dates the rhythm reverts to sun and church bells. Agricultural contractors arrive to harvest pine resin at dawn, filling the air with turpentine sharpness. Otherwise the loudest noise is the stork clacking on the school roof in Pedraza, audible on still evenings across the valley.

Getting here, and away

No railway comes closer than Segovia’s AVE station 45 km west. From London, fly to Madrid, then either:

• Hire car at T1: M40, A1, exit 100 to N-110, turn right at Ayllón road, follow signs for Carbonero el Mayor and Casla. Journey 1 h 45 min if you miss commuter traffic north of the capital.
• Bus to Segovia (Avanza, €8.50, 1 h 15), collect rental there; roads are emptier and harder to get lost.

Fuel in the village is non-existent; fill up in Carbonero or risk paying mountain prices in Pedraza. In winter carry snow socks – the final 4 km rise to Casla is north-facing and shaded, turning to compacted snow long after main roads clear. Summer drivers face the opposite hazard: free-grazing goats round a bend halfway up; they own the tarmac and know it.

The honest verdict

Casla will not change your life. It offers no epiphany, no Instagrammable landmark you’ll recognise from a guidebook. What it does provide is proof that rural Spain still functions when phones lose signal: neighbours lend ladders, the baker remembers who likes thick crust, and the night sky remains dark enough to spot the Andromeda Galaxy without squinting. Come if you want the sound of wind through pines rather than cocktail menus, and if the prospect of driving twenty minutes for milk strikes you as reasonable. Otherwise, stay on the A1 and keep the kilometres rolling – the village will still be here, quiet and granite-steady, whenever the craving for zero traffic lights finally bites.