Abades

The grain lorry rattling down Calle Real at 07:30 is Abades' version of rush hour. By 08:00 the diesel note has gone and the only sound is the wind combing through the wheat that laps against the village on three sides. At 935 m above sea level the air is already thin and bright; by midday it will carry the smell of warm straw and bread from the cooperative bakery that still fires its ovens with vine prunings.

A Plateau That Forgets the Sea Exists

Stand on the church tower's narrow walkway—yes, the key is kept under a flowerpot by the sacristan's wife—and the view explains the village's logic. North-west, the Sierra de Guadarrama shows its granite teeth; south-east, the land rolls away like a黄褐色 (yellow-brown) ocean until it dissolves into summer haze. Segovia's cathedral spire pokes up fifteen kilometres distant, close enough to feel the gravitational pull of a provincial capital yet far enough for Abades to stay stubbornly agricultural.

The altitude matters. Night-time temperatures in April can dip to 4°C while Madrid, an hour away by car, is still flirting with 12°C. In July the mercury climbs to 32°C by day but plummets the moment the sun clears the western fields; jumpers are not affectation after 21:00. Winter is serious: the N-110 can glaze over with black ice before breakfast, and when the easterly cierzo wind arrives, walking the dog becomes an extreme sport.

One Church, a Handful of Houses and a Calendar Dictated by Grain

Santa María la Mayor squats at the top of the single hillock the Romans decided was worth fortifying. The building is neither cathedral nor ruin—just a sturdy, stone sermon to practicality. Inside, the late-Romanesque apse rubs shoulders with a Baroque tower added after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake shook half the province into rubble. The retable still bears the scorch marks of 1936, when someone used the nave as an improvised grain store and a lamp went over. Services are Sunday only, 11:00 sharp; the priest drives in from Coca and times his sermon to catch the 12:15 bus back.

Below the church, the village obeys a grid so tidy it could have been drawn with a set square. Streets are named after the crops that once grew beyond their front doors—Calle del Centeno, Calle de la Cebada—though rye and barley have given way to wheat and the occasional regiment of solar panels. House façades alternate between ochre adobe and the local brick that turns the colour of burnt biscuits after a decade in the sun. Many still carry the stone coat of arms of minor Hidalgo families who followed the Catholic Monarchs south in 1492 and never quite made it back to court.

Lunch at Three, Siesta at Four, Walk at Six

There are two places to eat, both on Plaza de la Constitución. Mesón Abades does a fixed-price menú del día for €14 that starts with garlic soup strong enough to stun a vampire and ends with leche frita—a Castilian habit of frying milk custard that baffles foreigners every time. Casa Segovia charges €18 and throws in a half-carafe of local Ribera that tastes better than it should. Both kitchens close at 16:00; turn up at 15:55 and you will be fed, but they will not be happy about it.

Try to book a table during the August fiestas and you will discover the village's population quadruples. The bull-run here is amateur—no professional matador, just local lads in tennis shoes sprinting ahead of two confused steers—but the council still erects a portable bar and sound system that thumps until 04:00. If you value sleep, rent a room in the attic of Casa Rural La Plaza; the stone walls are sixty centimetres thick and the owner, Marisol, hands out industrial ear-plugs with the breakfast churros.

Flat Trails, Big Skies and the Occasional Great Bustard

The agricultural access roads that radiate from the sports field are perfect for an evening plod. Distances are measured in leguas—the old Castilian league of roughly 5.5 km—because GPS struggles when the only landmark is a threshing circle built in 1932. Head south on the track signed Camino de las Eras and within twenty minutes you are alone under a sky big enough to make you check your oxygen levels. Larks rise and fall like ticker tape; with patience you may spot a great bustard tiptoeing through the stubble, a bird heavy enough to qualify as hand luggage on Ryanair.

Serious walkers can string together a 17-km loop that links Abades with the abandoned village of Revenga, passing a Roman milestone still standing in a hedge like a forgotten milepost on the A1. Take water—there is none between here and there—and start early: the plateau offers no shade, and the café in Revenga closed when the last inhabitant died in 1997.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Late April brings green wheat and white orchards; the air smells of apple blossom and diesel from the tractors spraying fungicide. Early October turns the fields to gold and the sky to cobalt; photographers swear the light is sharper than Tuscany at twice the price. Mid-August is hot, loud and booked solid; mid-January is cold, quiet and half-shut. If the forecast mentions alerta naranja for wind, rearrange your plans—driving a hire car across the exposed plateau feels like piloting a kite.

Accommodation is limited to three guesthouses and a clutch of self-catering flats converted from haylofts. Expect to pay €55–€70 for a double with breakfast, €80 during fiestas. There is no hotel because no one ever built one; the council still argues about whether tourism counts as progress or pollution.

Getting Here Without Losing Your Nerve

From Madrid Barajas, take the A-6 to Segovia, then the N-110 towards Soria. Ignore the sat-nav's temptation to follow the motorway all the way; the old national road is slower but delivers that first, improbable glimpse of the church tower rising from a sea of grain. The turn-off is signed only on a peeling white stone the size of a shoebox—blink and you are in Soria province wondering where the village went.

Buses run twice daily from Segovia's Estación de Autobuses, timed for market day and not much else. The fare is €2.40 exact change; the driver will not break a twenty. On the return journey, flag the coach down by the Repsol garage—there is no formal stop, just a gesture the locals have perfected through generations of trial and error.

Leave before sunset on your last evening and the plateau will reward you. The wheat glows like burnished copper, the church tower throws a shadow three fields long, and for a moment you understand why Castilians measure distance in days, not kilometres, and why some places prefer to be ordinary rather than remarkable.