Navalmanzano

The smell hits before you've even locked the car. Hot pine resin, sharp and sweet, drifts across the lay-by where A-1 motorway traffic fades to a distant hum. At 835 metres above sea-level, Navalmanzano sits squarely on Castilla y León's central plateau, yet the surrounding forest makes it feel lower, as though someone's dropped a northern Spanish pinewood onto the meseta's wheat fields. The effect is immediate: lungs clear, horizons shrink to the next stand of trees, and Segovia's famous aqueduct might as well be on another planet, though it's only 25 km away.

Navalmanzano's identity was built on that resin. Until the 1970s, local men spent late spring "tapping" the Scots pines, cutting V-shaped grooves that channelled sticky gum into clay pots. The pots are gone, but walk five minutes along the signed track behind the football pitch and you can still spot the scars: pale diagonal slashes, now healed, running down ancient trunks. An overgrown stone hut—half shed, half workshop—leans against a boundary wall; peer through the broken door and you'll see blackened shelves where resin cakes once cooled. No interpretation boards, no ticket desk. The forest simply absorbed the industry, and the village moved on.

Walking at Plateau Pace

The terrain is forgiving. Pick any gravel lane heading west and within ten minutes houses give way to uninterrupted pinewoods. Paths are wide enough for two, flat enough for a pushchair, and way-marked with the same yellow-and-white flashes used on the Camino de Santiago. A gentle 6 km circuit leaves from the church door, loops through the Pinar de San Miguel, and deposits you back at the Plaza Mayor in time for coffee. Spring brings acid-green moss and the chatter of chaffinches; autumn turns the occasional oak copper and sends locals out with wicker baskets. If you fancy something longer, the GR-88 long-distance trail skirts the village boundary—follow it north for an hour and you'll reach the ruins of a Civil War trench, barely visible under brambles but still studded with rusted tin cans.

Mountain bikes work here, though don't expect downhill thrills. Locals use the forest roads for training; hire bikes in Segovia (Aventura2, €25 a day) and you can ride the old resin track all the way to brihuega, stopping at the marble quarry lake outside Cabanillas del Monte for a swim that no guidebook mentions. Mobile signal vanishes after the first kilometre—download offline maps before you leave the tarmac.

Brick, Adobe and a Bell that Rings on Time

Back in the village, architecture is practical rather than pretty. Houses are low, built from brick where stone was scarce, whitewashed every spring whether they need it or not. The 16th-century church of San Pedro Apóstol squats at the top of a gentle rise; its tower houses one bell that still marks the quarters, loud enough to wake anyone used to London traffic. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Walls are thick, windows are small, and the single nave smells of candle wax and floor polish. There's no great art—just a carved polychrome altarpiece paid for with pine money—but the place feels lived-in. Funeral notices are pinned beside the door, children's drawings of loaves and fishes sellotaped to the pulpit.

Calle Real, the main street, runs for 300 metres from the church to the stone cross that once marked the village limit. Halfway down, number 27 has kept its original wooden balcony, painted the same ox-blood red used on windowsills across the province. Peer through the gate and you'll see the classic Castilian courtyard: packed-earth square, potted geraniums, a single persimmon tree dropping overripe fruit onto the table. Most houses hide similar patios; they're private, but if the gate's ajar nobody minds a polite glance.

What Arrives on the Daily Van

Food choices are limited, honest and cheap. The Bar Cervecería El Pinar opens at seven for truck drivers and doesn't close until the last domino falls. A coffee costs €1.20, a plate of migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic, grapes and bits of chorizo—€6. House red comes from Valdeviñas, 40 km south, and tastes better than it should. The daily menu (weekdays only, €11) might be judías blancas with chorizo followed by a slab of roast suckling lamb; arrive after two and you'll get whatever's left. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and salad, though the lettuce is usually local and the olive oil peppery enough to drink.

For picnic supplies, the SPAR on Plaza Mayor stocks local cheese made from merino sheep milk and a hard, paprika-rubbed chorizo that keeps for days without refrigeration. Ask at the counter and they'll slice it thick enough to grill over a campfire. Bread arrives each morning in a white van; if you're still in bed at eleven, you've missed it.

When the Forest Gets Crowded

Weekends in late October turn hectic. Níscalo (saffron milk cap) season brings families from Madrid, baskets in one hand, GPS in the other. The town hall issues free permits—collect one from the ayuntamiento office between nine and noon—but even with paperwork, tempers flare over "poached" patches. If you want quiet, come mid-week or wait until the first frost, when mushrooms collapse and walkers have the woods to themselves. Spring is equally empty but bring a fleece; night temperatures still drop below five degrees until May, and the forest traps cold like a refrigerator.

Snow is rare yet inconvenient when it comes. Two centimetres can block the access road from the A-1, and the village has neither snowplough nor salt truck. Winter visitors should carry chains and park facing downhill. Summer, by contrast, is bone-dry and 30 °C by noon; start walks early and carry more water than you think necessary—streams marked on old maps have been dry since 2017.

Making It Work Without a Car

Public transport exists, barely. One bus leaves Segovia's Estación de Autobuses at 14:00, returning at 07:00 next day—fine for a forced digital detox, hopeless for a day trip. Taxis from the city charge a fixed €35 each way; four people makes it cheaper than the bus and the driver will stop at a supermarket on request. Cycling the back road (A-6010) takes 90 minutes and climbs 250 metres—tough on a hire bike, bliss with an e-bike and a tailwind.

Accommodation is thin on the ground. The three-bedroom Casa del Pinar (€90 a night, two-night minimum) opens onto the forest and has a wood-burning stove but no Wi-Fi. Hostal El Resinero, above the bar, offers four rooms sharing two bathrooms at €35 a pop; expect clean sheets, traffic noise from the N-110 and breakfast strong enough to stain the cup. Book nothing in August without ringing first—families return for the fiestas and spare beds vanish.

Navalmanzano won't fill an itinerary. It will, however, reset your heartbeat to plateau time: coffee at eight, walk at nine, siesta at three, wine at nine-thirty. One slow day here knocks edges off a week of cathedral-hopping, and Segovia's Roman aqueduct is close enough to tick off on the drive back to the airport. Just remember to wash the pine resin off your boots before you pack—once that smell gets into the rental car, it lingers longer than the holiday photos.