Nava De Bejar

The first thing you notice is the hush. Stand on the plaza at 08:00 and the only sound is a loose stable door creaking in the breeze that rolls off the Sierra de Béjar. No tractors yet, no bar stools scraping—just the village breathing at 1,000 m, high enough for the air to feel rinsed and for Madrid’s heat to seem like someone else’s problem.

Nava de Béjar sits where the meseta tilts sharply toward the Central System. Salamanca’s wheat fields end here; beyond the last stone wall, the road corkscrews upward to the ski station of La Covatilla and, eventually, to the 2,400 m ridge that keeps Atlantic weather out and Castilian winters in. The result is a place that changes colour every fortnight: luminous green after April showers, parched gold by late July, then a slow-motion fireworks display of oaks and sweet chestnuts through October.

Stone, Timber and a Church that Keeps the Time

Forget postcard perfection—this is a working village of 500 souls, neat but not manicured. The parish church of San Juan Bautista squats at the top of the slope, its tower clock five minutes fast because the sacristan likes to hurry people along for mass. Walls are granite, roofs are slate, and every second doorway still has the iron latch a shepherd could work with one hand while holding a lantern in the other. There is no interpretation centre, no audio guide; you read the village by looking: 1789 chiselled into a lintel here, a wooden balcony sagging like an old saddle there. The whole loop takes forty minutes if you dawdle.

Side lanes funnel into vegetable plots protected by low stone terraces. On Saturdays you’ll see villagers carrying straw baskets of lettuces bigger than side plates—produce that will reappear on lunch tables as “ensalada de la huerta” for €6 in the only bar that opens year-round. The owner, Jesús, pours beer with the foam scraped level, Andalusian style, and keeps a battered A–Z of the UK under the counter; he once worked in a Nottingham mushroom farm and likes to practise on stray Brits.

Paths that Used to Be Trade Routes

Walk south past the last street lamp and the tarmac gives way to a stone track that once carried wool from the high pastures to Béjar’s textile mills. Today it makes an easy two-hour circuit: follow the red-and-yellow waymarks, cross the stone bridge over the Cuerpo de Hombre stream, then climb gently through ash and cherry plantations. The gradient is forgiving—about 200 m of ascent spread over 5 km—so you can still hold a conversation while gaining a vantage point that takes in the whole of the Béjar basin. Snow caps appear on the horizon from November onward; by February the ridge looks like someone has run a chalk line along the sky.

Mountain-bikers can string together a 30 km loop linking Nava, Baños de Montemayor and the chestnut forests of Candelario. The roads are smooth, traffic is farm-level light, but gradients touch 10 % in places—bring winter legs even in May. If the summit road to La Covatilla is open (check the webcam before setting off), hire bikes in Béjar for €25 a day; the climb is 14 km at 5 %, nothing like the Alps, yet the 360-degree view from the top car park feels earned.

Weather that Forgets to Read the Forecast

At this altitude, seasons behave. May mornings can start at 6 °C even while the Meseta bakes at 30 °C; by 11:00 you’re in shirtsleeves, but the air keeps a snap that makes a second coffee essential. Winter is serious: the road from the A-62 can ice over after dusk, and villagers keep sacks of grit by their gates. If you’re driving from Madrid between December and March, collect snow chains at the airport—hire companies don’t always volunteer them. When snow closes the high pass, Nava becomes a cul-de-sac; the diversion via Candelario adds 35 minutes, longer if a lorry has jack-knifed.

Summer, by contrast, is a revelation. At 22:00 the thermometer hovers around 18 °C, perfect for sitting outside without the citronella brigade. Swifts race between the eaves, and the smell of charcoal drifts from backyard barbecues. Accommodation is scarce—three village houses offer rooms on a word-of-mouth basis—so most visitors base themselves in Béjar, ten minutes down the hill, and drive up for the evening cool.

What Arrives on the Plate

Lunch starts late and finishes later. The weekday menú del día in the village bar is €12 for three courses, bread and a quarter-litre of house wine: judiones beans stewed with pork cheek, followed by patatas meneás (potatoes smashed with paprika and streaky bacon) and a slab of almond cake. Vegetarians get eggs scrambled with wild mushrooms; vegans should probably pack sandwiches. Everything tastes of the altitude—butter beans the size of squash balls, tomatoes that have never seen a hothouse.

If you want choice, head to Béjar’s Calle de la Paloma on a Friday night. Order tostón bejarano—slow-roast pork shoulder scored into crunchy squares—and a ration of Guijuelo jamón carved off the bone in front of you. The ham is sweeter than Italian prosciutto, less salty than the stuff sold in UK supermarkets, and the locals treat it like fine whisky: sniff first, chew slowly, no lemon, no bread.

When the Village Throws a Party

Fiestas patronales kick off on the last weekend of August. The programme is pinned to the church door only a week beforehand, but it always follows the same rhythm: Saturday evening brass band, Sunday morning procession with the statue of San Juan, then paella for 200 cooked in a pan the diameter of a tractor tyre. Visitors are welcome—someone will press a plastic cup of wine into your hand whether you understood the invitation or not. Fireworks echo off the granite walls until 02:00; if you need sleep, close the shutters and accept that earplugs are part of the deal.

Autumn brings the castañada: chestnuts roasted over open fires in the plaza, free to anyone who helps peel. November mornings smell of wood smoke and caramelised husks; by afternoon the wind has scoured the sky to a hard blue, and the first snow warning appears on the road signs.

Getting There, Getting Out

From the UK, fly to Madrid, then take the ALSA coach from Estación Sur to Béjar (2 h 30 min, €19 single). Hire cars are quicker—M4 to A-50, exit at Guijuelo, follow the N-630 north for 35 min—but remember the chain rule in winter. There is no railway; Salamanca’s station is 75 km away on a mountain road that can fog over without warning. Buses between Béjar and Nava run twice daily except Sunday, when you’ll need a taxi (€12) or stout legs.

Stay in Béjar if you want a hotel invoice; stay in Nava if you’re happy with a house key handed over by María, who will also sell you a bottle of her husband’s homemade orujo for €8. Either way, bring cash—€50 notes provoke sighs, and card machines freeze when the temperature drops below zero.

Leave before dawn on your final day and you’ll see the lights of the Meseta stretching south like a second sky. The village will already be awake; someone will be loading hay, someone else sweeping yesterday’s chestnut shells into a neat pile. Nava de Béjar doesn’t do goodbyes—it just gets on with the next season.