San Juan del Olmo

The cows outrank the residents here. Seventy souls share San Juan del Olmo with a shifting herd of Avileña cattle, and when the church bell strikes noon the lowing usually drowns it out. At 1,280 m, on the first ridge that the Sierra de Ávila throws skyward from the Castilian plateau, the village is less a destination than a volume knob turned almost to zero.

Stone that Learnt to Breathe

Granite walls shoulder the wind that barrels up from the meseta; roofs sit low, tiles pinned by centuries of gales. Every house is a lesson in thermodynamics: metre-thick stone soaks up the thin sunlight by day and leaks it back after dusk, keeping January nights merely uncomfortable rather than lethal. Narrow lanes funnel the breeze like medieval air-conditioning, so even August afternoons rarely top 28 °C—bring a jumper whatever the calendar says.

The late-Romanesque church of San Juan Bautista squats at the top of the only gradient that qualifies as a square. It is open only when the key-keeper feels like it—knock at number 14 opposite if the door is bolted. Inside, a single nave, no frills, walls the colour of weathered parchment. Photography students from Madrid come to practice chiaroscuro here; everyone else is usually back outside within five minutes.

Walking Without Waymarks

Officially there are no signed trails. Unofficially, the web of drove roads that link San Juan del Olmo to the next three hamlets is printed on the minds of the last full-time shepherds. Ask in the Bar Centro (it doubles as the bakery and opens at 07:00 for coffee and churros, €2.20) and someone will draw a map on a napkin. The most useful route drops south-east along the cattle track to Navalacruz (7 km, 250 m ascent), then loops back on a higher contour through the oak scrub—four hours, no company except boot prints and the occasional Iberian magpie.

Spring brings a brief, almost indecent, burst of colour: wild tulips, then sheets of yellow cytinus that look like someone has spilt paint across the pasture. Autumn flips the palette to copper and gun-metal when the Pyrenean oaks decide winter is coming. Both seasons deliver 30-km views down to the Adaja basin on clear days; summer often hides the plain under a heat haze that smells of warm pine and sheep.

Food that Doesn’t Come to You

There is no restaurant, no shop, no ATM. The weekly supermarket van arrives Thursday around 11:00—listen for the horn. Otherwise you eat what you bring, or you knock. Villagers will sell eggs, honey and half a kid goat if you ask politely; prices are scribbled on a scrap of paper and work out cheaper than Mercadona. The regional treats you’re most likely to meet are:

• Judiones del Barco: butter-flat white beans stewed with pig’s ear, served in nearby Sotillo on market day.
• Chuleton de Ávila: a T-bone the thickness of a railway sleeper, charcoal-grilled and brought to the table still spitting. Expect €28–32 in the valley grill houses; here, if someone invites you, bring a bottle of Ribera as thanks.
• Ponche segoviano: a lemon-sponge custard square caramelised on top; keeps for days in a rucksack.

Getting Stuck, Getting Out

Public transport is folklore. The Monday bus from Ávila to El Arenal stops at the crossroads 3 km below the village if the driver remembers—buy your ticket on board (€4.10, cash only). Hitching those last three kilometres is accepted practice; locals reckon the first car will stop within ten minutes, two hours on Sundays. If you hire wheels in Madrid (A-6 then N-110, 125 km, 1 h 40 min), fill the tank in Ávila; the mountain petrol station at El Hoyo de Pinares closes at 14:00 and doesn’t reopen until the owner finishes hunting.

Winter can lock the place down. The AV-918 is technically a priority road for snowploughs, but “priority” in Castilla y León means sometime before Easter. Chains are sensible from December to March; if a whiteout arrives while you’re up top, the villagers will find you a sofa rather than let you slide off the escarpment—accept, they’ve seen too many news reports.

When Silence Isn’t Enough

Honesty check: a morning stroll, the church and a thermos on a stone wall will exhaust the sights. San Juan del Olmo works as a base, not as a marquee attraction. Combine it with the medieval walls of Ávila (40 min drive), the Royal Site of San Ildefonso palace gardens, or the bull-running town of Piedrahíta. Stay two nights and you’ll be waved off like family; stay a week and you’ll start recognising individual cows by name—possibly a sign to move on.

Accommodation is one three-room casa rural, Casa de los Berzocana, restored by an expat London architect who swapped Shoreditch for silage. Rates hover around €90 per night for the whole house, minimum two nights, firewood included. Book via the village Facebook page; WhatsPp replies arrive faster than email. Bedding is line-dried and smells of mountain thyme—some guests hate the scent, most bottle it and take it home in their hair.

Leave before sunrise at least once. Stand by the granite trough at the entrance, watch the sun lift over the oak canopy and listen. No engines, no playlists, no souvenir stalls. Just the click of a cattle grid and, somewhere below, the Adaja river starting its day. Then walk back for coffee that costs less than a London newspaper and tastes better than anything you’ll find on the coast.