El Royo

The church bell strikes eleven and the only other sound is a chainsaw muttering somewhere deep in the pinewoods. Stand in El Royo's single plaza on a weekday morning and you will share it with two elderly men in berets, a cat asleep on a warm bench, and a view that rolls downhill for 40 km until the land finally drops into the Douro. At 1,069 m above sea level the air is thin enough to make the first gulp of morning coffee taste better, and cool enough in July that you still need a jumper after sundown.

This is the Soria upland, the empty triangle that British flyers usually cross somewhere between Santander and Madrid. El Royo sits on the north-eastern lip of the Pinares region, a municipality of 259 souls (2023 census) scattered along a ridge road that the locals simply call "la carretera". The village is not pretty in the postcard sense – roofs sag, plaster peels, and the mayor still keeps his tractor in what used to be the school playground – yet the place feels settled, honest, alive.

Stone houses line two short streets that meet at the parish church of San Miguel. The building is 16th-century, square-towered, lime-washed the colour of old parchment. Inside, the nave is dim and smells of candle smoke and pine resin; outside, swallows nest under the eaves and leave white streaks on the sandstone. There is no ticket desk, no audioguide, only a hand-written notice asking visitors to close the door gently so the swallows aren't startled.

Walk two minutes beyond the last house and you are in the forest. Pinus sylvestris and pinus pinaster carpet the hills in every direction, broken only by fire-breaks and the occasional meadow where cows graze behind rough stone walls. These woods supplied timber to Segovia's cathedral builders and charcoal to Madrid's Renaissance bakers; today they supply tranquillity to anyone who can read a map. The GR-86 long-distance trail cuts straight through the village, linking El Royo to the Laguna Negra glacial cirque 12 km west and to the river-town of San Esteban de Gormaz 25 km east. Way-marking is discreet – two white stripes and a dab of yellow – so download the GPX before you set out. Mobile reception is patchy; Vodafone and EE users usually pick up a Movistar signal on the plaza, but one step into the trees and it vanishes.

Autumn is mushroom season. From mid-October the forest floor erupts with boletus edulis and níscalo (Lactarius deliciosus) and the village fills with cars bearing Madrid plates. Picking is legal only with a €15 regional permit, sold online or at the Soria tourist office, and daily limits are enforced: 3 kg per person for boletus, 2 kg for níscalos. Forest guards patrol on quad bikes and on-the-spot fines start at €300 – cheaper, admittedly, than a Borough Market porcini, but still painful.

Winter arrives early. The first snow usually falls in late November and can cut the SO-800 road for a day or two. January daytime temperatures hover just above freezing; nights drop to –8 °C. Most guesthouses stay open – Spaniards increasingly want "real cold" for their Christmas card selfies – but bring chains if you hire a car. Summer, by contrast, is almost British: highs of 26 °C, cool nights, thunderstorms that rumble away like distant artillery. May and late-September are the sweet spots for walking, with daylight until 20:30 and only the occasional German bird-watcher to share the path.

There are no souvenir shops, no tapas bars with English menus, and – crucially – no cash machine. Fill your wallet in Soria (40 min drive) before you head uphill. The village's single grocer opens 09:00-14:00 and 17:00-20:30, closes Sunday afternoon, and stocks UHT milk, tinned beans, decent Rioja and not much else. If you want fresh fish you need to be in the square at 11:00 on Thursday when the travelling fish-van pulls in: hake from Santander, sea bream from Galicia, sometimes a single box of langoustines that sell out in ten minutes.

For a sit-down meal the options are Posada El Royo or nothing. The dining room is a low-beamed space hung with agricultural tools and a flat-screen TV that nobody switches on. A set menú del día costs €15 and runs to garlic soup, grilled pork secreto (the tender shoulder cut), and a slab of torta de aceite, a thin, sweet pastry that flakes like a Scottish oatcake. Vegetarians get a plate of pimientos de Padrón and a sympathetic shrug. House red is a young Ribera del Duero – lighter than Rioja, cherry-scented, served at cellar temperature because the owner can't be bothered to buy a fridge. Britons who expect tapas will be disappointed; Castilians here eat three proper meals and don't snack between them.

Evenings are quiet. The bar fills with locals playing mus, a Basque card game that involves much slapping of cards on tables and good-natured insults about each other's sisters. Visitors are welcome if they ask politely; the only English phrase you are likely to hear is "Whisky? Johnny Walker?" – a relic of the 1990s when British walking groups discovered the village and left behind a taste for blended Scotch. Buy a round and conversation loosens; someone will sketch you a map to the El Chorrón waterfall, another will warn that the track beyond the mirador is "muy mala" and definitely not covered by Hertz insurance.

The fiestas in mid-August turn the volume up for 72 hours. The Voto de las Candelas commemorates a 16th-century plague vow: villagers carry a statue of the Virgin to the chapel of San Marcos, light bonfires on every street corner, and dance a slow, circular jota until dawn. There is no wristband, no programme, no entry fee – just a donation plate for the brass band. Accommodation sells out months ahead; if you want a bed, book before Easter or plan to sleep in Soria and drive up for the night.

Serious walkers usually combine El Royo with a couple of nights in the stone hut-refuge at Calatañazor, 25 km south, or finish the week among the wine bars of Haro in Rioja Alavesa, 90 minutes by car. The contrast works: silent forest one day, barrel samples the next. Fly into Santander or Bilbao with Ryanair or EasyJet, hire a car, and you can be in the pines by lunchtime.

Leave expectations of "charming Spain" at the motorway junction. El Royo will not flatter you with pretty balconies or artisan ice-cream. What it offers is space, honesty, and the small revelation that somewhere in modern Europe still runs on firewood, neighbourly credit and a church bell that tells the time more accurately than any phone signal. Pack walking boots, a phrasebook and a sense of calm; the village will supply the rest.