Mancera de Arriba

The granite church bell strikes eleven and the only other sound is a tractor grinding through second gear somewhere beyond the stone houses. At 930 metres above the Castilian plateau, Mancera de Arriba is already warm in May, but the air carries the thin snap of pine and damp earth that reminds you the Sierra de Ávila begins here. Seventy souls live in the village; when a silver hatchback appears, heads turn because the number plate is from the next province, and everyone knows the car doesn't belong.

A village that looks down on the meseta

The name means exactly what it says: the "upper" Mancera, differentiated from lower, newer settlements that sprouted along the road to the provincial capital 40 minutes away. The place sits on the first proper ridge south of Ávica, where wheat fields give way to heather-coloured broom and the granite outcrops start to muscle through the soil. It is not dramatic scenery – no soaring peaks or cliff-edge monasteries – but rather the moment when the plateau remembers it is supposed to become a mountain range.

Traditional houses are built from the same grey-pink stone, their rooflines sagging like tired eyelids after centuries of snow and sun. Adobe walls the colour of weak coffee fill the gaps where stone ran out, and wooden doors still carry the iron studs that once deterred wolves and deserters. A slow circuit of the single main street and its two short tributaries takes twenty minutes; linger longer and you will notice details that architects travel hundreds of kilometres to sketch: a forge window converted into a letter box, a bread oven now storing seed potatoes, the date 1789 carved upside-down because the mason was paid in wine.

The parish church of San Andrés keeps its own time. The door is thick enough to stop a battering ram and opens only for Mass on Sundays and the occasional funeral. Step inside when it is unlocked and the temperature drops five degrees; the single nave smells of candle wax and the floor bows gently towards the altar as if the whole building is genuflecting. There is no ticket desk, no laminated guide, just a printed sheet that says the font is fifteenth-century and the bell was recast in 1948 after it cracked during Holy Week.

Walking country where the paths have no names

Leave the church square by the upper lane and within five minutes the tarmac turns to a granite-rutted track that the locals still call "el carril de los moros". From here a network of unsignposted footpaths radiates across dehesa pasture and scrub, good for two hours or a full day depending on how much water you remembered to bring. Markers are scarce: the occasional stripe of faded yellow paint, a cairn where the route crosses bare rock, the smell of wild thyme to tell you the path is well used. A moderate circuit heads south-east to the "Risco de las Culebras", a whale-backed ridge where smooth boulders provide natural armchairs and the views stretch south towards the Gredos massif, still wearing a streak of snow into June.

Spring brings carpets of grape-hyacinth and the clatter of storks returning to nest on electricity pylons. Autumn is mushroom season; locals with wicker baskets disappear into the pine plantations at dawn and reappear at coffee time, tight-lipped about whether they found anything. Summer is hot, but nights cool to 12 °C even in July, so pack a fleece if you plan to stay out for sunset. Winter is when the village remembers it was built for survival: the road can ice over, the elderly burn almond prunings day and night, and the only bar shortens its hours to "when we feel like it".

Where lunch depends on someone's mother

There is no shop. There is no cash machine. The single bar, Casa Manolo, opens at ten for coffee, serves a menú del día if Manolo's sister feels like cooking, and closes when the last customer leaves. On a good day the choice is potato soup, roast lamb and a quarter-litre of house red for €11. On a bad day you get a bag of crisps and directions to the next village. Bring cash; the card reader works only when the generator is on, and that is never guaranteed.

Picnickers should stock up in Sanchorreja, 12 km back down the hill, where the ultramarinos will make sandwiches to order and sell you a plastic cup of gazpacho with a straw. If you ask nicely they will lend you a corkscrew, but they want it back the same afternoon. Drinking water in Mancera itself comes from a public fountain at the lower end of the street; the sign says "agua potable" and the locals fill 5-litre jugs there, yet the taste is heavily mineral – fine for cooking, less charming in tea.

Beds, or the lack of them

The village contains no hotel, no pension, not even a room above the bar. The nearest accommodation is in Burgohondo, 18 km west along a road that narrows to a single lane between stone walls. The Hostal El Pontón has six rooms, all with bathrooms added in the 1990s and towels that could sand varnish off a table. Expect to pay €45 for a double including breakfast of churros, coffee and orange juice from a carton. Alternatively, the regional capital Ávila is 45 minutes by car and offers everything from Parador luxury to student hostels, but then you miss the night sky that the altitude delivers – Milky Way in HD, no light pollution, shooting stars every ten minutes if you are patient.

The honest verdict

Mancera de Arriba will never feature on a postcard rack. It has no castle, no artisan cheese shop, no river beach. What it offers is a calibration point for anyone who has forgotten how slow Spanish rural life can be when no one is watching. Come for half a day of walking and an hour of sitting on a wall listening to nothing. If the bar is open, stay for lunch; if not, drive down the hill before hunger makes you irritable. Do not expect to be charmed – the village is too stubborn for that – but you will leave with your internal clock reset to Iberian mountain time, and that is worth the detour.