Béjar

The chimneys appear first. Not the medieval towers you'd expect in inland Spain, but brick industrial stacks rising from the valley floor like exclamation marks. Welcome to Béjar, where 500 years of textile manufacturing have left their mark on both skyline and psyche.

This Salmantine town of 12,000 souls sits at 959 metres, draped across the southern flank of the Sierra de Béjar. The altitude matters. Summer mornings start fresh even in August, while winter brings proper snow that sometimes lingers into April. It's the kind of place where locals keep winter tyres in the garage and know exactly which roads ice over first.

The topography shapes everything here. Streets climb at angles that would give San Francisco pause. Park at the bottom and walk up – your calves will thank you later. The constant gradient means every turn reveals another perspective: tiled rooftops tumbling downhill, the Romanesque tower of Santa María la Mayor poking above the jumble, and beyond it, the mountains that have defined Béjar's fortunes since Iberian times.

Those fortunes were substantial. From the 16th century onwards, Béjar's mills produced woollen cloth that clothed half of Europe. The Duke of Béjar, whose Renaissance palace still dominates the old centre, grew rich on exports. Today his descendants live in Madrid, but their palace remains – though getting inside requires timing and luck. Opening hours shift with the seasons, and private events often close it without notice. The exterior rewards the walk regardless: carved stone balconies, a courtyard glimpsed through iron gates, and views across rooftops where satellite dishes compete with medieval stonework.

The textile legacy lives on in brick and water. Follow the sound of running water uphill from Plaza Mayor and you'll find channels carved centuries ago to power mills. Some still flow; others run dry past abandoned factories whose broken windows reflect the mountains. The best-preserved mill now houses the Textile Museum, where looms clatter into life for demonstrations and retired weavers explain how whole families worked the same machines. Entry costs €3, and the guided tour (Spanish only) adds context that the English information panels miss.

Plaza Mayor itself tells Béjar's story in microcosm. Morning coffee happens under the stone arcades, where elderly men read newspapers and complain about the price of everything. Lunch starts at 2 pm sharp – try the judiones, local butter beans stewed with chorizo, at Casa Paco on the square's north side. Portions defeat most British appetites; consider sharing. By evening the same tables host gin and tonics the size of goldfish bowls, mixed with the theatrical flourish that Spaniards consider essential.

The mountain relationship runs deeper than scenery. When Madrid swelters at 40°C, Béjar sits at a breathable 28°C. Madrileños have holidayed here for generations, buying second homes in the upper barrios where narrow lanes force cars to fold their mirrors. The smart money chooses apartments facing south – winter sun warms stone walls that retain heat after dark. North-facing properties stay cheaper for good reason.

Winter brings different crowds. La Covatilla ski station sits twenty minutes up a winding road that occasionally requires chains. At 2,400 metres, it's Spain's most westerly resort, reliable for beginners but frustrating for anyone beyond intermediate level. Eight lifts serve mostly blue runs, and weekend queues stretch patience. Day passes cost €42, but check the webcam before committing – spring temperatures can shut the resort by lunchtime, with no refunds offered. The smarter move is Nordic skiing through the forests above Béjar itself, where marked trails are free and snow lingers longer in the shade.

Spring delivers Béjar's oddest tradition. During Corpus Christi, locals don suits covered in moss harvested from mountain streams. The Hombre de Musgo parade sees these verdant figures processing through town in silence, looking like forest spirits who've taken wrong turn at Brigadoon. British visitors tend to describe it as "deeply strange but rather wonderful". Book accommodation early – the town's handful of hotels fills with madrileños driving up for the weekend.

The gardens of El Bosque provide calmer contemplation. This Renaissance creation climbs the hillside in terraces, with pools, fountains and paths that follow 16th-century proportions. It's no Powerscourt – maintenance varies by budget, and some fountains stay resolutely dry. Yet on autumn afternoons when beech leaves turn copper and the late sun warms the stone balustrades, it achieves the contemplative calm its creators intended. Entry is free, opening hours seasonal.

Walking options radiate from town. The PR-SA 63 trail follows ancient paths to the Santuario de la Virgin de la Vega, Béjar's patron, perched above the valley. The 8km loop takes three hours including the stiff climb out, but rewards with views across four mountain ranges. Proper boots essential – limestone paths polish slippery with use. For gentler strolls, the Senda de los Molinos follows the river downstream past ruined mills, perfectly doable in trainers and doable in under two hours.

Evening entertainment remains resolutely Spanish. British-style pubs don't exist, and you won't find craft beer bars serving IPAs named after obscure hops. What you get instead is authenticity: bars where everyone knows everyone, where teenagers drink coke while grandparents sip orujo, and where dinner starts at 10 pm with no expectation of rushing. Try La Tertulia on Calle San Juan for tapas that extend beyond the usual tortilla and croquetas – their montado de cabra combines local goat's cheese with caramelised onion on bread that tastes of proper sourdough.

Getting here requires commitment. Madrid airport sits 200km east; Salamanca's smaller terminal adds 90 minutes but fewer flight options. Car hire transforms the journey into an easy A62 cruise, with Béjar appearing suddenly as the motorway climbs towards Portugal. Public transport exists but tests patience – two daily buses from Salamanca take two hours via villages where time stopped decades ago.

Stay central if possible. The three-star Hotel "Charles" offers parking (essential in a town where every street seems one-way) and rooms that balance modern comfort with the building's 19th-century bones. Their restaurant serves competent versions of local specialities, though you'll eat better and cheaper by walking five minutes to Mesón El Cazador for chuletón de Ávila – the local T-bone that arrives sizzling on a ceramic tile, rare unless you specifically request otherwise.

Béjar won't change your life. It offers no bucket-list monuments, no Michelin stars, no Instagram moments that'll break the internet. What it delivers instead is Spain as Spaniards live it: mountain air that clears city lungs, coffee that costs €1.20, and the gradual realisation that somewhere between the factory chimneys and the moss men, you've stumbled upon a version of the country that package tours never reach. Just remember to pack walking shoes. Those hills don't climb themselves.