Hontalbilla

The morning mist hangs at eye level here, which makes sense when you realise the village square sits higher than Ben Nevis. At 900 metres above sea level, Hontalbilla's bakery opens to thin air and views across a sea of pine tops that stretch uninterrupted to the horizon. This is Spain's resin country, where families still tap pine trees for living as they have since their great-grandparents' time.

The Resin People's Republic

Three hundred souls inhabit this granite outcrop in southern Segovia province, though numbers swell when Madrid families reclaim their grandparents' houses for August. The village functions as a self-contained unit: the bar doubles as grocery shop, the church bell regulates daily life, and everyone knows whose pigs are whose. Mobile phone signal arrives sporadically, like a visitor who's not entirely welcome.

The architecture reveals centuries of making-do. Stone houses grow organically from bedrock, their wooden doors painted that distinctive Castilian blue-green you see nowhere else. Peer into courtyards to spot the tell-tale stone steps leading down to family bodegas, where wine once fermented in cool darkness. Above rooflines, cylindrical dovecotes stand sentinel, their nesting holes now home to jackdaws rather than dinner.

Pine resin collection shaped this landscape more than any king or bishop. The same species that flavours your gin once provided turpentine for Royal Navy ships, with Hontalbilla's forests supplying Madrid's workshops through generations. Look closely at tree trunks to see the V-shaped scars, some healing for decades, where resin flowed into clay pots during summer months.

Walking Through Vertical Forests

Forget dramatic peaks and Instagram viewpoints. The surrounding pinewoods offer something better: absolute horizontal calm. Forest tracks radiate outwards, following ancient rights of way between villages. They're mostly flat, mostly empty, and entirely free. Walk twenty minutes and civilisation dissolves into bird calls and the crunch of needles underfoot.

Autumn transforms these woods into serious business. From October onwards, locals emerge armed with knives and traditional wicker baskets, eyes scanning for níscalos (saffron milk caps) and boletus. The unwritten rules are simple: never take the small ones, never reveal your spots, and always ask permission on private land. Foreign foragers face suspicion unless accompanied by known locals; this is dinner, not leisure activity.

Cyclists find the forest tracks perfect for gravel bikes, though bring your own. The 15-kilometre loop to neighbouring Honrubia passes abandoned resin workers' huts and crosses several dry river beds. Summer temperatures reach 35°C at midday, so early starts essential. Winter rides require layers: morning frost gives way to t-shirt weather by eleven, then back to freezing as shadows lengthen.

What Passes for Entertainment

The village bar opens at seven for coffee and closes when the last customer leaves, usually around midnight. They serve coffee, beer, and whatever the owner feels like cooking. Phone ahead if you're expecting lunch; they've been known to close on particularly beautiful days when fishing calls. The menu, when available, runs to migas (fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo) or tortilla, served with local wine that costs €2 a glass and tastes like it should cost more.

Annual fiestas happen in August, centred on the village's patron saint. What this means: mass at eleven, procession at midday, communal paella at two, then dancing in the square until someone falls over. Visitors welcome but don't expect organised entertainment. Bring your own chair, your own conversation, and ideally your own Spanish. The September Romería involves walking three kilometres to a hillside chapel, sharing packed lunches, then walking back. It's been happening since 1634; nobody sees reason to change format now.

Winter brings the matanza, when families slaughter their pigs. This isn't tourism, it's sustenance. Whole neighbourhoods gather to transform one animal into year's worth of chorizo, salchichón and morcilla. The process takes two days, involves everyone, and produces remarkably little waste. If invited, accept. You'll be expected to help, eat, and take some product home.

Getting There and Away

From Madrid, drive north on the A-1 for 90 minutes, then peel off towards Cantalejo. The final twelve kilometres twist through pine plantations on the CL-601, emerging suddenly at Hontalbilla's approach. Public transport requires patience: three buses daily from Segovia to Cantalejo, then pray for a taxi or arrange pickup. Sunday service doesn't exist.

Accommodation means Airbnb or nothing. The Adrados place offers two bedrooms, proper heating, and views across the forest from €65 nightly. Book well ahead for autumn mushroom season and August fiestas. Otherwise, you'll be driving twenty kilometres to the nearest hotel in Cantalejo, which defeats the purpose entirely.

Weather demands respect. Summer brings intense heat and occasional spectacular thunderstorms. Winter hits -10°C regularly, with snow that can isolate the village for days. Spring and autumn provide the sweet spot: warm days, cool nights, and that extraordinary quality of light that makes everything look like a painting. Pack layers regardless of season; altitude makes weather unpredictable.

The Honest Truth

Hontalbilla offers no monuments, no organised activities, no souvenir shops. What it provides is temporal shift: time measured in seasons rather than schedules, conversation instead of entertainment, and the realisation that three hundred people maintaining traditional life against all odds constitutes something remarkable. Come for walking, for mushroom hunting, for sitting in a square where nobody checks their phone. Don't come expecting to be entertained. The village's greatest gift is permission to stop, properly stop, for the first time in months. Whether that's enough depends entirely on you.