Herguijuela de la Sierra

At 642 metres the air thins just enough to make the church bell sound crisper. Herguijuela de la Sierra sits on a ridge that feels higher than it is: chestnut and oak woods drop away on three sides, and the evening light arrives earlier than in the valley. The village has 212 residents, one bar, a shop that opens when the owner returns from her allotment, and a beech tree so old the parish records simply call it el haya—the tree that was already here when the first house went up.

That beech is the unlikely celebrity. Britain has whole forests of Fagus sylvatica; central Spain has two individual specimens, and the larger one shades the picnic tables behind the church. Its trunk needs three people to link arms around it, and the bark is carved with initials from every decade since 1910. In October the leaves turn copper and the ground becomes a crunching carpet; photographers from Salamanca arrive at dawn, tripods balanced on the cemetery wall, trying to capture the moment without the parked Seat Ibiza that usually spoils the foreground.

Walking without way-marks

The Sierra de Francia is not an area that fusses about signposts. From the top of Calle Larga—a lane so narrow neighbours can shake hands across the balconies—a stone track heads east towards Mogarraz. The distance is six kilometres, the descent 350 metres, and the estimated time scribbled on the village board is “2 h 30 min ida y vuelta, si bajas despacio”. The path follows an irrigation ditch cut by Moors, then zigzags through terraces still planted with potatoes and white beans. No ticket office, no interpretation panel, just the smell of wet earth and the occasional rustle of wild boar heading for the maize.

Spring is the kindest season: night temperatures stay above 8 °C, days reach 20 °C, and the meadows are polka-dotted with orchids. July and August are honest-to-goodness hot—35 °C by eleven in the morning—so the sensible timetable is walk at first light, retreat to the bar for a café con leche, siesta through the furnace hours, then venture out again after six. Winter brings proper mountain weather; the road from Salamanca can close after snow, and the chestnut woods turn moody and Tolkienesque. If you want solitude, January delivers it wholesale.

Bread, cheese and the card-machine that never works

There is no ATM in Herguijuela. The colmado stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, local honey sold in old ketchup bottles, and wine at €2.40 that tastes better than it should. Payment is cash only; the card reader has been “broken since the fiesta” and the fiesta was in September. The shop shuts between two and five, exactly when you remember you forgot to buy breakfast.

For supplies with choice, drive twelve minutes to La Alberca before you check in. Monday is market day: stalls sell mild goat’s cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, chorizo from pigs that lived on acorns, and jars of white beans the size of a toddler’s thumb. If you arrive on a Sunday when everything is closed, the village bar still produces tostada con tomate and thin slices of jamón for €3. Ask for “sin ajo” if garlic at breakfast feels treasonable.

Evening meals require planning. The bar does tortilla and little else; the nearest restaurant is in Mogarraz, a farmhouse with three tables and a chalkboard menu—judiones (giant butter beans stewed with chorizo), farinato (a local sausage that tastes like black pudding mixed with breadcrumbs), and quarter portions of roast suckling pig, enough for two if you add potatoes. House red comes in 500 ml carafes and costs €5; they will not offer a receipt and they do not take cards either.

What passes for entertainment

Fiesta week is 8 September. The population quadruples, the village square hosts a foam party that looks surreal under the medieval archways, and teenagers stay up until the loudspeakers play “My Heart Will Go On” at 4 a.m. Any other time, entertainment is self-generated: watch red kites circling above the chestnuts, count the lizards on the stone wall, or follow the nightly pilgrimage of pensioners to the bench outside the bar where they complain about the price of diesel.

English is scarce. The young landlord of the only holiday cottage speaks enough to explain how the pellet stove works; the bar owner does not, but she recognises the word “ale” and will pour you a caña before you finish asking. Download Google’s Spanish offline pack; the village has 4G on the main street and nowhere else.

Practical grit in the ointment

Getting here means driving. Salamanca airport (1 h 15 min) has two flights a week from London in summer; otherwise Madrid is two and a half hours on the A-50, then half an hour of switchbacks up the CU-12. The last six kilometres are tarmac but narrow; meeting a lorry full of tree trunks requires reversing to the nearest passing place, which might be 300 metres behind you. Buses exist on Tuesdays and alternate Fridays, timed to get villagers to Salamanca for hospital appointments—useful if you fancy a four-hour meander through every hamlet in the province.

Accommodation is limited to three self-catering cottages and two rooms above the bar. Prices hover around €70 a night for two, towels extra. The cottages have Wi-Fi that drops every time the chestnut branches sway; the bar rooms share a bathroom and overlook the square where the bin lorry arrives at seven. Book early for October weekends when the chestnut and beech foliage peaks; mid-week in March you can turn up unannounced and negotiate.

When to admit defeat

If you need museums, taxis after midnight, or soya milk on demand, stay in Salamanca and visit on a day trip. Herguijuela rewards patience more than tick-box energy; its pleasures are slow, occasionally damp, and sometimes shut without warning. Come with walking boots, a phrase book, and a pocketful of €5 notes. Leave before the church bell strikes twelve and the morning mist still hangs in the valley, and you will understand why the residents never quite get round to fixing that card machine—they simply do not see the hurry.