Muñico

The church bell strikes noon, yet nobody in Munico appears to notice. Two elderly men remain motionless on a granite bench, caps pulled low, shepherd's sticks resting between their knees. A woman in an apron emerges from a stone doorway, empties a basin of water across the cobbles, then vanishes back inside. The only sound is the hiss of her liquid hitting hot stone. This is Muñico at midday, 1,050 metres above sea level, forty-odd souls short of a hundred, and in no hurry to change.

Altitude shapes everything here. Nights stay cool even in July, so the traditional houses—thick granite walls, timber doors the colour of burnt umber, windows the size of pocket handkerchiefs—hold their heat like storage heaters. Winters bite hard: the road from Villacastín sometimes whites out, and villagers keep wood piles stacked higher than the downstairs shutters. When snow comes, the place folds in on itself; mobile reception, patchy at best, quits altogether. Plan accordingly.

Stone, Stock and Silence

There is no formal centre, just a ridge-top lane that widens briefly outside the Bar de Muñico. Inside, the coffee machine dates from the early Nineties and the till is still manual. Order a caña before 20:00 and the barman may well pour it, wipe the counter, then return to his own drink. Tipping is not expected; conversation is, though it helps if you can manage at least playground Spanish. Cards are refused—there isn't a reader—so bring notes. Beer is €1.50, a plate of torreznos €4. Ask for the menu del día and you'll be told "sábado y domingo" with a shrug that suggests any other expectation is eccentric.

Across the lane stands the church of San Pedro Apóstol, its single-arch belfry more barn than basilica. The door is usually open; inside, the air smells of candle wax and damp stone. A 17th-century retablo fills the apse, painted in faded terracotta and indigo, but the real treasure is the silence that pools between the walls. Sit long enough and you'll hear swallows nesting under the eaves, the creak of timber, your own pulse.

Most houses retain the original layout: family quarters upstairs, stable and hay loft at ground level. Some still keep a donkey or a few goats; look for the metal rings set into the doorposts where beasts were once tethered. Planning rules forbid PVC windows or satellite dishes on street façades, so the stone uniformity is mercifully unbroken. The only modern intrusion is the occasional solar panel on a south-facing roof, glinting like a dropped mirror.

Walking Without Waymarks

Footpaths radiate from the village like spokes, but the regional government hasn't got round to signposts. The most straightforward route follows the cattle track that drops south-east towards the Arroyo de los Llanos. After twenty minutes the hamlet disappears behind a rise; all you see are holm oaks, broom and the granite spine of the Sierra de Ávila. In April the ground is patterned with wild narcissus; by late June the grass has seeded to parchment. Deer prints crisscross the path, and if you start early you may spot a roe slipping through the undergrowth, ears swivelling like radar.

Carry water and a map; phone batteries expire quickly in the cold, and Google is useless once the pines close in. Locals suggest telling someone where you're headed—easy enough: mention "la vega" (the meadow) and they'll know. After heavy rain the red clay sticks to boots like glue; in January thin ice varnishes the stones. Proper footwear is non-negotiable, and if the sky turns the colour of wet slate, head back—storms gather fast at this height.

Birdlife rewards patience. Golden eagles ride thermals above the south-facing crags; listen for their two-note whistle, oddly plaintive for such a sizeable raptor. Smaller bonuses include rock bunting and Iberian grey shrike, both partial to the dry-stone walls that separate grazing plots. Dawn is the best time; by 10 a.m. thermals have risen and most raptors drift higher than binocular range.

What Passes for Gastronomy

There are no restaurants, only the bar and whatever your rental kitchen can provide. Shoppers should stock up in Villacastín on the way in: the village has no bakery, no dairy, no fruit stall. What it does have is neighbours who produce, and if you ask politely you can usually buy half a dozen eggs, a jar of dark mountain honey or a vacuum-packed slab of chorizo made from a pig that rooted locally. Prices are written on scraps of paper and seldom exceed supermarket levels.

Should you score an invitation to a private asado, accept. A proper Sierra chuletón—beef from Avila's morucha cattle—needs nothing more than rock salt and oak embers. The meat arrives at table thick as a house brick, cooked rare, the exterior charred like burnt toast. Locals slice it thin, sprinkle salt and eat with plain boiled potatoes. Vegetarians get tortilla española, inch-thick, the centre still trembling. Pudding, if any, is a wedge of amarguillo, an almond biscuit that softens when dunked in red wine.

When the Village Decides to Party

Festivities are brief, loud and rooted in religion. The fiesta de San Pedro, weekend nearest 29 June, drags former residents back from Madrid and Ávila. The bar stays open until 01:00—unthinkable the rest of the year—loudspeakers play pasodobles and someone wheels out a portable disco that glows like a fairground ride. On Sunday morning mass is followed by a communal paella cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish; tickets are €6, children free. If you happen to be staying, bring your own chair and expect to share a table with strangers who treat you like long-lost kin.

August sees a low-key summer reunion: one evening of fireworks, one afternoon of football on the makeshift pitch behind the cemetery. Visitors are welcome but not catered for; if you want a beer, buy it from the bar and carry it uphill. By 23:30 the final rocket fizzles out and the village reverts to blackout silence.

Leaving Without a Souvenir

There is nothing to buy. No fridge magnets, no embroidered tea towels, no artisanal cheese. The only thing you can take away is the sound of wind moving across dehesa, the scent of broom after rain, the memory of a place where time is measured in seasons, not seconds. Photographs feel inadequate; the light is too clear, the scale too big for a phone screen.

Drive back down the AV-5102 and the first sign of modernity is a 4G symbol flickering above Villacastín. Within an hour you merge onto the AP-51, Madrid-bound, cruise control set, Spotify restored. Muñico recedes in the rear-view mirror, ridge after ridge folding over it like waves. By the time the city skyline appears it seems almost improbable that such a village still exists—yet it does, keeping its own hours, indifferent to whether you return.