Casasola

Up Among the Oaks

The thermometer on the stone wall reads eight degrees at midday in late October, though the sun feels warmer than any London afternoon. Casasola sits at 1,310 metres above sea level on the northern flank of the Sierra de Ávila, high enough that the air thins and the horizon stretches across three provinces. Granite houses huddle along lanes that follow natural ridges; there's no obvious village centre, just a slow curve of dwellings that eventually reveals the compact parish church of San Juan Bautista.

Sixty-seven permanent residents remain. Many properties stand locked through winter, their timber balconies propped with poles against mountain winds that can reach 100 km/h. The silence isn't poetic—it's practical. No café terraces, no souvenir shop, just the occasional tractor grinding up the gradient and the soft clatter of cattle grids. Mobile reception drops in and out; EE gives up entirely by the upper threshing floors.

Walking the Old Drove Roads

Paths strike out from the last house on the western edge, following stone walls built without mortar yet still standing after two centuries. These are cañadas reales, the drove routes that once channelled merino sheep between summer and winter pastures. Today they serve hikers who don't mind a bit of guesswork. The PR-AV 51 way-marking appears sporadically—a flash of yellow on a gatepost, then nothing for forty minutes—so carry the IGN 1:25,000 “Sierra de Ávila” sheet or download the free Mapas de España app before leaving Wi-Fi behind.

A steady two-hour loop climbs to the abandoned majada of Navahondilla, where stone corrals once held flocks overnight. Roe deer prints crisscross the mud; griffon vultures wheel overhead, wings motionless on the thermals. Spring brings carpets of wild narcissus and grape hyacinth; by July the same slopes bake ochre and every patch of shade is claimed by Spanish ibex watching your progress with bored expressions.

Autumn is mushroom territory. Locals guard their bolete spots, but you're free to hunt níscalos (saffron milk-caps) provided you carry the official regional permit—download form LIC-701 from the Junta de Castilla y León website, free but compulsory. The daily limit is three kilos, knife blade under four centimetres, and never touch the white-gilled varieties: the hospital in Ávila is forty-five minutes away and intensive-care beds are scarce.

Winter Rules

From December to March the AV-901 road is gritted only as far as the turning for El Barraco. Beyond that, compacted snow turns to ice and the final 6 km require chains or 4×4. The council does clear a single lane for school transport, but the bus collects children at 07:15 and returns at 14:30—miss that window and you're locked in until the farmer with the tractor decides to plough. Electricity cuts average one per month; most houses keep a fireplace and a month's worth of logs because the mountain night dives to minus twelve without drama.

Yet winter has its pay-offs. On wind-still mornings the valley fills with temperature inversion: Casasola floats above a cotton-wool sea, only church tower and television aerial visible to the occasional cross-country skier who has trekked up from the plain. Sound carries for miles; church bells from Serranillos, 8 km distant, ring as if next door.

Food Without the Fanfare

There isn't a restaurant, nor even a bar. The last grocery closed in 2009 when Doña Pilar retired; locals drive weekly to the Consum supermarket in El Tiemblo, eighteen minutes down the mountain. If you're staying in a self-catering casa rural, stock up in Ávila before you ascend—fresh milk sours faster at altitude and the nearest bakery is a 35 km round trip.

What you can taste is terroir. Village gardens produce potatoes that stay firm when stewed, purple garlic with a sweet aftertaste, and judiones (broad butter beans) that swell to the size of a fifty-pence piece. Knock on any door with sheep in the adjoining paddock and you’ll likely leave with half a kilo of lechal—milk-fed lamb—vac-packed and labelled in biro. Expect to pay around €14 per kilo, cash only, no receipt. The regional speciality, judías del Barco, needs overnight soaking and a ham bone; follow the recipe taped inside the cupboard of most rentals and you’ll understand why Castilians regard canned beans as foreign food.

Where to Lay Your Head

Accommodation is limited to three village houses converted into casas rurales, each sleeping four to six. Owners live in Madrid or Valladolid and meet guests with keys, so confirm arrival time in advance—there’s no reception desk. La Casa del Puerto (€90 per night, two-night minimum) keeps original threshing boards as wall art and underfloor heating fired by a pellet boiler; request the wood-burning salamander to be lit before you set out walking or you’ll return to stone-cold rooms. Casa Rural El Roble (€75) is simpler, with electric radiators that groan when the voltage dips, but its balcony catches the morning sun over the pine ridge. Both supply mountain-worthy duvets; night-time temperatures drop ten degrees lower than Ávila regardless of season.

The August Reckoning

For fifty weekends a year Casasola dozes, but during the fiestas of San Juan y la Virgen del Rosario—first weekend of August—the population quadruples. Emigrants return from Bilbao, Barcelona, even Bradford; generators power fairy lights strung across the lane and a sound system arrives on the back of a flat-bed. The Saturday procession starts at 19:00, priest in vestments carried from Madrid, image of the Virgin shouldered by men who spend the rest of the year fitting kitchens in Brussels. After mass, cider flows from plastic drums and a DJ plays 90s techno until the Guardia Civil turn up at 03:00 to remind everyone the livestock still need their sleep. Visitors are welcome, but there are no hotel vacancies; book a room in El Barraco or Ávila and accept that you’ll be the only person who needs Google Translate for the lyrics.

Leaving the Ridge

The descent to the A-50 motorway takes twenty-five minutes, yet altitude lingers in your ears and the scent of pine resin sticks to clothing. Casasola offers no postcard moments, no souvenir to post on Instagram. What remains is the sensation of space measured by circling vultures rather than Wi-Fi bars, and the realisation that in parts of Europe daily life still negotiates with weather, gravity and the season’s woodpile. Drive back down the switchbacks, but roll the window open on the first hairpin—up here the sierra breathes out, and you’ll carry that cooler air all the way to Madrid.