Cabeza De Bejar La

The Road That Switches Back Reality

The SA-203 doesn't mess about. Twelve kilometres of tight hairpins climb 600 metres from the market town of Béjar to a ridge where the air thins and phone signal flickers. Just when the engine begins to complain, stone houses appear, wedged between oak scrub and a horizon that suddenly includes three provinces. This is La Cabeza de Béjar – literally the "head" of the Sierra – and the change in altitude brings a change in tempo. Even on a July afternoon, the temperature drops four degrees; in January, the same road ices over and locals chain up without drama.

Nobody arrives by accident. The village sits at 1,050 metres, high enough for altitude headaches if you dash uphill from sea-level Madrid, yet low enough that holm oaks still outnumber pines. The surrounding pastureland belongs more to the flat meseta than the jagged north, but glance east and the Sierra de Béjar proper muscles up towards the ski station of La Covatilla. What you get, then, is a halfway house: mountain weather without full mountain logistics, meadow walks within sight of proper peaks.

Stone, Storks and Saturday Bread

Drop into the only grocery-cum-bakery before eleven or the bread board is empty. The woman behind the counter will ask "de ayer o de hoy?" – yesterday's loaf keeps longer for picnics, today's cracks open with steam. Either way, the till still rings analogue and the total is rounded to the nearest five cents. Outside, white storks clatter on the church bell-tower; their nests overhang the plaza like untidy student flats. The tower itself is fifteenth-century, plain, the colour of weathered toast, and locked unless you know Martín, the sacristan, who lives two doors down from the green-fronted house with geraniums.

Houses here are built for cold. Walls a metre thick keep July heat out and January wood-smoke in. Peek through an open portal and you'll see a tractor parked beside a grape vine, both sharing shade with a stack of oak logs priced at €45 the carga – enough, say locals, for a fortnight of proper heating. There is no architectural set piece, no plateresque façade to photograph; instead, the pleasure is cumulative: the way stone slowly blackens where rainwater drips, how every balcony holds a different pattern of wrought-iron, why the 1950s ceramic street-name tiles never quite line up. It is everyday Spain, laminated by height and time.

Walking Without Waymarks

Maps inside the tourist office – open Tuesday and Thursday, morning only – show six signed footpaths. In practice, paint blisters off faster than the council renews it. Better to buy the 1:50,000 Sierra de Béjar sheet from the tobacconist and enjoy sanctioned vagueness. South-west, a farm track drops through dehesa to the abandoned hamlet of Valdelatranca: two empty barns, a bread oven sprouting nettles, silence broken only by cowbells. Allow ninety minutes down, slightly longer back up if the sun is high. Spring brings carpets of pink cistus and the risk of ticks – long trousers recommended.

North-east, a stiffer three-hour loop climbs to the Puerto de Vallejera (1,350 m) where the view opens to the ski slopes and, on clear days, the granite wall of Gredos. The path is an old drove road; locals still drive goats along it in June, raising dust that smells of thyme and hot pine. Take water – there is none en route – and start early: afternoon cloud build-up can turn a pleasant ramble into a dash through thunder.

Cyclists find the same tracks rideable on a gravel bike, though chunky tyres help where tractors have cut potholes into bedrock. Road riders usually plot a circuit south to Candelario and back via the SA-520, a 42-kilometre roller-coaster with 800 metres of climb and almost zero traffic before the weekend.

What (and When) to Eat

Expect no tasting menus. The single bar-restaurant, Casa Curro, opens at seven for coffee, shuts at three, reopens at eight, and closes entirely on Mondays. A set lunch – salad, judiones (butter-bean stew), plate of roast lamb, wine, pudding – costs €14. Portions are farmhand generous; ask for medio ración if you prefer walking afterwards rather than waddling. Evening tapas run to patatas meneás (paprika-spiked mash topped with fried egg) and morcilla sweetened with onion. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and ensalada mixta; vegans should have packed lunch.

For picnic supplies, the bakery sells a dense almond biscuit called hojaldre that keeps for days. Pair it with a €3.50 wheel of honey-cured goat cheese from the Saturday farmer who parks his van beside the church. If you need anything more exotic – oat milk, fresh coriander – drive down to Béjar's Mercadona before you come up the mountain.

Winter Fires and Summer Fiestas

January's feast of San Antón is the insider event. At eleven on the dot, villagers lead horses, dogs and the occasional pet rabbit to the church door for a splash of holy water and a fistful of rosemary. The priest keeps it brief – thermometers often read zero – then everyone drifts across the road for free churros and chocolate thick enough to stand a spoon in. Visitors are welcome, though photography during the blessing is frowned upon.

August turns the place inside out. Emigrants return; cars with Barcelona and Madrid plates choke lanes barely two donkeys wide. A cover band plays Spanish indie from a portable stage, fireworks rattle off the surrounding slate, and teenage boys compete at calva – a game involving throwing horseshoes at a peg, much drinking of beer, and almost no female participants. Accommodation trebles in price; book early or time your escape to the coast.

Snow is not village snow – it rarely lies thick – but the backdrop turns postcard white. Daytime highs hover at 6 °C; nights drop to –5 °C. Most houses rely on wood or bottled gas; if you rent, check the cost of logs is included or you'll face a €60 surprise. The SA-203 is gritted, but ice patches linger in shadow; carry chains or opt for winter tyres – hire companies at Madrid charge €12 a day.

Beds, Bills and Bad Phone Signal

Staying put means self-catering. Casa Rural La Cabeza sleeps six, has proper central heating and charges £90 a night regardless of season. Keys are left in a coded box; the owner, María Jesús, WhatsApps instructions in Spanish but answers Google-translated English. If you prefer a reception desk, the three-star Puerta de la Sierra down in Béjar has a pool, underground garage and staff who switch to English without wincing – £75 B&B mid-week.

Cash is king. The village has no ATM; the nearest is a Santander on Béjar's main square that charges €2.50 on UK cards and runs out of notes at weekends. Phone coverage is patchy: Vodafone picks up 4G on the plaza; EE users often roam onto Spanish networks with one bar and sudden roaming charges. Download offline maps before you set off.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

There is nothing to buy except everyday life. No craft shop, no guided tour, no certificate proclaiming you survived the climb. What La Cabeza de Béjar offers instead is altitude-adjusted time: longer shadows, colder dawns, the sound of your own boots on a dirt track that hasn't made it onto a brochure. If that sounds like too little, stay in Salamanca and tick the cathedral. If it sounds like just enough, fill the tank, pocket the bakery's last loaf and point the car uphill before the siesta shutters close.