Pinedas

The thermometer reads eight degrees cooler than Salamanca city, just forty-five minutes down the road. At 940 metres above sea level, Pinedas sits high enough for the air to sharpen lungs accustomed to sea-level Britain, yet low enough that mobile reception still works—most days. This is Castile's high plateau in microcosm: cereal fields roll to every horizon, stone houses huddle against Atlantic winds, and the night sky performs with an intensity that makes rural Norfolk feel light-polluted.

Morning arrives with a particular quality here. Between October and March, mist pools in the hollows like milk in a saucer, leaving the village marooned above a cotton-wool sea. By 10 a.m. the sun burns through, revealing the Sierra de la Demanda's distant outline—your only reminder that these apparently flat plains ripple into proper mountains two hours north. The altitude means winters bite: temperatures dip to –8 °C, pipes freeze, and the single daily bus from Salamanca sometimes fails to make the climb. Summer compensates with dry, breathable heat; nights stay cool enough to justify packing a jumper even in August.

Stone, Adobe and the Smell of Thyme

No single monument demands admission. Instead, the entire village operates as an open-air museum of Castilian building logic. Granite footings support adobe walls the colour of digestive biscuits; pan-tiles warp with age, creating zebra-striped shadows across rooflines. Notice the wooden doors, each one a different width—evidence of medieval plots carved by hand, not planner. Iron knockers shaped like rope twists still work, though most locals now use the side entrance opening onto their vegetable patch.

The fifteenth-century church anchors the main square, its tower rebuilt hastily after lightning struck in 1784. Inside, the altarpiece retains traces of vermilion paint where nineteenth-century restorers got carried away. More interesting are the smaller touches: a stone basin for blessing the fields before planting, a wooden hatch through which the priest once passed food to travelling shepherds. Sunday Mass at 11 a.m. still draws thirty regulars; visitors are welcome but expected to stay for the entire twenty-five minutes—no early exits without a diplomatic cough.

Walk twenty metres west and you hit the village's original threshing floor, a circular stone platform now colonised by wild fennel. From here the Camino de los Arrieros sets off, an unsignposted but clear track that shepherds used to move sheep between winter and summer pastures. Follow it for ninety minutes and you reach an abandoned quartz mine; glittering shards crunch underfoot, tempting amateur geologists to overweight suitcases on the return flight.

Calories and Carbohydrates at Altitude

Pinedas does not do delicate. Portions arrive sized for people who have walked behind a plough all morning. The bar opposite the church—name painted over so many times it reads simply BAR—opens at 7 a.m. for farmers and keeps serving until the last dice player leaves. Order a pincho de morcilla: the blood sausage is local, spiced with onion and pine nuts rather than the paprika blast common farther north. A thick slice costs €2.50 and comes with bread baked thirty kilometres away in Béjar, still crusty at 4 p.m.

Ask for the menú del día (weekdays only, €12) and you receive soup thick enough to stand a spoon in, followed by judiones—giant butter beans stewed with pork cheek and a bay leaf the size of a tobacco leaf. Vegetarians get patatas a la importancia, potatoes fried, then braised in saffron stock until they swell like fat golden cushions. Pudding is usually leche frita, squares of custard fried in olive oil and dusted with cinnamon sugar; cardiologists look away.

The village shop doubles as the post office and opens three mornings a week. Stock up here on hornazo, a meat-stuffed pie originally designed for field workers who needed lunch to survive a nine-hour threshing shift. One wedge feeds two hungry walkers; eaten cold on the village bench it tastes better than many London restaurant lunches, though crumbs will attract the resident stork pair who nest on the church tower and clack their beaks like castanets whenever food appears.

Walking Without Waymarks

Official hiking maps stop at the municipal boundary, which suits Pinedas fine. Locals use drystone walls and water troughs as navigation aids. A sensible circuit: head south past the last house, take the track that smells of crushed thyme, fork left at the abandoned era (threshing circle), then swing back via the pine plantation planted during Franco's reforestation drive. The loop is 7 km, gains 200 m, and delivers 360-degree views of cereal oceans. Buzzards circle overhead; the only soundtrack is wind hissing through phone wires.

Spring brings colour: crimson poppies splashed across wheat green so bright it hurts retinas. In May the government opens the vía verde, a disused railway bed converted to cycle path; bikes can be hired in Salamanca for €18 a day if you pre-book. The gradient is gentle enough for families, though carry spare inner tubes—thorny burnet shrubs puncture tyres with medieval enthusiasm.

Winter walking needs preparation. Ice lingers in north-facing gullies until midday; paths become cattle-churned ribbons of mud. Waterproof boots with ankle support are non-negotiable, and a thermos of coffee in the rucksack elevates you to instant local-hero status when shared at the fuente (spring) halfway round.

When the Village Closes

Let's be candid: Pinedas does not bustle. The population hovers around 5000 on paper, but many residents are registered for voting yet live in Madrid or Valladolid. Between January and Easter some streets feel semi-abandoned; the bar reduces its hours and the bakery truck visits only on Tuesdays. If you crave nightlife beyond the clink of dominoes, base yourself in Salamanca and visit on a day trip—last return coach leaves at 7 p.m.

Mobile data can vanish for hours when the single mast freezes. Wi-Fi exists in the ayuntamiento (town hall) square, password posted on the door, but bandwidth copes with WhatsApp only, not Zoom. Bring cash: the nearest ATM is twelve kilometres away in Villoria, and the bar's card machine works when Jupiter aligns with Mars.

Yet the flip side is silence so complete you hear your own pulse. On cloudless nights the Milky Way arches like spilled sugar; shooting stars arrive every few minutes. Orion appears upside-down to British eyes—another reminder that you are, in fact, abroad.

Plan for two nights, three if you intend serious walking. Stay in one of the four village houses registered with the regional tourist board (expect €70 a night for a two-bedroom cottage, firewood included). The owners leave a key under a flowerpot and invoice via PayPal when you get home—rural Spain has discovered online banking, just about.

Drive, or hire a car at Valladolid airport (two hours) or Madrid (two-and-a-half). Public transport demands patience: Monday-to-Friday bus from Salamanna's Estación de Autobuses at 2 p.m., returning 6 a.m. next day—fine for insomniacs, useless for everyone else. Trains reach only as far as Salamanca; from there, shared taxis operate if you ring a day ahead (€25 per seat, minimum three passengers).

Pack layers, sturdy shoes, and a sense of temporal elasticity. Pinedas will not entertain you; it will slow you until entertainment becomes unnecessary. When the church bell strikes nine and the village lights switch off street by street, you will understand why Castilians measure distance not in kilometres but in horas de andar—walking hours. Adjust your watch accordingly.