El Hoyo de Pinares

The morning thermometer in El Hoyo de Pinares reads 12 °C even in mid-July, and the air carries the sharp, sweet bite of pine resin. At 850 m above sea level, the village sits in a shallow bowl ring-fenced by dark-green pinewoods that stretch all the way to the horizon of the Castilian plateau. Granite houses shoulder together for warmth; chimney pots release thin ribbons of smoke while Madrid, only 110 km east, is already sweltering at 32 °C.

A Potter’s Thumbprint on Granite

Walk the main street at 09:30 and you’ll hear nothing louder than the church bell of San Miguel Arcángel and the rasp of a gardener sweeping pine needles off the pavement. Look closer at the stone façades and you’ll spot the tell-tale clues: window frames painted the same ochre once used to seal clay pots, and here and there a cracked botijo used as a plant pot. For most of the twentieth century El Hoyo supplied Ávila province with storage jars and drinking jugs; the kilns have cooled, but two family workshops still take orders for traditional ware. Ask in the tiny pottery opposite the bakery and you may find Doña Carmen weighing out clay for a set of bean pots, the same shape her grandfather threw in 1932. Prices start at €18 for a coffee-cup-sized cantarito; she’ll wrap it in newspaper if you promise to carry it home on your lap.

Forest Trails that Start at the Edge of Town

You don’t need a taxi to reach the countryside. Follow Calle Real past the last house, step through a five-bar gate and you’re on the Sendero del Pinar, a 9 km loop that rolls over low granite ridges and drops into sandy clearings grazed by charcoal-coloured sheep. The path is wide enough for two walkers abreast, but you’ll probably meet only a retired forester collecting pine cones for kindling. Marked cycling routes spider out from here: the green-grade PR-310 links El Hoyo with neighbouring Cebreros (12 km) and is perfect for an e-bike morning, while the red-grade Cañada Real heads south for 30 km of empty track towards the Adaja gorge. Download the Wikiloc file before you set off—phone coverage vanishes after the second bend.

August brings families from Madrid who treat the forest like their private picnic ground; if you want silence, come in late September when the first chanterelles push through the needles and locals head out at dawn with wicker baskets and penknives. Mushroom picking is regulated: you need a free day permit from the town hall, and the daily limit is 3 kg—plenty for a risotto supper back at the self-catering flat.

Food Meant for Cold Nights

Midday menus are built around what the wood-fired oven can handle. At Restaurante El Estanco the house speciality is cochinillo, suckling lamb slow-roasted so the rib bones can be snapped with the edge of a plate. A quarter portion (plenty for one hungry walker) costs €18 and arrives with hand-cut chips and a glass of Ribera del Duero that tastes of blackberries and chimney smoke. Vegetarians aren’t forgotten: judiones, fat white butter beans stewed with saffron and bay, come in a clay cazuela that keeps them hot to the last spoonful. Finish with piñonates, brittle biscuits studded with local pine nuts—less cloying than shortbread and sturdy enough to survive in a rucksack.

Breakfast is humbler. Cafetería J5 opens at 07:00 for farmers and fills the room with the smell of toasted baguette rubbed with tomato and olive oil. Ask for a “tostada con tortilla” and you’ll get a doorstep sandwich of last night’s potato omelette, the egg still soft, plus a café con leche for €3.20—about the price of a London espresso.

When the Village Doubles in Size

El Hoyo’s population hovers around 2,000 in winter, but during the second week of August the figure triples. Grandchildren appear on balconies, quad bikes buzz along the lanes and fireworks crackle over the pine tops at 02:00. The fiesta programme is small-town Spain distilled: a foam party in the sports pavilion, open-air bingo with legs of ham as prizes, and a procession behind a silver-roofed statue of the Virgin that takes exactly 12 minutes to walk from church to plaza. Book accommodation early—there are only two small hotels and a handful of tourist apartments—or you’ll end up driving 25 km to the nearest vacant room in Ávila.

Outside fiesta week evenings are quiet. By 22:30 even the dogs have turned in; the only light comes from the service-station glow of the Cajamar cash machine, and that shuts down at 23:00 sharp. Bring cash before Sunday night or you’ll be washing dishes—plastic is accepted nowhere.

Getting There, Getting Out

Public transport looks good on paper: one Alsa bus leaves Madrid’s Estación Sur at 09:00, reaches Cebreros at 10:45, where a local taxi will cover the final 17 km for €25. The problem is the return journey—there isn’t one after 17:00. Hiring a car at Madrid-Barajas T1 is less hassle: take the A-5 west, peel off at Talavera de la Reina and follow the AV-510 into the hills. The last 20 km twist like a dropped ball of string; fill the tank in Cebreros because the village garage closed three years ago. In winter the same road can ice over—carry chains if snow is forecast, or you’ll be stuck listening to the wind until the gritter arrives.

The Honest Verdict

El Hoyo de Pinares offers no cathedrals, no souvenir magnets, no cocktail bars. What it does give is altitude-fresh air, forest tracks that start at your door, and the rare sense that nobody is performing for tourists. Come for three quiet days of walking and calorie-heavy suppers, but don’t expect to tick off bucket-list sights. Bring a phrasebook, a fleece for the evening drop, and curiosity about how Spaniards live when the tour buses drive past. If that sounds like enough, the pines will welcome you; if you need nightlife beyond the clink of coffee cups, keep driving towards Ávila.