Nava de Francia

The church bell strikes noon and nobody appears. Not a single terrace table, not a souvenir fridge magnet, barely a car. In Nava de Francia the siesta starts early and lasts until it’s over. Five hundred souls are scattered across chestnut woods and stone houses, leaving the single street so quiet you can hear your own footsteps bounce off timber balconies.

This is the Sierra de Francia at its least theatrical. No prettified plaza, no artisan ice-cream parlour, just a functional knot of granite walls built to shrug off Atlantic storms that roll in 1,100 m above sea level. The village sits on the southern flank of the cordillera, 90 minutes’ drive south-west of Salamanca, and behaves exactly like what it is: a working hill settlement that happens to have beds for the odd stray traveller.

Stone, wood and the smell of wet leaves

Architecture here is shorthand for “what was left standing”. Rooflines sag, timbers silver, and the odd collapsed barn is left to rejoin the soil rather than be Instagrammed. Houses are bonded with the same quartzite that litters the hillsides; balconies are carved from sweet-chestnut logs that creak obligingly underfoot. Nothing is whitewashed for effect, which explains why coach parties give the place a miss and hikers don’t.

The only monument worth a label is the parish church, an austere 17th-century rectangle with a single nave and a bell tower that doubles as the village timepiece. Step inside and you’ll find plain plaster, a modest baroque altarpiece and the faint odour of candle wax that never quite disappears. No tickets, no audio guide, just push the heavy door and remember to close it before the wind does.

Walking without way-markers

Forest tracks begin where the asphalt ends. Head east and you’re quickly among sweet-chestnut and Pyrenean oak, treading on last autumn’s copper carpet. Locals still use these paths to reach allotments and beehives, so ask before striding through a gate: a polite “¿Podemos pasar?” normally earns a wave and sometimes directions more reliable than any app.

The most straightforward circuit is the 6 km loop to the abandoned hamlet of El Cabaco: follow the road signposted “Puerto de la Chorrera” for 1 km, then fork right onto a stony track that contours above the valley. You’ll pass a stone water trough fed by a slate pipe—refill if you trust your stomach—before dropping into El Cabaco’s empty streets. Total ascent is 250 m; allow two hours with photo stops. If that feels tame, the GR-14 long-distance footpath crosses the ridge 4 km north: a stiff climb rewarded by views west towards the Portuguese border.

Mobile signal dies within minutes of leaving the village. Download an offline map the night before; the tourist office in nearby La Alberca (15 km) sells 1:25,000 sheets but opens only on weekday mornings. Summer temperatures can top 35 °C despite the altitude, so start early and carry more water than you think necessary—streams marked on maps are often dry by July.

What passes for lunch

There are two places that might feed you, and both close without warning if trade is slow. Asador Casarito grills excellent morcilla and beef from Avila province; chips come thick-cut and properly salted, the closest thing to British comfort food for miles. Bar La Mata does a tortilla the size of a steering wheel and toasted sandwiches that travel well in a rucksack. Set menus hover around €14–€16, wine included, but kitchens wind down by 14:30 sharp. Arrive at 15:05 and you’ll be offered crisps and a beer, nothing else.

Supper is trickier. Evening service resumes at 20:30, yet many owners simply go home once the last day-tripper leaves. Phone ahead or stock up in the minuscule grocer opposite the church: local sheep cheese that tastes like a milder Manchego, jars of forest honey thick enough to stand a spoon in, and crusty bread baked in Mogarraz each morning. The nearest supermarket is a Dia in La Alberca—remember to buy tonic for your gin before you climb back up the mountain.

When to come, when to stay away

April–June and September–mid-November give you daylight warmth without the furnace of the Castilian plateau. Chestnut blossom scents the air in May; October turns the woods bronze and brings out villagers with wicker baskets looking for boletus mushrooms. Winter is properly cold—snow can block the road for a day or two—yet the stone houses hold heat well and skies are cobalt. August is hot, busy with returning emigrants and oddly noisy for such a quiet place: local fiestas mean brass bands at 03:00 and fireworks that echo like gunshots across the valley.

Accommodation is limited to Casa Peña de Francia (seven en-suite rooms, from €70) and a 16-pitch municipal campsite on the edge of the forest. Both fill at weekends even outside high season; book or bring a tent. The hotel bar is the unofficial social centre—if the lights are off, everyone is at Mass or asleep.

The downsides, honestly

Public transport barely exists. Buses from Salamanca reach neighbouring Miranda del Castañar twice daily; after that you’re hitching or paying €30 for a taxi. Without a car you’ll feel trapped once the initial peace wears off. ATMs dry up at the worst moment—bring cash. English is rarely spoken; download a Spanish offline dictionary and prepare to gesture. Nightlife is a bottle of local red on your balcony and the sound of owls. If that sounds bleak, stay in Salamanca and do a day trip.

Yet for walkers, writers, or anyone whose perfect evening is a crackling fire and zero notifications, Nava de Francia delivers a rare commodity: Spain unfiltered. No entrance fee, no staged folklore, just a high-altitude pause where the 21st century is optional. Come prepared, tread gently, and the village might—quietly—let you in.