La Alberca

The pig arrives before you do. A black-and-pink yearling trots across the Plaza Mayor at 9 a.m., sniffs the seventeenth-century cross, then trots off again. Nobody flinches: he is the Marrano de San Antón, the village’s four-legged calendar. Fed by whoever feels generous, photographed by everyone, he belongs to January but roams all year. La Alberca’s 1,064-metre altitude keeps him lean; the cobbles keep him sure-footed. You, meanwhile, will be out of breath after the first gradient.

Streets that remember the 1400s

Park where the tarmac ends, just before the stone arch. From here the village is foot-traffic only—delivery vans squeeze through before noon, after that it’s donkeys and wheeled shopping bags. The stone underfoot is polished to a marble slick by centuries of hooves and clog irons; in rain it gleams like a black mirror. Houses shoulder upwards in three and four storeys, timber frames bulging with chestnut beams, granite blocks the size of cider barrels locking them in place. Look up and you’ll read the walls: Ave María Purísima in fading ochre, Dios nos libre de todo mal above a green balcony. They are not museum labels; families still live here, still mean it.

Weekend visitors number triple the resident population, yet the place refuses to feel theatrical. Washing flaps between balconies, a grandmother lowers a key on string to her grandson so he can collect bread. The only chain logo you’ll spot is the cash machine tucked into a former prison; even that is stone-fronted. Step inside the tavern next door and you can still see the iron rings where prisoners were shackled—now they hold coat hooks.

What the mountain gives

The Sierra de Francia climbs in steep folds around the village. Oak gives way to sweet chestnut; in October the fire station hands out sacks so householders can collect the harvest for free. Wild boar root beyond the last streetlamp and occasionally wander into the church porch, drawn by the smell of beeswax. Walkers follow the Camino de Santiago Mozárabe which skirts the square, but most opt for the Batuecas valley instead: a 10-kilometre loop that drops 400 metres to a Carmelite monastery where monks once grew saffron between boulders. The return is a calf-burning haul; allow three hours and carry more water than you think—shade is patchy and the stream is too mineral to drink.

If you prefer altitude without sweat, drive the switchback road to Peña de Francia. At 1,723 metres the monastery car park sits above cloud level; inside, the coffee machine charges €1.20 and accepts exact coins only. On clear days the view stretches 150 kilometres to the Gredos range; on hazy days you get fog and the smell of diesel heaters. Snow can fall any month—check the webcam before setting off, and carry a jacket even if Salamanca is 30 °C.

Food that demands an appetite

Village menus read like a farmer’s ledger. Hornazo, a fist-sized pastry crammed with chorizo, ham and boiled egg, was designed for field lunches; served warm it leaks paprika oil that stains shirts permanently. Chanfaina turns out to be rice dyed black with pork blood, but tastes milder than a British black pudding—order the half portion unless you’re walking 15 kilometres afterwards. The local almond biscuits, amarguillos, are brittle, bitter and perfect with a small coffee; buy six for €2 from the white-haired woman who sets up a card table outside the pharmacy.

Meat rules, yet vegetarians aren’t left stranded. Grilled mountain goat—cabrito—tastes like spring lamb with a hint of juniper, but every bar will swap in a plate of roasted piquillo peppers drizzled with local honey. The honey itself is worth the suitcase space: dark, thick, scented on the finish with chestnut blossom. Bottles under 100 ml pass through UK hand-luggage rules; larger jars cost €8 at the Saturday market and the stallholder will bubble-wrap them while you wait.

When the square empties

By 10 p.m. the day-trippers have gone. Shutters clatter, the temperature drops ten degrees and the pig reappears to hoover up fallen chestnuts. Stay overnight and you’ll hear the village reset: dogs, church bell, a single motorbike echoing off granite. Accommodation is mostly 18th-century houses split into three-room guest-houses; expect low doorways, Wi-Fi that vanishes with the first thundercloud and bathrooms where the shower head is set at shoulder height. Prices hover around €70 for a double, including breakfast of toasted bolla bread and tomato pulp so garlicky it keeps midges away for the day.

Off-season—November to March—half the cafés close, but the upside is silence thick enough to hear your heartbeat in your ears. January brings the fiesta: the pig is formally blessed, fireworks ricochet between stone walls, and every household slaughters its own pig for winter chorizo. Outsiders are welcome to watch, not to film; ask first, accept a slice of fresh morcilla and you’ll be handed an apron.

Getting here, getting out

No one arrives by accident. Madrid airport is 2 hours 45 minutes west on the A-50, last 30 minutes on twisty mountain roads where SatNav loses signal. Salamanca’s bus station runs two coaches daily to La Alberca—times coincide with market day and little else. Car hire is simplest; bring change for the pay-and-display at the lower car park (€4 per day) or arrive after 6 p.m. when barriers lift. In winter carry snow chains; the road to Peña de Francia closes without warning.

Leave space in the boot. You’ll depart with honey, maybe a hand-embroidered linen cloth, certainly a photo of a pig that has more diplomatic immunity than most ambassadors. La Alberca doesn’t do souvenirs; it offers instead the rare sense that history is still being lived in, not performed. Just watch your step on the cobbles—the pig has right of way.