Navas de Oro

The morning thermometer reads 7 °C at eight hundred metres, even though Madrid swelters thirty-five kilometres away. That drop in temperature is the first clue that Navas de Oro plays by its own rules, perched on the northern lip of the Sierra de Guadarrama and wrapped in one of Spain’s last commercial resin forests. By dawn the air is thick with the metallic scent of pine gum; later, when the sun clears the saw-toothed horizon, the same resin glints like varnish on the black trunks. You will not find the village on the standard Segovia day-trip circuit, and that is largely because the only public bus leaves the provincial capital at 14:15 and does not come back until school ends the following day.

Forests that Work for a Living

These are not ornamental pinewoods planted for weekend strollers. Resineros still score the bark each spring, fitting small tin cups that fill slowly with the raw material for turpentine. Walk the GR-88 long-distance footpath—marked with a white and yellow stripe—ten minutes east of the plaza and you step between parallel slash marks, each tree numbered in faded crimson paint. The network is flat, following old forestry carts, so a two-hour circuit is more a question of sturdy shoes than mountaineering credentials. Mid-October brings the loudest colour: ochre cereal stubble on one side of the track, acid-green pine canopy on the other, with the occasional flash of scarlet rowan berries the locals call mojinos.

Winter is a different proposition. At this altitude snow can arrive overnight in January, and the Ayuntamiento sometimes closes the final three kilometres of the N-603 approach if the asphalt ices over. A front-wheel-drive hire car with legal winter tyres is normally sufficient, but carry snow chains if the sky has that bruised purple look. Summer, by contrast, is dry and needle-hot by mid-afternoon; set off before 09:00 and carry more water than you think necessary—there are no cafés once the path leaves the village.

Stone, Brick and the Smell of Suckling Lamb

Navas de Oro has never bothered with postcard-perfect plazas. The centre is simply a widening of Calle Real, wide enough for grain lorries to turn. Houses are built from whatever came to hand: granite blocks at the base, sun-baked brick above, then a coat of off-white lime that flakes like old paint on a barge. Many still have the ground-floor puerta de labrar—an arched wooden gate wide enough for a mule and plough. Peer through the slats and you will see bicycles stacked next to hoes, exactly as they were when the agricultural cooperative still set prices every Thursday.

The Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Natividad anchors the top of the hill. Parts of the tower date to the late 1400s, but the building expanded piecemeal as the resin trade grew, so Gothic, Mudéjar and chunky nineteenth-century brick sit companionably next to each other. The door is unlocked only for Mass on Saturday evening; turn up at 19:30 and you can slip in with the congregation rather than waiting for a key that may never materialise. Inside, the main attraction is a sixteenth-century polychrome Virgin whose robes still carry traces of cochineal red. Photography is tolerated, but flash is considered poor form—older women will frown you into submission.

Eating Without Showmanship

There are three places serving food, none with an English menu. If your Spanish stalls at hola, download an offline translator; 4G drifts in and out. Restaurante La Chuleta, on the corner of Avenida de Segovia, specialises in chuletón—a beef rib-eye the width of a paperback that arrives sizzling on a terracotta plate. A one-kilogram portion (€32, March 2024 prices) easily feeds two hungry walkers; ask for it "en su punto" if you like it medium-rare—anything more is considered culinary vandalism. Locals start lunch at 15:00, so arrive at 14:00 and you will get a table without queuing.

The house red comes from Bodegas de Navas de Oro, the village’s lone winery squeezed between the football pitch and the pine edge. Tours last ninety minutes and must be booked online at least two days ahead; the site is in Spanish only, but the winemaker speaks serviceable English if you request it when reserving. Tasting includes a rosé that tastes of strawberry hulls and a barrel-fermented white rarely seen outside the province. Bottles start at €7, well below the €18 you will pay in Segovia’s tourist strip.

Vegetarians should lower expectations. Most guisos use pork fat for depth, and even the judiones (giant butter beans) arrive flecked with chorizo. A fallback is pimientos de padrón followed by a plate of queso de oveja, but you will need to ask for bread—pan does not arrive automatically and costs €1.20 extra.

Practicalities the Brochures Skip

Cash remains sovereign. The lone Cajamar ATM opposite the pharmacy often empties on Friday afternoon when the weekly market convenes, and the nearest alternative is a twenty-minute drive to Carbonero el Mayor. Bars accept cards until the terminal jams, which happens whenever the wind knocks out the repeater on the water tower. Bring at least €60 in notes if you plan to eat and fill up with petrol.

Accommodation is limited. Hostal la Muralla has eight rooms above a café whose espresso machine sounds like a tractor; doubles are €45 with breakfast (toast, orange juice, café con leche). Anything smarter requires a 35-minute drive to Segovia, a nuisance after a hefty lunch and wine tasting. If you do stay over, remember that August fiestas—the Feria del Santo Ángel—turn the main street into an open-air disco until 04:00. Earplugs are advised unless you plan to join the verbena and practise Spanish small-talk with teenagers who have never heard of Brexit.

When to Cut Your Losses

Navas de Oro is not for everyone. If you crave cathedral towns, boutique shopping or multilingual guided tours, drive on to Segovia and its aqueduct. The village suits travellers who are content to watch light move across a forest floor for an hour, then reward themselves with a glass of local rosé that costs less than a London coffee. Come in late May when the resin scent is fresh, or in mid-October when mushrooms push through the needles and the night temperature drops enough to justify the first chuletón of the season. Arrive expecting nothing more, and the quiet efficiency of a place that still makes its living from pine sap may feel like a small discovery—just do not call it a hidden gem within earshot of the resinero refilling his cups.