Megeces

At 740 metres above sea level, Megeces sits high enough that the air carries a faint tang of pine resin even on windless days. The village—population 404 at last count—feels less like a destination and more like a working outpost in Spain's great central plateau. There's no dramatic plaza mayor, no castle ruins, just a compact grid of adobe houses that have been baking and cooling through Castilian summers and winters for centuries.

The approach tells you everything. Leave the A-62 at Olmedo, drive ten kilometres past wheat fields and regimented pine plantations, and the village appears as a modest bump on the horizon. The church tower rises first, then the ochre roofs, then the scattering of modern houses that somehow never managed to spoil the edges. First-time visitors often drive straight through—there's only one proper road—before realising they've missed it.

The Forest That Pays the Bills

Megeces exists because of the trees. For generations, locals have harvested resin from the Aleppo pines that stretch unbroken to every horizon. The work is seasonal and physical: bark is scored, resin collected in tin cups, then distilled in the processing plant outside Olmedo. September brings the annual feria de la resina, when the village square fills with stalls selling pine-scented honey, soap and the ubiquitous jars of crystallised rosin that violinists swear by.

Walking the forest tracks reveals the scale of the operation. Red-painted numbers on tree trunks mark the tapping cycles. Side paths lead to clearings where resin barrels wait for collection lorries that arrive at dawn. The tracks are flat—this is plateau country, not mountain—but distances deceive. What looks like a gentle 5km loop can take two hours once you've stopped to examine mushroom clusters or watch red kites circling overhead.

Autumn transforms the plantations into a forager's playground. Locals emerge at first light with wicker baskets and the distinctive curved knives used for cutting níscalos—golden chanterelles that appear after October rains. The unwritten rules are simple: never take the small ones, never strip a patch bare, and if someone nods at you from behind a pine trunk, they've already claimed that area.

Lunch at the Only Bar That Matters

The Bar Megeces opens at 7am for the resin workers and doesn't close until the last customer leaves. Inside, it's all Formica tables and hunting trophies, with a television that nobody watches. The menu is written on a chalkboard that changes according to what Miguel, the owner, finds at the morning market in Valladolid.

Order the lechazo asado—milk-fed lamb slow-roasted in a wood-fired oven until the skin crackles like pork crackling. It arrives on a metal plate with nothing more than a wedge of lemon and a basket of bread that Miguel's wife bakes at 5am. The house wine comes from Cigales, ten euros buys a bottle that would cost £25 in London, and yes, it's cash only. Cards are accepted in Madrid, Miguel shrugs, as if that explains everything.

Sunday lunch is when the village reveals itself. Extended families occupy every table, grandparents rationing wine for teenagers, children darting between chairs. The noise level rises exponentially until 4pm, when suddenly everyone leaves for siesta and the bar falls silent. Try arriving at 6pm for dinner and you'll find the shutters down—kitchens here don't fire up again until 9pm at the earliest.

What Passes for Entertainment

There's no museum, no art gallery, no tourist office distributing maps. Instead, Megeces offers the particular pleasure of a place where nothing much happens, slowly. The weekly highlight is Thursday morning when the mobile library parks by the church and Doña Mercedes serves coffee from the back of her van to anyone who fancies discussing the price of resin or the lack of rain.

The church itself, dedicated to San Andrés, rewards patient observation. Built between the 15th and 17th centuries, its sandstone blocks show the slow evolution of Castilian religious architecture. The bell tower leans slightly north-west, a legacy of the 1755 Lisbon earthquake that sent tremors across the plateau. Inside, the altarpiece is pure austerity—no gold leaf, no baroque excess, just carved wood painted in colours that have faded to soft terracotta and grey.

Evening entertainment means joining the paseo, that Spanish institution where everyone walks the same circuit at the same speed. The route takes twelve minutes: down Calle Real, past the closed school, around the church plaza, back up past the bar. Teenagers travel in packs, grandparents walk arm-in-arm, and the only vehicle you'll meet is the occasional 4x4 heading out to check on resin collectors working late shifts.

Practicalities Without the Panic

Staying overnight requires planning. Megeces itself has no hotels—the nearest bed is at the Hotel Olmedo, ten kilometres back towards the motorway, where €70 gets you a comfortable room and access to the best swimming pool in the province. Better value is Casa Rural El Lagar, a converted farmhouse on the village edge with four bedrooms, a kitchen and views across pine plantations that turn copper at sunset.

Getting here means hiring a car. Valladolid airport, 25 minutes away, has direct flights from London via Madrid. The drive is straightforward: A-62 to Olmedo, then local road CV-221 that narrows to single-track in places. Petrol up beforehand—Megeces has no filling station, and the nearest supermarket is in Olmedo. Mobile signal improves every year but download offline maps before you leave the motorway.

Weather matters more than you'd think. Summer temperatures regularly hit 35°C, but the altitude keeps nights bearable. Winter brings sharp frosts and the occasional snow that melts within hours. Spring and autumn offer the sweet spot—mild days, cool nights, and forest floors carpeted with wild cyclamen or mushrooms depending on the season.

Leaving Without the Hard Sell

Megeces won't change your life. You won't tick off world-class sights or rack up Instagram followers. What you get instead is the rare experience of a Spanish village that continues its ancient rhythms regardless of who passes through. The resin still flows, the lamb still roasts, the pine forests still stretch to every horizon.

Drive away at dusk and the village shrinks rapidly in the rear-view mirror. Within minutes it's just a smudge of terracotta among endless green. The resin smell lingers in the car for days afterwards, an accidental souvenir of a place that never asked you to visit and won't notice you've gone.