Condado de Castilnovo

The thermometer reads eight degrees cooler than Madrid, just 90 minutes north-west. At 1000 metres above sea level, Condado de Castilnovo sits where the central plateau fractures into the Sierra de Guadarrama, and the difference is immediate. Stone houses huddle against a wind that carries the scent of pine rather than diesel, and the horizon stretches south across wheat fields that shimmer like the North Sea in a gale.

This is sheep country, always has been. The village name remembers the medieval county that once controlled these passes, and the architecture still speaks of livestock wealth: deep doorways for driving animals into ground-floor stables, upper balconies where hay was winched up for winter feed. Seventy-odd inhabitants remain, enough to keep the bar open and the church bell ringing, not enough to stop the place feeling half-asleep even at noon.

Stone, Wind and Silence

Walk the single main street at 7 pm in October and you'll understand why painters came here before the tourists did. The limestone façades catch a light so clear it feels magnified, throwing every mason's mark into relief. Doors are painted the traditional Segovian ox-blood, now faded to the colour of dried poppies. There's no souvenir shop, no interpretive centre, just the church of San Bartolomé closing its doors after evening mass while swifts wheel overhead.

The church is worth the pause. Sixteenth-century builders used local quartzite for the buttresses, so the tower glints when the sun hits it straight. Inside, the single nave smells of beeswax and centuries of grain dust blown in during harvest festivals. The retablo is modest—no gilded excess here—but look closely at the carved grapes either side of the central panel: they're the old local variety, long since replaced in the fields by higher-yielding strains.

Outside, the plaza is paved with granite millstones discarded when the last waterwheel stopped turning in 1952. They make uneven seating for the evening paseo; local women plant plastic chairs beside them rather than risk the wobble. Someone has left a jacket on the stone cross in the centre—by morning it will have found its owner, or the owner will have found it. Things work like that.

Walking Without Waymarks

The countryside starts at the last streetlamp. A farm track drops past abandoned pigsties built into the hillside, their roofs collapsed under winter snow loads that can reach half a metre. Follow it for twenty minutes and you'll reach the Arroyo de Castilnovo, usually dry until March when meltwater turns it into a proper torrent. Cross carefully; the limestone slabs are slick with moss and locals tell of more than one twisted ankle.

From here the path climbs gently through holm oak and struggling pine, gaining 200 metres over two kilometres. The reward is a bench carved from a single beam—someone's grandfather dragged it up here decades ago—and a view that takes in four provinces on a clear day. To the north the Duratón gorge cuts a green scar across the plateau; south-west the radar dome on Peñalara glints like a second moon.

Bring water. There are fountains marked on older maps, but most dried up during the 2017 drought and haven't recovered. Mobile signal vanishes once you leave the valley, so download the track if you're wedded to GPS. Better yet, learn to read the landscape: stone walls always lead somewhere, usually back to the village or to a shepherd's hut that sells cheese on honour-system principles.

What You'll Eat (and When You'll Eat It)

The village itself offers one bar, open Thursday through Sunday, closed Monday for the weekly shop in Segovia. Order the sopa castellana and you'll get a bowl thick enough to stand a spoon in: garlic, paprika, day-old bread and a poached egg that arrives still trembling. The lamb comes from flocks that graze the slopes you walked earlier; the wine is from Valladolid, sharp enough to cut through the fat.

If the bar's shuttered, drive ten minutes to Vañes. There Casa Paco serves cochinillo on weekends only—you need to ring ahead so they can start the wood oven. A quarter portion feeds two hungry walkers and costs €22; ask for the shoulder cut if you like crackling. Vegetarians should request the judiones beans from La Granja, butter-soft and served with saffron rather than the usual morcilla.

Breakfast options are limited. The bakery closed in 2019 when the owner retired to Valladolid; now bread arrives in a white van at 9 am sharp. Miss it and you're left with packaged biscuits at the petrol station six kilometres away. Locals solve this by keeping last night's baguette and toasting it; visitors learn to set an alarm.

Seasons of Access and Avoidance

April brings almond blossom and muddy tracks that can swallow a hire car. The N-110 from Segovia is kept clear even in snow, but the final five kilometres climb 300 metres through switchbacks that ice over in January. Chains aren't legally required, yet without them you'll be sliding backwards towards the reservoir while goats watch in judgment.

June is perfect if you like heat without the crush. Temperatures peak at 28 °C instead of Madrid's 35 °C, and the stone houses stay cool until evening. By August the village empties; even the bar owner heads for the coast, leaving a nephew to serve warm beer to the handful of Dutch campervans that misunderstood the term "hidden Spain". September means mushroom permits—apply at the town hall in Sepúlveda, €5 for a day pass, and expect competition from locals who know every pine root.

Winter is serious. The first snow can fall in October and linger until March; electricity fails about once a month when the wind flings branches onto ancient cables. Book accommodation with a fireplace rather than relying on the electric heaters listed optimistically on booking sites. La Casona de Castilnovo, the gay-friendly guesthouse on the edge of the village, keeps its hearth lit from November onwards and doesn't charge extra for logs.

Leaving Without Losing the Plot

The last bus to Segovia left in 2018. Without wheels you're dependent on BlaBlaCar or the kindness of strangers, which is considerable but unreliable. Car hire from Madrid Airport runs €45 a day if you book ahead; take the A-6 and exit at Lozoyuela to avoid the toll road. Petrol is cheaper in Segovia than the motorway services, fill up before the climb.

Check out time matters. The village wakes early; by 11 am the sun is high enough to bleach the stone and the wind picks up, carrying the smell of thyme and distant sheep dip. Drive back down the switchbacks and the plateau opens again, flat as Norfolk but 600 metres higher. Condado de Castilnovo shrinks in the rear-view mirror until only the church tower remains, a quartzite spark against the brown meseta.

Come back? Perhaps. The place doesn't court return visits; it simply continues, season after season, at its own altitude and its own pace. That, ultimately, is what you drove up here to witness.