Herradón de Pinares

The morning mist hangs at 924 metres above sea level, thick enough to chew. By nine o'clock it has usually burned off, revealing a grid of stone houses that looks more like a film set than somewhere people actually live. Herradón de Pinares has 500 residents, two bars, one church bell that actually works, and a forest that starts where the tarmac ends. No souvenir shops. No guided tours. Just the smell of resin and diesel from the last tractor heading out to work.

The Arithmetic of Altitude

Everything here is measured vertically. The village sits high enough that winter arrives early and stays late; snow can cut the place off for days, and the council keeps a grader parked ready at the junction of the AV-510. Come April the roads clear, but the wind still carries a bite. Summer compensates with dry, bright days that rarely top 30 °C—Madrid swelters two hours south while Herradón keeps its windows open at night. Pack a fleece whatever the season; after sunset the temperature drops ten degrees before you've finished your coffee.

Walking starts literally outside your door. A web of forest tracks—wide enough for a pine-lorry—radiates into the Sierra de la Paramera. Distances feel elastic: thirty minutes of gentle climb brings you to the Puerto de Casillas, a low col where the province of Segovia suddenly appears on the horizon. There are no signposts, no visitor centre, and phone coverage is patchy. Download the free Maps.me file for Ávila before you leave the UK; it stores the whole network offline and saves blundering into private estates where the locals shoot wild boar.

Stone, Wood and the Smell of Work

The village architecture is honest rather than pretty. Granite blocks, timber beams tar-black with age, roofs that pitch steeply so the snow slides off. The church of San Nicolás keeps its medieval footprint but was rebuilt after a fire in 1847; inside, the paintwork is the colour of ox-blood and tobacco. Look for the small stone grooves at knee-height by the south door—centuries of sharpening knives on the way to slaughterhouse and supper.

Houses still have proper names painted on the plaster: "Casa Roque", "La Tahona", "Los Leones". Many are weekend places now, owned by families who left for Madrid or Valladolid in the 1960s. Their London grandchildren arrive in June with mountain bikes on roof-racks, discover the gradients, and retreat to the plaza for Fanta and crisps. Property prices hover round €600 per square metre, a quarter of the Costas, but winter heating bills chew through any savings; most places need two tonnes of pine pellets a year.

Eating What the Forest Gives

Forget tasting menus. The daily offer is written on a whiteboard propped against the bar. Breakfast: coffee, toast dripping with local olive oil, and a plate of jamón whose pig grazed acorns twenty kilometres away. Mid-morning calls for a pincho of morcilla—blood sausage spiced with onion and pine-smoked pimentón. Lunch at 3 pm is a fixed-price affair: €12 buys soup, roast lamb, wine from nearby Cebreros and coffee strong enough to stain the cup. Vegetarians get eggs and potatoes; vegans should probably self-cater.

Autumn weekends draw mushroom hunters. Boletus edulis (porcini) and Lactarius deliciosus (saffron milk-cap) appear after the first September rains, but you need a permit from the Junta de Castilla y León office in Ávila (€6.50 a day, buy online). The bar owner will check your haul and tell you which ones will shred your kidneys; ignore him at your peril. If you lack confidence, tag along with the mycological society from Piedrahíta—they meet at the petrol station at 9 am sharp, wellies compulsory, dogs welcome.

Getting There, Staying There

No trains. No airports. The nearest Ryanair gateway is Madrid, 140 km south-west. Hire a car at Terminal 1, join the A-6, then peel off onto the AP-51 toll road (€7.20). After an hour the landscape tilts upwards and phone signals fade; turn left at the grain silo in Sanchidrián and follow the AV-510 for 26 km of bends. In winter carry chains even if the forecast claims "light frost"; the last 5 km climb 300 m and the tarmac ices early.

Accommodation is thin. The village has one casa rural—Casa de la Abuela—three bedrooms, wood-burning stove, €90 a night with breakfast. Five minutes away in Navaescurial, Posada El Cardo occupies a converted railway station; rooms from €65, dinner on request. Campers can pitch at the municipal area by the sports court; showers open when the ayuntamiento remembers to pay the water bill. Bring toilet paper.

When Silence Feels Like a Third Guest

Herradón works best for travellers who can tolerate their own company. Evenings are quiet; the bars shut by eleven unless someone's birthday rolls on. Night skies are spectacular—at 924 m you're above most of the peninsula's light pollution, so the Milky Way shows up in grainy detail. On the other hand, mobile data crawls at 3G speed when it works at all, and the nearest pharmacy is 18 km away in El Barraco. Plan accordingly.

Visit in May for the fiesta de San Nicolás: Mass at noon, free paella in the square, teenage brass band that has clearly practised. August brings the proper feria: foam party in the polideportivo, sacks races for kids, and a disco that thumps until 5 am—half the village complains, the other half dances. October is mushroom time; February is for snow-shots and brandy. March can be miserable: grey, muddy and still closed in by winter. Book nothing then.

Leave expectations of rustic perfection at the airport. Herradón de Pinares is a working community where the bins are emptied twice a week and the mayor doubles as the school-bus driver. The reward is simpler: clean air, cheap wine, and the sound of wind moving through half a million pine trees. Stay three nights, walk until your calves ache, then drive back down the mountain noticing how the temperature rises a degree every kilometre. Somewhere around kilometre fifteen the smell of resin disappears, replaced by diesel and dust. That's when you'll know you're back in Spain's twenty-first century.