San Cristóbal de Cuéllar

The resin smell hits before the village comes into view. At 800 metres above sea level, where the northern slopes of the Sierra de Guadarrama flatten into Segovia's Tierra de Pinares, San Cristóbal de Cuéllar sits surrounded by half a million pine trees and barely 150 permanent residents. The maths works out to roughly 3,300 trees per person, give or take a few that have succumbed to recent droughts.

This isn't one of those Spanish villages where tour coaches clog the single access road. There aren't any coaches because there isn't much of anything, really. A stone church with a bell that chimes the hours slightly off-beat. A handful of houses built from the same golden stone that bleeds into the forest floor. A bar that opens when the owner's arthritis permits. That's more or less the sum of it.

The Forest That Pays the Bills

For four centuries, these Scots pines have been tapped for resin, the thick amber sap that becomes turpentine and rosin. The process, called resinación, involves cutting diagonal grooves into tree trunks and collecting the drips in clay pots. It's back-breaking work that paid for the stone houses you'll walk past, though only a dozen locals still practice the trade. Most resin now comes faster-growing plantations in China and Brazil, leaving these forests to retirees and weekenders from Madrid who've bought up properties for the price of a garage in the capital.

The resin workers' paths make decent walking tracks, if you can navigate by instinct. There are no signposts, no painted waymarks, just compacted earth that winds between identical-looking trunks. Mobile signal vanishes within 200 metres of the village edge, so screenshot your route before setting out. The standard loop south towards Montejo de la Sierra takes three hours, emerging onto a fire road where you might spot wild boar tracks in the mud. They're harmless unless you stumble between a sow and her piglets in May.

What Passes for Sights

The 16th-century church of San Cristóbal earns its keep as the village's sole architectural talking point. Inside, the altarpiece features a polychrome statue of the saint himself, carrying a child across a river that probably looked a lot like the Duratón thirty kilometres north. The frescoes are 19th-century additions, painted by a travelling artist who accepted payment in pine nuts and two goats. Mass happens Sundays at 11am, attended mainly by widows who sit in the same pews their mothers occupied.

Beyond that? The stone water fountain on Plaza Mayor still functions, though the water tastes metallic from ancient pipes. The old schoolhouse, closed since 1987 when the last three pupils graduated, has its original slate chalkboards intact. Peer through dusty windows and you'll see desks carved with initials from the Franco era. The building belongs to the mayor's cousin now, who uses it to store resin-collecting equipment and dreams of converting it into holiday flats he'll never quite get around to building.

When the Forest Gives Dinner

October transforms the village into ground zero for mushroom obsessives. Cars with Madrid number plates appear overnight, their boots filled with wicker baskets and curved knives. The níscalo (saffron milk cap) fetches €28 per kilo at city markets, so competition for prime spots turns cut-throat. Local knowledge wins over Google Maps every time; the best patches are passed down through families like dowries.

If you're determined to join the hunt, hire Juanjo, the retired resin worker who supplements his pension guiding foragers. He charges €40 for a half-day, including his wife's packed lunch of chorizo bocadillos and the plastic bottle of wine that passes for coffee in these parts. His English extends to "good mushroom" and "bad mushroom", which proves sufficient when you're staring at a cluster that could either dinner or organ failure.

The village itself offers no food options whatsoever. Zero. The nearest bar serving hot meals sits eight kilometres away in Carbonero el Mayor, where Casa Paco does a decent cordero asado (roast lamb) for €18, but you'll need to order before noon. Stock up in Valladolid beforehand if you're self-catering; the only shop within 20 kilometres sells tinned tuna, knock-off biscuits and not much else.

Practicalities Without the Brochure Speak

Getting here requires either a car or saintly patience. From Madrid, take the A-1 north for 90 minutes, exit at Aranda de Duero, then follow the CL-101 through increasingly empty landscapes. The final 12 kilometres twist through pine forest on a road barely wider than a Tesco delivery van. Meeting oncoming traffic involves creative reversing to passing places that appear every kilometre or so. In winter, snow can render the route impassable for days despite the council's single plough.

Accommodation options fit on a Post-it note. Casa de los Recuerdos, a five-bedroom villa with hot tub, sits two kilometres outside the village proper. It books exclusively through FV Rentals, scores 9.8 on Booking.com, and costs roughly the same as a mid-range Gatwick hotel. The owner, Charo, leaves a welcome basket featuring local pine honey and instructions about the septic tank that uses forest bacteria. Alternative sleeps include a basic guest room above the mayor's garage (bookable via handwritten note on the church door) or wild camping with permission from the forest ranger whose mobile number nobody seems to know.

Weather-wise, August hits 35°C by midday but drops to 15°C after dark thanks to the altitude. Pack layers even in summer; pine forest shade deceives. Winter brings proper snow from December through March, beautiful until you realise the heating oil tank holds three days' supply and the nearest refill station closes weekends.

The Honest Verdict

San Cristóbal de Cuéllar won't change your life. You won't discover yourself, unless you happen to be hiding in a pine grove off the CL-617. What you get is three hours of gentle wandering, possibly a basket of mushrooms, definitely silence thick enough to hear your own heartbeat.

Come if you need reminding that Spain extends beyond Costa del Sol karaoke bars. Don't come expecting medieval festivals or Michelin stars. Bring walking boots, a paper map and enough food for your stay. Leave before the forest darkness starts feeling like a Stephen King novel, usually around day three.