San Leonardo de Yagüe

The smell hits first. Not sea salt or frying garlic, but resin. Hot pine needles release it in waves across the meseta, 1,039 metres above sea level, where San Leonardo de Yagüe sits ringed by one of Europe’s largest wild-pine forests. From the CA-128 approach road the village looks like a stone ship adrift in a green ocean; only the twin towers of the Iglesia de San Leonardo Abad break the treeline.

This is Castilla y León’s interior, halfway between Soria and Burgos, where human settlement feels provisional. Just over 2,000 residents share the municipal boundaries with roe deer, short-toed eagles and, in October, armies of mushroom pickers who appear at dawn with permits clipped to rucksacks and knives sharpened for níscalos. The pine woods—pinares—aren’t a backdrop here; they are the local economy, the thermostat and the clock. When the logging trucks rumble through at first light, café con leche appears on the bar counters. When the saws fall silent for siesta, so does the village.

A town that timber built

Walk the grid of stone houses and you can still read the forestry story. Upper beams are hand-hewn pine, darkened by a century of smoke. Ground-floor doorways are wider than modern garages: once they admitted ox-carts piled with trunks bound for the sawmills that stood where the municipal car park is today. The mills closed in the 1980s, yet the architecture hasn’t forgotten. Even the new-build chalets on the northern edge mimic the original proportions, though their timber now arrives shrink-wrapped from Galicia.

The river Ucero, shallow enough to wade in late summer, slices under a single-lane bridge and past the old laundry slabs where women once beat sheets against stone. The slabs are smooth as marble; the current still carries soap suds on Sunday mornings when smaller households prefer the outdoor ritual to electric machines. Stand here at dusk and you may see a heron lift off from the poplars, indifferent to the traffic that amounts to two cars and a tractor.

Castle in the clouds, castle in trouble

Three kilometres north, up a cattle-track that turns to dust, the Castillo de San Leonardo keeps watch from a limestone ridge. The fortress is free to enter, open all hours, and officially “spectacular”. It is also derelict. Parapets end in mid-air; staircases stop at voids. British visitors appreciate being able to park right beside the ruin—no shuttle bus, no gift shop—but are startled by the emptiness. Beer cans glint between the stones, and the interpretive panel was nicked years ago. Bring a torch if you want to explore the lower chambers; the drop is sheer and there are no barriers, only the wind. Sunrise is worth the early start: the pinares float below like a dark cloud, and the Sierra de Urbión shows its snowcaps. Just watch your footing; the sandstone crumbles like stale cheese.

Back in the village, the church of San Leonardo Abad offers the opposite sensation. The thick walls and modest façade give little away, but push the heavy door at 11 a.m. and you’ll catch the nave glowing with saffron light through 17th-century grisaille. The altarpiece is provincial Baroque—gilded but not garish—and someone always leaves fresh gladioli beneath the statue of the saint who, legend says, once freed prisoners here during the Reconquista. The keyholder lives opposite the ayuntamiento; if the church is locked, knock twice.

Walking without waymarks

Forget themed trails with colour-coded arrows. Around San Leonardo you follow forestry tracks that peter out into clearings where roe deer watch, ears swivelling. The most straightforward route heads south along the Ucero for 5 km to the abandoned hamlet of Hontoria del Pinar: stone roofs collapsed, apple trees still fruiting. Allow two hours there and back; the path is flat but stony—proper walking shoes, not flip-flops. In May the undergrowth glows with white broom; by mid-July everything smells of baked pine and you’ll crave the shade. October brings the mushroom inspector: forest guards check permits at random, and fines start at €300 for a basketful of boletus without paperwork. Pick up the free permit form in the ayuntamiento; the clerk processes it while you finish your coffee.

Cyclists find 40 km of quiet asphalt loops radiating through the pinares. Gradients rarely top 5 %, yet the cumulative ascent sneaks past 600 m if you join the dots between Quintanarraya and Navaleno. Road bikes suffice; mountain bikers can cut onto fire roads, though the surface is loose shale after rain. A handy bailout is the train station at El Burgo de Osma—33 km south—where the regional rail accepts bikes without reservation.

What lands on the table

British palates fare better here than on the coast. Sunday menú del día—€14 at Mesón San Blas—starts with garlic soup thickened by a poached egg, followed by roast suckling pig the size of a postcard, crackling already scored. Chips arrive in a separate dish so you can regulate the grease. Vegetarians get a break with pimientos de Soria, long sweet peppers stuffed with mushroom rice and drizzled with piquant olive oil. Pudding is homemade cheesecake, the top scorched like a Basque burnt cream. Wine is included; the house tinto smells of pine bark and tastes better than its plastic carafe suggests. Kitchens close at 3.30 p.m. sharp—arrive late and you’ll be offered crisps and apology.

For lighter bites, Bar Pilar does a respectable torreznos platter: pork-belly strips twice-fried until they puff like pork scratchings, soft within. Locals dunk them in spicy tomato sauce; Brits usually reach for the beer. Cards are refused under €20, so keep cash. If you need supplies for walking, the Supermercado Central opens 9 a.m.–2 p.m., stocks mature Manchego at €16 a kilo and will cut you a wedge thick enough to survive a daypack.

Seasons of solitude

Spring is the sweet spot. Daytime temperatures nudge 18 °C, nights drop to 5 °C, and the pines release pollen that drifts like sulphur in the headlights. Wild irises appear along the Ucero; storks heading north ride thermals above the castle. Accommodation choices are thin: Hotel Manrique de Lara has twelve rooms, English-speaking owners, doubles from €65 including garage parking. They’ll lend walking notes photocopied from the 1985 forestry survey—more accurate than any modern app.

Summer brings Spanish families escaping the searing plateaux further south. Even then the village never feels crowded; the real pressure is twenty minutes away at the Cañón del Río Lobos, where coach parties queue for selfies at the ermita. Autumn is mushroom madness—book rooms early. Winter is serious: January averages –2 °C at midday, snow can block the CA-128 for hours, and the hotel shuts in February. If you do arrive in deep winter, bring chains and expect radiators ticking like metronomes through the night.

Leaving the forest

San Leonardo de Yagüe won’t coax you with souvenir tea-towels or flamenco nights. Its appeal is simpler: a working village happy to let you orbit while it gets on with logging, lambing and lentil stew. Spend two days and you’ll recognise the same faces at the bar, the same dogs sprawled across the plaza. Spend three and the barman remembers you prefer your coffee in a glass, not a cup. The forest, meanwhile, keeps its distance—close enough to smell, vast enough to swallow sound. Drive away at dusk and the pines close ranks in the rear-view mirror, the castle silhouette shrinking to a broken tooth. Somewhere behind, the river keeps washing the laundry slabs, indifferent to who stopped by.