Cabrejas del Pinar

The morning train from Madrid dumps you in Soria at 11:07; from the station forecourt you can already see the pinewaves rolling south, a darker green than any English plantation. Forty minutes up the SO-830 and you’re 1,161 metres above sea level, breathing air that carries the faint tang of resin and cold stone. Cabrejas del Pinar appears suddenly round a bend—stone roofs the colour of burnt toast, television aerials poking above the treeline like fishing rods, and not a single souvenir shop.

Three hundred and sixty residents, give or take a student who’s left for university and not come back. That’s the entire electoral roll, yet the forest feels like a much larger population. Scots pines carpet the meseta right up to the church porch; their needles deaden every footstep so that even the village dogs bark in muffled tones. Locals claim you can walk eight kilometres in any direction without crossing a tarmac road, and Ordnance Survey-minded hikers soon discover the claim is conservative.

Altitude sickness (or lack of it)

British hill-walkers arriving straight from the Pyrenees or Picos sometimes forget that the Meseta Norte is a high plateau, not a range of summits. Cabrejas sits higher than Ben Nevis’s summit cairn, yet the relief is gentle: forest tracks contour at 1,200 m, valley heads barely dip below 1,000 m. The result is mountain weather without mountain drama. In July the mercury tops 28 °C down in Soria town; up here it stalls at 23 °C and the nights drop to 12 °C—perfect sleeping-bag weather, even in August. Winter is another contract: expect snow from December to March, drifts that close the SO-820 for half a day at a time, and locals who greet the first fall with the resigned shrug of Aberdonians. Chains or winter tyres are compulsory after heavy snow; the Guardia Civil turn cars back at the portón forestal if you’re still on summer rubber.

Pack layers, not altitude pills. The only thing that will make you dizzy is the star count once the village lights switch off at 00:30 sharp—council austerity, not light-pollution conscience.

What you actually do when you get there

The green-way (Vía Verde del Cidacos) skirts the western edge of the settlement. Cyclists pedal in from the Santander ferry, legs still wobbling from Biscay swells, and collapse on the albergue’s terrace for a €16 bunk and a shower hot enough to scald barnacles. The track west climbs 250 m in 9 km—gravelly, yes, but no worse than the Pennine Bridleway; hybrids cope, carbon road bikes complain. Eastward it’s all downhill to the cereal steppe: tailwinds, wheat stubble, bustards if you’re lucky.

Walkers have the better deal. From the church square a signed path heads south-east to the nacimiento del río Abión, the modest spring where the Abión slips out of limestone and starts its 40-kilometre journey to the Douro. It’s 3 km each way, mostly under pine shade, and the pool is deep enough for a Scottish-style dunk if you don’t mind goosebumps. After rain the Chorrón waterfall, 2 km south on a sheep track, adds a 15-metre ribbon to an otherwise dry gorge; ask in the bar whether it’s running before you bother.

If you need a summit, follow the dirt road behind the cemetery to the ruins of the Castillo de Cabrejas. The fortress was abandoned in the fifteenth century and the Castilians used the stone to build sheep pens, so all that remains is a waist-high wall and a view that stretches from the Moncayo massif to the rooftops of Soria. The climb takes twenty minutes; trainers suffice, flip-flops will be punished by loose basalt.

Mushroom season—late September to early November—turns the forest into a slow-motion treasure hunt. Níscalos (saffron milk-caps) poke up through the pine needles, and locals will tell you, politely but firmly, which slopes belong to whom. Picking without a permit risks a €300 fine; permits are free from the town hall but limited to 3 kg per person per day. The Guardia patrol in unmarked 4x4s, so stash that trophy boletus discreetly in your rucksack, not your handlebar bag.

Calories and caffeine

The only bar doubles as grocer, post-office and gossip exchange. Opening hours are theoretical: 09:00-14:00, 17:00-21:00, unless Ángel decides to close early and go mushrooming himself. Bread arrives from a Soria bakery at 10:00; if you want a bocadillo for the trail, order before noon or make do with crisps. The menú del día costs €12 (cash only) and runs to three courses plus a half-bottle of local tempranillo that punches well above its €1.90-a-glass weight. Expect torreznos—crisp strips of pork belly that taste like a freshly made pork scratching—followed by sopa de ajo, a gentle garlic broth with poached egg that wouldn’t frighten a York-shire grandmother. Pudding is often pine-honey cheesecake, mildly sweet, slightly grainy, perfect with black coffee.

Vegetarians can survive but not prosper. The default alternative is a tortilla the size of a steering wheel; vegans should stock up in Soria’s Mercadona before heading uphill. There is no supermarket as Brits understand the term: the colmado stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, overpriced pasta and little else. The nearest cash machine is 36 km away in Almazán; draw euros before you leave the provincial capital or you’ll be washing dishes.

Beds and bills

Accommodation is binary. The municipal albergue has 18 bunks, spotless showers and a kitchen with two gas rings. Donations are welcome but not pressured; most cyclists leave a fiver. In summer you must book through the Soria provincial website—walk-ins are turned away when the Camino de Santiago wave hits. The only alternative is Casa Rural La Solana, three doubles and a attic suite from €65 including breakfast. The owners, Luis and Pilar, speak no English but understand “radiator on” and “what time is checkout?” perfectly.

Both places close for two weeks in January when the village empties after Three Kings’ Day. If you arrive then, bring a tent and a frost-rated sleeping bag; the Guardia won’t move you on, but they will check you haven’t lit a campfire—summer fire risk rules apply year-round.

When silence isn’t golden

Cabrejas is quiet, not silent. The sawmill on the perimeter road starts at 07:30, its bandsaw whining through pine trunks until 17:00. Hunting season—October to February—brings weekend gunfire; walkers wearing earth-coloured clothing are politely advised to stick to marked tracks. In September the fiestas patronales honour San Millán with a procession, a brass band that rehearses for three evenings beforehand, and a paella the size of a tractor tyre. If you want solitude, come the week after; if you want company, book early.

The biggest downside is the dependency on wheels. No bus serves the village on Sundays; the weekday service from Soria (dep. 15:00, ret. 07:40) is aimed at schoolchildren and vanishes in holiday periods. Without a car you are hostage to the green-way or the goodwill of passing farmers. Hitching is tolerated, not guaranteed.

Heading back down

Leave early enough and you can be in Soria for the 09:43 train to Madrid, breakfasting on churros while the city commuters are still queueing for their first cortado. The forested ridge behind you will already be shimmering in heat haze, the pines reduced to a dark green seam along the horizon. Cabrejas doesn’t do drama; it simply resets your internal clock to a quieter tick. Whether that’s worth the detour depends on how much you rate unpaved silence over cathedral checklists. Pack a map, bring cash, and expect to explain Brexit in Spanish—then the village will repay you with nights so dark you’ll remember what the Milky Way actually looks like.