Aguilafuente

The village bookkeeper keeps the key to Spain’s printing history in a former infants’ classroom. Unlock the Aula de la Cultura on Plaza de la Constitución and you’ll find the 1472 Sinodal de Aguilafuente—the first book printed on the Iberian Peninsula—open at a facsimile page while primary-school chairs are stacked in the corner. Fewer than forty British visitors have logged the experience on TripAdvisor, so you will probably have the room to yourself if you avoid Friday mornings, when coach parties from Valladolid arrive.

At 887 Metres, the Air Smells of Resin and Roast Lamb

Aguilafuente sits on the northern lip of the Segovian meseta, high enough for the night temperature to drop ten degrees even in July. The surrounding Tierra de Pinares is a working forest: pine-tappers still scar the trunks for resin each spring and the sawmill on the road to Fuentepelayo hums from seven o’clock. Walk south-east along the signed footpath that leaves from the football pitch and within twenty minutes the cereal fields give way to umbrella-pine shade so dense that locals call it la casa de los mosquitos—pack repellent if you plan to stay for dusk.

The village itself is built from the same honey-coloured stone as Segovia’s aqueduct, but here it is unpolished: houses bear the chisel marks of 1950s extensions, and iron rings for tethering mules project beside modern garage doors. At number 7 Calle Real an aristocratic shield is crumbling into the wall; the adjacent bakery opens only on weekdays and sells a pine-nut tart that tastes like a cross between Bakewell and a Florentine. Buy one before 11 a.m.; they sell out to Madrilenian second-home owners who sweep in for the weekend.

A Church without a Steeple and a River that Never Arrived

The 15th-century church of San Juan Bautista lost its tower during the Civil War; a blunt brick belfry replaced it, giving the skyline the profile of a partly drawn sword. Inside, the nave is wider than it is long—an unusual proportion that accommodates the summer influx of pilgrims walking the Ruta Jacobea de la Lana from Arévalo. The original Sinodal pages are kept in Segovia’s provincial archive, so do not expect illuminated manuscripts: instead, look for the small stone carvings of resin workers tucked under the choir stalls, added during a 1999 restoration when the parish priest insisted local trades be honoured alongside saints.

Opposite the church, a dry fountain basin explains the village name—“eagle fountain”—though the aquifer collapsed in the 1970s and water now arrives by tanker when the summer fiestas fill the square with plastic-wine stalls. The absence of running fountains is the single biggest let-down for visitors expecting a bubbling village source; bring a filled bottle if you plan to hike.

Walking, Cycling and the Thirty-Euro Taxi

Three waymarked circuits start from the far side of the cemetery. The shortest (5 km, yellow markers) loops through the pine nursery and returns past the ruined Ermita de Santa Bárbara where swallows nest above the altar. The red route (12 km) follows an old drove road to the cereal town of Carbonero el Mayor—flat, shadeless and glorious at sunrise when the dew silvers the stubble. Mountain-bikers can link forest tracks all the way to Sepúlveda and the Hoces del Duratón gorge, but carry two spare tubes: thorns from Echinospartum bushes slice sidewalls for fun.

Public transport is the village’s Achilles heel. The weekday bus from Segovia pulls in at 11:05 and leaves at 14:05; miss it and the taxi meter spins past €35 before you reach the A-601. Car hire from Madrid airport (M4-A4-A-601) takes 90 minutes and gives flexibility for the region’s scattered Romanesque churches. Petrol is cheaper at the Repsol outside Coca, 18 km north.

Roast Lamb and the Mushroom Clock

Weekend gastronomy revolves around the asador in neighbouring Fuentepelayo, 8 km away. Cordero asado arrives on a clay dish, the meat so tender it parts from the bone like slow-cooked shoulder of mutton; half a lamb feeds three Brits comfortably and costs €42. Order in advance—text 921 90 50 66 by Friday midday or the wood oven will be full of lechón for local wedding parties.

Back in Aguilafuente, the only bar open on Sunday evenings is Casa Modesto on Calle Nueva. The owner keeps a hand-written ledger of who owes what and serves a set menu for €12 that starts with garlic soup and ends with tarta de piñones. In October the menuboard simply reads: “Setas según la sierra”—mushrooms arrive by the basketful and the cook’s rule is: if it stains blue when cut, it’s left in the woods. Ask for the house red from Nieva; at €5 a bottle it is light enough for lunchtime and travels well in a rucksack.

Fiestas, Quiet Beds and Patchy Signal

The patronal fiestas at the end of June turn the main square into a foam-party arena for one night only; afterwards the street-cleaning lorry hoses down evidence before the priest’s 8 a.m. mass. August brings the bigger summer feria, when the population quadruples and every spare room is rented to families from Madrid who have been holidaying here since the 1960s. Book accommodation by May or expect to stay 25 km away in the industrial estate outside Cuéllar.

The two reliable places to sleep are Casa del Cubón, a three-room village house with English-speaking owner Pilar (665 23 22 48), and El Viejo Almacén, a converted grain store with a barbecue terrace that catches the evening sun. Both supply pedestal fans but no air-conditioning—nights are usually cool enough to sleep with the shutters ajar. Vodafone and EE lose signal inside stone walls; connect by standing in the square beside the 4G lamppost installed in 2021 and nicknamed el poste de WhatsApp by teenagers.

Leave before the Bells, or Stay for the Silence

If you depart when the bus does at 14:05 the village returns to hush broken only by the sawmill and the church clock that chimes the wrong half-hour. Stay overnight and you’ll hear the resin workers’ vans at 6 a.m., then nothing until the bakery’s timer releases the first batch of muffins at eight. Aguilafuente will not dazzle; it offers instead the Spain that Spaniards keep for themselves—cheap red wine, forest tracks without way-marking selfies, and a 550-year-old book that still smells of ink and pine.