Santa Marta del Cerro

The church bell strikes noon and the echo has nowhere to hide. Forty-five stone houses, one parish church and a dirt square absorb the sound, then give it back to the wind that rolls up from the Lozoya valley 1,000 metres below. At 1,025 m above sea level, Santa Marta del Cerro is the sort of place that makes Madrid—barely 80 km away—feel like a different continent.

A village that never quite filled out

Most British motorists reach the Segovia highlands by bombing up the A-1, peeling off at kilometre 108 and climbing the N-110 until the pines start to outnumber the oaks. The final six kilometres are single-track tarmac with passing bays; meet a tractor and someone has to reverse. The first houses appear suddenly, squared-off blocks of granite and adobe that look older than the road itself. Many are shuttered: second homes belonging to madrileños who drive up for the weekend silence, then lock the doors on Sunday night. The permanent census is 39 people; in August it might nudge 90, an invasion that empties the village bakery—except there isn’t one.

Park where the lane widens by the stone cross; no charges, no meters, no need to lock unless you’re unusually attached to your picnic blanket. The centre is 200 metres end to end and takes eight minutes to circumnavigate at funeral pace. Houses are shoulder-to-shoulder, their wooden doors painted ox-blood or faded green, iron studs still in place to deter wolves long since hunted out. Rooflines sag like old horses’ backs, but the stone is sound; these walls survived Napoleon’s troops, the 1936 civil-war skirmish that passed through the valley, and every winter since records began. Temperatures drop to –8 °C in January and can still scrape freezing on a July night—pack a fleece even for midsummer.

What passes for sights

The Iglesia de Santa Marta stands on the highest lump of rock, its modest tower visible from any approach track. Step inside (Saturday evening mass is your best chance; otherwise the priest cycles over from the next village) and you’ll find a single nave, whitewashed walls, a 17th-century pine pulpit and a statue of the patron saint that locals dress in a different shawl every July. No charge, no postcards, no audioguide—just the faint smell of beeswax and the creak of timber when the wind shifts.

Outside, the plaza is bare earth dotted with plane trees and one iron bench that lists to starboard. From the northern edge the land falls away in wheat-coloured waves; on a clear evening you can pick out the slate roofs of Pedraza 12 km to the south-east and, further still, the blue corrugated line of the Sierra de Guadarrama. Photographers arrive hoping for drama, but the appeal is subtler: a canvas that changes colour every hour, from biscuit at noon to pinkish ochre before dusk, the shadows of clouds sliding across it like slow fish.

Walk fifty paces east and the houses stop. A stone water trough, still fed by a spring, marks the start of the drove road to Carrascosa del Campo. This is where the village ends and the meseta begins; beyond lies nothing but holm oaks, junipers and the occasional Iberian magpie telling you off for trespassing.

Moving on foot or pedal

Santa Marta makes a handy launch pad for half-day rambles that feel longer than they are. The GR-88 long-distance footpath skirts the village, following medieval livestock routes between Segovia and Madrid province. Head north-west for 40 minutes and you’ll reach the abandoned hamlet of La Mata, its church roof long gone but the bread oven still intact—bring a sandwich and pretend you’re inspecting a Roman ruin. Serious walkers can continue to the cherry-growing village of Lozoya, 14 km away, then phone for a taxi back; signal permitting, which it often isn’t.

Mountain-bikers find the same web of farm tracks more rewarding. gradients rarely top 8 %, but the aggregate surface is loose and the cattle grids unforgiving if approached sideways. A 30-km loop south to Pedraza, then west via Navafría’s Roman road and back over the 1,200 m Puerto de la Quesera, gives you thigh burn and panoramic pay-off without venturing into Tour-de-France territory. Carry two litres of water; the only fountain after Santa Marta is in Sotosalbos, 11 km on.

The edible side—plan ahead

There is no shop, no bar, no petrol pump and no cash machine. Zero. The last grocery van rattled through sometime in the 1990s and never returned. Self-caterers should stock up in Sepúlveda—25 minutes by car—where the Día supermarket sells local Segovia beans (judiones, the size of a child’s thumb) and a respectable Rueda white for €6. If you arrive empty-handed, the closest edible rescue is Carrascosa del Campo: Bar La Cruz does a three-course menú del día for €12, featuring roast lamb that falls off the bone at the sight of a fork, but opening hours obey the farmer’s clock—lunch finishes at 4 pm sharp, evening tapas appear only when someone remembers to switch the lights on.

Come July, the village suspends its hibernation for the fiesta de Santa Marta. A marquee goes up in the square, a cuadrilla of volunteers hauls out amplifiers older than the DJ, and the population quadruples overnight. The high point is the encierro de vaquillas—not Pamplona’s lethal stampede but half a dozen heifers trotted through straw-bale alleyways while teenagers show off their bravado. Outsiders are welcome, though you’ll be counted as novelty value rather than target market. Bring your own beer; the temporary bar runs on honesty and the queue is shorter if you volunteer to pull pints.

Where to lay your head

Accommodation inside the village limits is essentially one house: El Mirador de la Pinilla, a four-bedroom stone manor on VRBO with beamed ceilings, a wood-burning stove and a roof terrace that stares straight into the Sierra. It sleeps ten, costs around €220 a night mid-week and books out early for October mushroom season. Alternatives lie 15–20 km away—Hostal Puerto in Lozoyuela does clean-enough doubles for €45, but walls are wafer-thin and the owner forgets to switch the heating on before you arrive. For something smarter, the Mirasierra hotel outside Sepúlveda has underfloor heating, a pool overlooking wheat fields, and doubles from €120 if you haggle by email.

Weather warnings and winter realities

Spring brings almond blossom and the risk of a sudden easterly that can shave ten degrees off the forecast. Autumn is the sweet spot: mild days, crisp nights, and the chance of porcini popping up under the pines—locals guard their patches, so photograph, don’t pocket. Snow arrives from December onward; the council grades the access road, but after 20 cm it reverts to a bob-sleigh run. Chains or 4×4 are sensible between December and March; without them you may spend the night practising Spanish swearwords in a drift.

Should you bother?

Santa Marta del Cerro will never tick the “must-see” box. It offers no souvenir shops, no Michelin stars, no sunrise yoga on a paddleboard. What it does give is a calibration point for anyone who suspects Spain has forgotten how to whisper. Arrive expecting silence, self-sufficiency and the smell of wet granite after rain, and you’ll drive away refreshed. Arrive hungry for nightlife or Wi-Fi and you’ll be asleep by 9 pm, if not 7. The village isn’t hiding; it simply never learned to shout.