Orejana

At 1,076 metres above sea level, Orejana sits where the plains of Segovia surrender to pine forests and the air carries a resinous sharpness that makes London lungs work harder. The village appears suddenly after twenty minutes of winding through holm oak scrubland from the N-110—one moment it's empty road, the next stone houses huddle around a medieval church tower that has watched over barely sixty souls for centuries.

The altitude matters here. Summer mornings can be deliciously cool even when Madrid swelters 90 kilometres south, but come October the first frost silver-plates the terracotta roofs and by December the track up to Puerto de Orejana may demand chains. British visitors expecting Andalusian softness should pack as they would for a Peak District weekend: layers, waterproof, stout shoes. The reward is clarity—on a crisp January dawn you can pick out the slate-grey outline of the Sierra de Guadarrama fifty kilometres away, snow glinting like broken glass.

Stone, Timber and the Smell of Pine

No one advertises Orejana as a heritage site, which is precisely why it works. Houses are lived-in rather than curated: granite footings, adobe walls the colour of digestive biscuits, balconies sagging under the weight of geraniums. The parish church of San Juan Bautista squats at the top of the single main street, its Romanesque bones visible beneath later brickwork. Push the heavy door at 11 a.m. and you'll probably interrupt the caretaker sprinkling water onto the dirt floor—a local method to keep dust down that predates vacuum cleaners.

Walk five minutes in any direction and the village dissolves into forest. Resin pines planted during the Franco era for timber march up the slopes in military lines, while pockets of ancient oak survive in the gullies. Wild boar root among last year's acorns; if you hear rustling, stand still—chances are the animal will bolt downhill before you locate it. Tracks are unsigned but followable: the one heading north-east drops after 40 minutes to an abandoned stone sheep enclosure, perfect for a sandwich stop with views across the cereal plains towards Pedraza.

A Café con Leche and Then Silence

Practicalities first. Orejana has no hotel, no Sunday-morning bakery, no cash machine. The only bar opens at 7 a.m. for farmers and shuts when custom dries up—sometimes mid-afternoon, occasionally earlier if the owner fancies a siesta. Order a café con leche (€1.20) and you might be offered a churro if the dough batch was made that day; don't rely on it. For provisions drive ten minutes to Carbonero el Mayor where the Día supermarket sells everything from tinned judiones to English teabags at import prices.

Accommodation means self-catering. Two village houses are rented out by owners who live in Segovia city: Casa Rural La Chimenea sleeps four, has working fireplace and charges €90 a night mid-week, €120 at weekends. Mobile signal is patchy; Wi-Fi depends on weather. The alternative is to base yourself in Pedraza, 14 kilometres away, where the medieval posados have been converted into cosy doubles with underfloor heating and menus offering roast suckling lamb at €28 a portion. Day-tripping works—Orejana is a forty-minute walk or five-minute drive from the main road, short enough to feel adventurous, long enough to discourage coach parties.

When the Sun Drops Behind the Ridge

Evenings deliver the village's trump card: darkness you simply don't get in southern England. Street lighting is minimal by design—Segovia province markets these hamlets as "Starlight Villages"—and on moonless nights the Milky Way arches overhead like spilled sugar. Bring a head-torch and walk south along the track past the last house; after ten minutes the ground falls away and the horizon opens to a 270-degree sky. Meteor showers in August and December are almost cheat-code spectacular, though wrap up: even July nights can dip below 12 °C once the thermals drain downhill.

Daytime activities revolve around walking boots. The circular route to Puerto de Malagosto (12 km, 450 m ascent) starts by the church, climbs through pine plantation then breaks onto open moorland where broom smells like coconut in sunshine. Allow four hours including the photo stops you'll inevitably take when vultures circle at eye level. Shorter is the hour-long ramble to the Roman causeway—more a rough cobbled ditch than a road, but historians insist it linked Segovia's aqueduct to the northern mines. Interpretation boards? None. Bring imagination or download the free leaflet from the regional tourism board before leaving home.

Rain, Mud and the Wrong Shoes

Let's not romanticise. Easter week can bring horizontal sleet, turning the unpaved lanes into ochre slides and making stone steps lethal. The village fountain still serves as car-wash for locals, so expect muddy puddles beside the photogenic trough. February half-term is quiet for a reason: some rental owners shut up shop, restaurants within 20 km keep erratic hours, and the forest tracks become axle-deep ruts. If you want guaranteed sunshine and open bars, aim for late May or mid-September when the thermometer hovers around 22 °C and wild thyme scents the air.

Access is straightforward only if you hire a car. From Madrid-Barajas it's 90 minutes up the A-1, exit 109, then country road CM-101. Public transport involves a train to Segovia (30 minutes on the AVE high-speed service) followed by a taxi at €50—book ahead because drivers don't loiter at the station hoping for obscure fares. Cycling is increasingly popular: the climb from the plain gains 400 metres in 8 kilometres, gradient peaking at 9 %, tarmac smooth and traffic negligible until Saturday afternoon when Madrid day-trippers appear in SUVs.

Leave the Plastic Flamenco at the Airport

Souvenir hunters will be disappointed, and that's the point. Orejana produces nothing for export except honey so dark it tastes like liquorice, sold in unlabelled jars from the bar counter when stocks allow. Locals are polite but not performative; don't expect folk-dance evenings or costumed photo ops. What you get instead is the sound of a single tractor echoing off granite at dawn, the sight of an elderly woman pinning washing to a line strung between balconies, the smell of oak smoke escaping a chimney that hasn't been swept since Franco's death. It is, for a night or two, an antidote to every Spanish coast cliché—no tat, no karaoke, no English breakfast. Bring a paperback, sturdy shoes and an ability to sit still. The village will handle the rest.