Castroserna de Abajo

The church bell strikes twice and nobody stirs. Two hundred metres below, a tractor idles, then cuts out. At this altitude—996 m above the Meseta—the air thins just enough to make footsteps echo, and the only reliable traffic is the pair of resident storks who commute between the bell tower and the neighbouring cliffs.

Castroserna de Abajo sits where the high Castilian plateau fractures into the limestone gorges of the Río Duratón. From Segovia, the N-110 eastbound unrolls like a grey ribbon across wheat and sunflower fields; after 55 km a left turn at Requijada begins the final 15 km climb. The road narrows, the verges turn from tarmac to gravel, and stone walls start hugging the bends. Mobile reception flickers out long before the village sign appears.

Stone, slope and silence

Thirty-one inhabitants are registered, though on a weekday in March you will meet perhaps five. Houses are built directly onto the bedrock: two-storey, ochre limestone, Arabic tile roofs weighted with stones against the wind. Corrals for sheep and goats occupy the lower streets; dwellings perch above, reached by worn granite steps. The gradient is steep enough that front doors on the uphill side open at first-floor level, while the downhill neighbour enters at ground level. Parking is wherever the camber allows, usually beside the stone trough that still collects mountain spring water.

The Iglesia de San Pedro Apóstol anchors the summit. Medieval bones, eighteenth-century skin: a single nave, a squat tower, a doorway deep enough to shelter three farmers discussing rainfall. Inside, the baroque retablo glints with gilt paint rather than gold leaf—local craftsmen making modest means look generous. The door is locked unless you ask at the third house on the left; María Jesús keeps the key between feeding her chickens and preparing leña for the evening stove. She will apologise for the chill, then launch into a ten-minute genealogy of every stone in the building.

Walking without waymarks

There are no pay-and-display car parks, no ticket booths, no audio guides. Instead, a lattice of sheep tracks links Castroserna to its neighbours: Villar de Sobrepeña 4 km west, Arcones 6 km south-east. The GR-88 long-distance path passes within 2 km; a short detour brings you to the edge of the Hoces del Duratón, where griffon vultures rise on thermals like black kites. Binoculars are useful—on a clear April morning you can count thirty birds without moving from the limestone rim.

Spring arrives late at this height. Crocuses push through frost as late as mid-April; by May the surrounding banks are striped with wild peonies. Summer is sharp and dry—daytime 28 °C, night-time 12 °C—so bring a fleece even in July. Autumn brings the mushroom harvest; locals set off at dawn with knives and wicker baskets, and a flat wicker zahorra is still preferred to any modern rucksack. If you intend to join them, stop first at the Sepúlveda pharmacy for a €4 permit and a photocopied map of legal picking zones. Winter is serious: the road can glaze over as early as November, and chains are advised from December to February. When snow blocks the pass, the village shops at Sepúlveda (18 km) instead of Segovia.

What you can and cannot eat

There is no restaurant, no bar, no bakery. The last grocery closed in 2009; bread arrives in a white van on Tuesdays and Fridays, announced by a two-beep horn that sends dogs barking across the terraces. Self-catering is therefore compulsory, which suits the rhythm of the place: market at Sepúlveda before 11 a.m., back for lunch by two.

If you want someone else to light the fire, drive ten minutes to Sepúlveda’s Plaza Mayor. Asador de Cantarranas serves cordero lechal—milk-fed lamb roasted in a wood oven—at €24 a quarter; portions are intended for two. The house red is from Valladolid and costs €12; it arrives at the table with the price still scribbled on the cork. Vegetarians can try sopa castellana but must negotiate: the traditional version comes with chorizo and morcilla, and the kitchen views abstinence with suspicion.

Where to sleep (and why you won’t find a concierge)

Accommodation inside the village amounts to one house: Villa Lucía, a three-bedroom stone cottage restored in 2018. It sleeps eight, has underfloor heating, Wi-Fi that depends on a 4-Mbps satellite link, and a stone barbecue that the owner—Luis, lives in Madrid, answers WhatsApp within minutes—claims can handle a whole pig. Price hovers around €140 per night for the entire house; bring charcoal and olive wood because the local almacén sells only pine offcuts.

Most visitors base themselves in Sepúlveda, where medieval walls enclose a dozen guesthouses. El Zaguán occupies a sixteenth-century mansion; rooms start at €70 including breakfast (strong coffee, churros, homemade membrillo). From there Castroserna makes an easy half-day detour before driving on to the Roman aqueduct of Segovia or the black-shouldered kites of the Hoces.

The calendar that nobody prints

Festivity here is measured in decibels rather than dates. San Pedro, the last weekend of June, triples the population. A marquee goes up beside the church, a brass band arrives from Carrascal del Río, and the evening verbena drifts on until the thermometer hits 4 a.m. Revellers sleep in cars or on relatives’ floors; rooms within 30 km are booked months ahead. August brings the fiesta estival, smaller, aimed at returning emigrants who left for Madrid or Barcelona in the 1960s. Expect fireworks echoing off the gorge at midnight, and elderly men arguing over cards with the intensity of chess masters.

Outside those two weekends, the village resets to its default hush. If you arrive hoping for colour and find only shutters, nobody apologises. The place is not hiding; it is simply living.

The honest verdict

Castroserna de Abajo will not change your life. It offers no souvenir shops, no sunset yoga, no microbrewery. Mobile coverage is patchy, the water carries a limestone tang, and if you forget to buy milk on Tuesday you will drink black coffee until Friday. What it does provide is a calibration point: a reminder of how slow time can move when nobody is selling it. Stand on the escarpment at dusk, watch the vultures bank above the wheat stubble, and the silence feels almost measurable—like altitude, but for the soul.