Pinarejos

The morning mist clings to the pine forests at 800 metres, and the only sound is resin dripping from bark scarring that hasn't healed in decades. Pinarejos, population 212, sits where Castilla's cereal plains surrender to the Sierra de Guadarrama's lower slopes—a village where the ratio of trees to humans runs roughly a thousand to one.

This altitude changes everything. Summer mornings start cool enough for a jumper, even when Madrid swelters 90 kilometres south. Winter arrives earlier too; the first frost can hit in October, and when snow comes, the village sometimes spends days cut off from Segovia city. The locals, whose families have weathered these cycles for centuries, barely notice. They still hang slaughtered hams in stone outbuildings where temperatures stay consistently cold.

The Resin Road and What Grows Between the Trees

Drive the A-601 north from Segovia and turn off at Torrelaguna. Within twenty minutes, the landscape shifts from wheat fields to stands of Pinus pinaster—maritime pines planted during Franco's reforestation campaigns. Their straight trunks carry the legacy of Spain's resin industry: V-shaped cuts, now scarred over, where workers once tapped trees for turpentine. The operation folded in the 1980s, but evidence remains in abandoned metal collection pots rusting beside forest tracks.

These aren't manicured woodland walks. Paths follow agricultural access roads—dusty tracks where farmers still drive to check remote plots. Walk east from the village centre past the cemetery and you'll hit the Coto de Caza boundary within fifteen minutes. Hunting preserves dominate here; autumn weekends echo with gunshots as locals pursue red-legged partridge. The birds aren't fussy about property lines, so walkers should stick to marked tracks and wear something visible. Orange works.

The sandy soil supports more than pines. Holm oaks cluster in hollows, their acorns fattening free-roaming Iberian pigs that appear between October and February. Mushroom hunters arrive after October rains, baskets ready for níscalos (saffron milk caps) that fetch €20 per kilo in Segovia's markets. Years with sparse rainfall see fewer fungi but more wild asparagus in spring—thin, bitter spears that locals scramble with eggs.

Stone, Adobe and the Reality of Rural Architecture

Pinarejos won't win prettiest village contests. Its architecture is functional: low houses in local stone or adobe, terracotta roofs weighted with stones against mountain winds. The 16th-century church stands solid rather than spectacular, its bell tower repaired after lightning struck in 1978. Sunday mass at 11:30 draws twenty parishioners on a good week; visit outside these times and you'll likely find it locked.

More telling are the abandoned houses. Forty percent of village properties sit empty, their owners dead or departed for Valladolid's factories. Some crumble quietly; others sport fresh plaster and new roofs—the weekend renovation projects of grandchildren who return for fiestas but fly back to Basque Country jobs by Monday. Property prices reflect this: €30,000 buys a habitable three-bedroom house, though connecting utilities might double the cost if the previous owner disconnected electricity decades ago.

The village bar closed in 2019. Now, social life centres on the centro cultural—a municipal building with WiFi that actually works, surprisingly—where card games run until midnight and the mayor (elected with 112 votes) holds court on Thursday evenings. There's no cash machine; the nearest sits twelve kilometres away in Carbonero el Mayor, and it charges €2 per withdrawal.

Eating What the Land Gives

Food here predates the concept of farm-to-table; it's simply what's available. The village matanza happens each January when temperatures reliably stay below 5°C. Families gather to slaughter a pig, turning every part into products that sustain them through winter. Visitors renting local accommodation might find a string of chorizos curing in what was advertised as the utility room—consider it complimentary atmosphere.

Local lamb comes from flocks that graze the surrounding dehesa; the meat tastes of wild thyme and rosemary growing between oaks. In spring, pochas—fresh white beans stewed with chorizo—appear on every table. The village's one remaining shop stocks basics: tinned tomatoes, UHT milk, and Cruzcampo beer. For vegetables, drive to Tuesday's market in Coca (25 minutes) or knock on doors—many households sell surplus from garden gates, prices scrawled on cardboard.

Restaurant options within 30 kilometres range from excellent to dire. In Villacastín, Asador José María serves Segovia's best cochinillo (suckling pig) at €24 per portion, crispy skin shattering under a wine glass's edge. Closer options include Mesón de la Villa in Carbonero el Mayor—acceptable judiones (giant beans) but variable service. Book weekends; half of Segovia province seems to descend on these villages for Sunday lunch.

When to Come, Where to Stay, What to Know

Spring brings the village alive. Almond blossoms appear in March, followed by wildflowers that carpet clearings between pines. Temperatures hover around 18°C—perfect hiking weather before summer's 35°C highs arrive. Autumn offers mushroom foraging and wine harvests in nearby Nieva, where small producers still foot-tread grapes in stone lagares.

Accommodation is limited. The converted schoolhouse rents as El Pinarejo through booking sites—three bedrooms, wood-burning stove, €90 nightly. Alternatively, COVA Caballar Airbnb sits four kilometres outside the village proper, a stone cottage with no neighbours and WiFi that depends on weather. Both require cars; public transport involves a twice-daily bus from Segovia that drops passengers at the crossroads, 1.5 kilometres downhill from the village centre.

Winter access needs consideration. The A-601 stays open but side roads ice over quickly. Chains or 4WD become essential after December snow, and the village's single snowplough prioritises the main street. Summer brings different challenges: forest fire risk means no barbecues, and smoking while walking carries €3000 fines.

The village fiesta happens 15 August—three days of processions, brass bands, and outdoor dancing that doubles the population. Beds book months ahead; otherwise, stay in Segovia and drive up for evening events. The fireworks echo off the pine-covered hills, scaring wildlife for weeks afterward. Local hunters complain the partridge relocate to neighbouring villages.

Come without expectations of rustic charm or artisanal experiences. Pinarejos offers something rarer: a functioning agricultural community adapting to 21st-century realities at its own pace. Bring walking boots, cash, and enough Spanish to order beer in the next village. The pines will still be here when you leave—older than any resident, indifferent to human schedules, slowly dripping resin onto forest floors that have seen Romans, Moors, and Franco pass by.