Peguerinos

The granite houses of Peguerinos sit 1,350 metres above the heat of Castile, high enough that even in July the evening air carries a chill sharp enough to make you reach for a jumper. At this altitude the Sierra de Guadarrama is no postcard backdrop; it is the village’s landlord, setting the rules on everything from what will grow in a garden to whether the road stays open once snow arrives.

Drive in at dusk and the first thing you notice is the smell—resin and wood smoke drifting down from the surrounding pinewoods. The second is the quiet. Traffic is thin, voices carry, and the church bell still marks the hours for people who bother to listen. With 283 registered inhabitants, Peguerinos is not trying to impress anyone. Its lanes are narrow, its gutters carry melt-water straight off the mountain, and the only modern intrusions are the satellite dishes clamped to centuries-old walls.

Stone, Timber and Winter Logic

Local builders worked with what the sierra gave them: grey granite hacked from nearby outcrops, oak beams thick enough to bear the weight of heavy snow, and chimneys tall enough to draw sparks above the roofline. The result is a streetscape that looks accidental but is ruthlessly practical. Houses are huddled shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing walls to conserve heat; doorways face south when possible, away from the north wind that can knife through the valley at any season.

Because restoration has been piecemeal rather than wholesale, you will not find rows of identical holiday lets painted in municipal ochre. Some façades are freshly pointed, others still carry lichen like a birthmark. The overall effect is lived-in, a village that has kept its population steady by accident rather than design.

Trails that Start at the Doorstep

Leave the church square by the upper road and within ten minutes you are among pines, following an old livestock track that later becomes the footpath to La Peña del Oso. The name—Bear Rock—refers to a granite tor that, if you squint and the light is kind, might resemble a sitting animal. The real reward is the platform of stone at 1,600 metres: on a clear morning you can pick out the Madrid skyline thirty-five kilometres south while eagles ride thermals beneath you.

Maps suggest the walk is a gentle 6 km round trip. What they rarely mention is the final 200-metre scramble over broken boulders where the path dissolves. Trainers are fine in dry weather; after rain the granite turns slick as marble and a twisted ankle is easy currency. Carry water even for short hikes—altitude dehydrates faster than you expect, and the only bar en route is a pine cone.

Longer routes fan out east and west. Westwards a forestry track climbs steadily towards the Cuerda Larga, the high ridge that separates Segovia from Madrid province. Eastwards an old mule trail drops into the Cofio valley, passing abandoned terraces once planted with rye and flax. Either direction guarantees solitude outside Easter and the August fiesta; it also guarantees mobile-phone black spots, so tell someone where you are going and when you expect to be back.

When the Mountain Shuts the Gate

Winter arrives early. The first snow can fall in late October and still be lying in April. The regional government grades the local road twice daily when bad weather hits, but if the wind drifts snow across the tarmac the plough does not always win. Chains or winter tyres are not macho posturing; without them you may spend the night in the car listening to the cooling engine tick.

Temperatures of minus ten are routine after dark, and the village water tank has been known to freeze solid. Yet the cold brings compensations: mornings of diamond-bright air when every pine needle carries a sleeve of ice, and the chance—on still evenings—of hearing the resident tawny owls calling across the valley. Bring layers rather than one bulky coat; the thermometer can swing fifteen degrees between dawn and lunchtime.

What You’ll Eat and Where You’ll Eat It

The village supports two bars, both on the main square. Neither posts a menu in English, and neither stays open much past ten-thirty. Order a caña of beer and you will be asked whether you want something to “picar”—a tapa of local chorizo, maybe a wedge of tortilla. The serious food appears at lunchtime: judiones, the butter-bean stew of the province, bulked out with scraps of jamón bone; or cordero asado, milk-fed lamb roasted in a wood-fired oven until the skin shatters like sugar glass. Portions are built for men who have spent the morning hauling timber. A media ración (half portion) is usually enough for two modest British appetites.

Vegetarians can eat well if they like eggs and pulses: revolconas potatoes—mashed with sweet pimentón and topped with a runny fried egg—appear on every menu. Vegan options, frankly, are thin. Bring emergency almonds and be gracious about it.

The nearest shop is the ultramarinos next to the church: two aisles, one fridge, a cheese counter and an ATM that runs out of €20 notes on Friday afternoon. Bread arrives daily except Monday; if you want fresh milk, ask the owner when the van is due. Otherwise stock up in San Rafael, twenty minutes down the hill, before you climb to the village.

Beds for the Night (and Why You Need a Car to Reach Them)

Accommodation is thin on the ground. Casa Florida, a nineteenth-century house restored by a Madrid architect, rents two doubles on Airbnb and is booked most weekends between May and October. The alternative is El Milano Real, a rural lodge two kilometres outside the village with four rooms and a communal lounge that smells of pine disinfectant. Both require a car; there is no taxi rank, and the daily bus from Ávila reaches the village at 19:15 and leaves again at 06:45. Miss it and you are walking fifteen kilometres to the nearest filling station.

Fly into Madrid, collect a hire car at Barajas, and allow ninety minutes via the A-6 and AP-51 toll road. Petrol is cheaper at the supermarket pumps in San Rafael than on the motorway; top up before the final climb because the village garage opens when the owner feels like it.

Fiestas and Other Population Explosions

For three days around 15 August the village doubles in size. Returning emigrants park hatchbacks along the verge, the square hosts a foam machine disco, and the church bell rings until three in the morning. The programme is defiantly traditional: morning mass followed by a running-of-the-bulls through the lanes (small, bemused calves rather than Miura monsters), an afternoon paella cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish, and nightly verbena dancing where the playlist has not changed since 1998. Visitors are welcome but not fussed over; buy a raffle ticket for the ham and you are accepted for the evening.

Outside fiesta week the pace drops to a whisper. Sunday morning is the best time to people-watch: old men in flat caps shuffle to mass, younger ones in hi-vis jackets stop for a quick coffee before driving to the forestry plots, and the village dogs conduct low-speed negotiations over territory around the fountain.

The Honest Verdict

Peguerinos will not dazzle anyone seeking medieval pageantry or Michelin stars. Its charms are quieter: the hush of a pine wood at first light, the taste of bean stew that has simmered since dawn, the satisfaction of reaching a ridge and seeing two provinces stretch out below your boots. Come prepared for thin air, patchy phone signal and the possibility of being snowed in if you visit between December and March. Bring cash, a phrasebook and a sense that Spain does not end where the Costas begin. If that sounds like work, pick somewhere lower and easier. If it sounds like breathing space, the sierra is waiting.