Chamartín

The 07:04 Cercanías from Madrid Chamartín station drops you 45 kilometres north-west in just under an hour, yet the temperature falls faster than the altimeter. At 1,200 metres the air carries a bite that the capital forgot to pack in its suitcase. Mobile signal flickers, diesel fumes vanish, and the only queue is a farmer moving thirty Friesians across the level crossing. Welcome to Chamartín—population 61, plus whoever arrived on the morning train.

Granite, Not Glass

Forget the Madrid neighbourhood that shares its name; this Chamartín sits in the province of Ávila, pinned to the southern flank of the Sierra de Ávila by centuries of cattle and pine. The houses are built from the same grey granite that pokes through the hillside pastures, roofs pitched steep enough to shrug off winter snow. Most doors stay shut from October to Easter; second-home owners from Madrid arrive with the swallows and leave when the central-heating bill starts to look threatening. Walk the single main street at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday and you’ll meet more sheep than people.

The parish church, Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, squats at the top of the incline like a blunt granite keep. Inside, the walls are whitewashed every spring by the same two men who ring the bell on feast days. There is no audio-guide, no gift shop, just a 17th-century wooden Christ whose polychrome is peeling in direct proportion to the devotion it still attracts. Light a candle if you wish—coins go in the metal box marked “electricidad”—but nobody is watching. The priest drives over from a neighbouring village only on Sundays; the rest of the week the building belongs to swallows and the occasional walker sheltering from hail.

Walking Without Waymarks

Chamartín makes no attempt to signpost its appeal. What it offers instead is a lattice of livestock tracks that fan out into 600 hectares of Scots pine and broom. Head north-east on the broad camino that doubles as the drove road to Navalperal de Pinares and you’ll reach the Collado de la Centella (1,520 m) in forty minutes. From the pass the view opens south across the rolling cereal plateau of Castilla y León; on clear days the silhouette of the Gredos massif floats like a cut-out 70 kilometres away. There are no interpretive panels, no selfie frames, and—crucially—no bins; take your sandwich crusts home.

Map? Optional. The cattle grids are your checkpoints, the granite boundary walls your handrails. A phone loaded with the free IGN Spain layer on ViewRanger works offline, but signal blackout zones are common once you drop into the valley heads. In May the pastures glow an almost Irish green; by late June the grass has bleached to blond and the night air stays cool enough to warrant a fleece. August walkers should start early: temperatures can still touch 34 °C in the sun, though the pine shade keeps the mercury honest. After heavy snow the same paths become cross-country ski routes; the local club marks a loop with red ribbons, but bring your own kit—there is no hire shop.

Wildlife behaves as if humans are an afterthought. Dawn and dusk are shift-change times: red deer drift across the clearing below the Abrevadero ruin, wild boar root up the verge outside the last house, and griffon vultures circle on the thermals above the limestone outcrop known locally as El Toro. Binoculars help, but patience helps more. Sit on the south-facing wall by the abandoned threshing floor and keep still; within ten minutes the forest resets to “no disturbance” mode.

Eating (Elsewhere)

Chamartín does not do lunch. The single bar that opened on Saturdays in summer closed during the pandemic and has yet to find a new tenant. Plan accordingly: pack a picnic or drive 12 kilometres down the AV-931 to El Barraco, where Mesón de la Sierra serves a lechazo (milk-fed lamb) that justifies its €22 price tag with crackling the colour of burnished mahogany. Vegetarians can console themselves with judiones—giant butter beans stewed with saffron and tomato—at La Hostería de Ávila in the capital itself on the return journey.

If you are staying overnight, self-catering is the only game in town. The village’s four holiday cottages (casas rurales) have proper ovens and fireplaces; firewood is sold by the crate from the farmer at number 28—leave cash under the stone frog by the gate if no one answers. Stock up in Ávila before you leave: the nearest supermarket is a Spar in El Hoyo de Pinares, 18 kilometres away, and it shuts for siesta between 14:00 and 17:00 with militant precision.

When the Village Throws a Party

Fiestas patronales land on the weekend closest to 15 August, when the population swells to roughly 200 and cars line the verges all the way down to the cattle grid. Events start with a Saturday-evening mass followed by a procession so short it barely leaves the church square; the statue of the Virgin does a 200-metre loop, accompanied by a lone trumpet and a drummer who learned his craft in a marching band. Afterwards, long tables appear under fairy lights and everyone pays €10 for cocido-style stew ladled from a cauldron. You are not officially invited, but no one checks credentials; bring your own cutlery and a bottle of tinto from the coop in Cebreros and you’ll be welcomed with the polite curiosity reserved for the stray guiri who bothered to show up. Dancing lasts until the generator runs out of diesel, usually around 02:30, after which silence reasserts itself like a blanket.

Getting There, Getting Out

Driving from Madrid Barajas takes 70 minutes via the A-6 and AP-51 toll road (€7.35 each way). In winter carry snow chains after November; the last 9 kilometres climb from 900 m to 1,200 m on a road that the plough reaches last. The Cercanías train is cheaper—€8.60 return—but only runs twice daily except Fridays, when a third service appears for reasons no timetable editor has ever explained. Miss the 19:02 back to Madrid and you are looking at a €70 taxi ride to the next village with a hotel.

Mobile coverage improves if you stand in the church porch, but WhatsApp voice calls still stutter. Treat the digital detox as part of the package; the granite walls have been blocking signals since long before smartphones needed them.

Chamartín will not change your life. It might, however, reset your sense of scale: a reminder that Spain still contains places where the loudest sound is a pine cone dropping on stone, and where the day’s excitement is the bread van arriving ten minutes late. Bring sturdy shoes, a sense of self-sufficiency and—crucially—a packed lunch. Then give the village the one thing it quietly asks for: the courtesy of slowing down to its cadence, even if only until the next train whistles.