Covaleda

At 1,200 metres, Covaleda sits high enough that even August nights need a jumper. The air carries resin from half a million pines and, after 9 pm, nothing louder than a Labrador snoring outside the bar. This is the Soria upland, two hours north-east of Madrid, where the map turns dark green and the cashier in the mini-mart still weighs grapes on brass scales.

Most visitors race straight to the Laguna Negra, the glacier-scooped lake that stares back at its own granite walls like a black mirror. They park, snap, leave. Stay longer and you’ll notice the village functions for people who live here, not for people passing through. The baker opens at seven, sells out by nine. The pharmacy shuts on Thursday afternoons. If you want a souvenir, buy a block of local sheep cheese and wrap it yourself.

Forests that pay the rent

Covaleda’s timber co-operative hauls pine trunks down to the sawmill before you’ve finished your coffee. Resin cans hang like milk churns on the back of pick-ups; the smell follows them through the streets. Walk 200 metres past the last stone house and you’re on a forestry track wide enough for a lorry but shared with shepherds on Vespas. These tracks double as walking routes: way-marking is sporadic, so take the free map from the ayuntamiento or risk contouring a hillside that looks identical for six kilometres.

The classic circuit climbs to the Picos de Urbión, the province’s roof at 2,228 m. It’s a proper mountain day: 900 m of ascent, no café, and weather that can flip from T-shirt to hail inside an hour. On clear mornings you can pick out the white turbines of the Navarre wind farms 80 km away. Descend via the River Duero’s official birth – a modest puddle that grows into Portugal’s famous valley.

When the snow arrives

Winter starts in November and lingers till Easter. The N-234 stays gritted, but the last 4 km to the Laguna Negra becomes a sled run. Bring chains or book one of the two local taxis (€18 flat rate). Cross-country skiers set off from the camping ground, following the power-line clearing for 12 km of free, unsupervised terrain. Blizzards can erase the path in minutes; the Guardia Civil keep a snow-track vehicle parked behind the football pitch for good reason.

Down in the village, houses are built for cold: walls half a metre thick, chimneys wide enough to roast a goat. Restaurant dining rooms have beams blackened by 150 years of resinous smoke. Order cordero asado and you’ll get half a lamb, salty crackling and a dish of roast potatoes that taste of wood-fire. Vegetarians aren’t ignored: setas a la plancha arrive by the plateful in October, priced at whatever the morning’s haul weighed.

A pint in the pines

There are three bars. One shows La Liga on a temperamental projector, one sells live bait for trout anglers, and one – the newest – has learnt to spell “vegetarian sandwich” in chalk. None opens before noon. British campers at the nearby Camping Refugio de Pescadores praise the “proper peace” and the owner’s willingness to freeze your ice-blocks for the cool box. Pitches start at €18 including hot showers; the shop stocks UHT milk, tinned squid and Yorkshire tea smuggled back by Spanish lorry drivers.

If you’d rather a roof, the Hotel Urbión has 24 rooms, central heating that actually works, and a cellar bar where locals play cards under the head of an ibex shot in 1978. Doubles €70, breakfast extra. Cheaper are the village apartments: €55 for two, but you’ll need WhatsApp Spanish to secure the key.

Language and other hazards

English is thin on the ground. A phrase-book unlocks menus; “sin gluten” is understood, “vegan” less so. The single ATM runs out of cash at weekends – fill up in Soria. Shops close 2–5 pm; if you arrive hangry at 3 pm, the garage vending machine is your friend.

Mobile signal fades 500 metres outside the village. Download offline maps before you leave the bar Wi-Fi. Orange Spain works best; EE roaming drops to 3G on the ridge.

Getting here, getting out

Madrid airport to Covaleda is 215 km, mostly fast dual carriageway. The final 30 km twist through pine plantations where wild boar wander at dusk; hit one and you’ll discover Spanish garages charge €250 to tape a bumper. Fuel is 10 c cheaper in Soria – top up.

Without a car, take the ALSA coach from Madrid’s Estación Sur to Soria (2 h 30 min, €19), then bus 523 to Covaleda (50 min, €4). Trouble is, the connection only runs on weekdays and the lunchtime service is axed in winter. Taxis from Soria cost €60 if you haggle.

Leave time for the detour to the Fuentona de Muriel, a limestone spring so clear that trout appear to hover in mid-air. It’s 12 km away, down a lane narrow enough to scratch both wing mirrors. The pool is 30 m deep; locals say a diver once ran out of line and still hadn’t touched bottom. Swimming is banned, but on hot afternoons the shade temperature is ten degrees cooler than the Meseta – reason enough to dangle your feet.

Parting shot

Covaleda doesn’t woo you. It offers altitude, silence and calories delivered on ceramic plates. If you want flamenco or Michelin stars, stay on the motorway. If you want a village where the baker remembers how you like your coffee after two days, climb to 1,200 m and unpack a fleece. Just remember to bring cash, a Spanish phrase or two, and a car that can handle snow.