Santa Cruz de Pinares

At 1,100 metres above sea level, Santa Cruz de Pinares sits high enough that your ears might pop on the drive up. The village appears suddenly after a series of switchbacks through the Sierra de Gredos foothills—a cluster of stone houses huddled against the wind, surrounded by a forest so vast it shows up on satellite images as a dark green smudge across central Spain.

This isn't one of those restored medieval hamlets where tour buses disgorge their cargo for photo opportunities. Santa Cruz de Pinares has 169 permanent residents, though that number swells to perhaps 500 when weekenders from Madrid and Ávila arrive to unlock their second homes. The village's main street measures exactly 300 metres from end to end. There's no petrol station, no cash machine, and depending on the season, possibly no functioning shop.

The Forest That Built a Village

The pine forests here aren't decorative—they're the reason Santa Cruz de Pinares exists at all. For centuries, villagers have harvested resin from the Pinus pinaster trees that blanket the surrounding hills. The sticky amber sap, once distilled into turpentine and rosin, paid for the stone houses and the simple parish church whose bell still marks the hours.

Walk beyond the last houses and you'll find the sendero de la Resinera, a marked footpath that follows old extraction routes through the forest. Information boards (in Spanish only) explain how workers once carved zig-zag grooves into tree trunks, collecting the dripping resin in clay pots. The practice declined sharply in the 1960s when synthetic alternatives undercut the market, but a few locals still tap trees for tradition rather than profit.

The forest tracks serve double duty as hiking trails, though "trail" might be generous. These are wide gravel roads originally built for forestry vehicles, which means gentle gradients but also considerable exposure to the summer sun. The most popular route climbs three kilometres to the Ermita de San Blas, a ruined hermitage with views across the Tierra de Pinares. On clear days, you can spot the granite massif of the Sierra de Gredos, 40 kilometres distant.

What Passes for Entertainment

Birdwatchers bring their binoculars for good reason. The forest supports one of Spain's highest densities of red kites—you'll spot their distinctive forked tails circling overhead most mornings. Dawn walkers might glimpse roe deer grazing at forest edges, while patient observers can add goshawks and short-toed eagles to their life lists.

Autumn transforms the village into a base for mushroom hunters. The pine woods yield saffron milk caps and pine mushrooms, though competition is fierce. Locals guard their favourite spots jealously, and stories abound of heated confrontations between foragers. Spanish law allows collection of up to three kilograms per person daily, but enforcement is minimal and disputes occasionally escalate. Visitors should stick to clearly identified species or, better yet, hire local guide José María through the village ayuntamiento. He charges €30 per person for a three-hour foray, including identification training and a guarantee of finding at least edible specimens.

Mountain biking works better here than road cycling. The forestry tracks form a maze across the hills—bring a GPS or prepare for lengthy detours. The gravel surface suits hybrid tyres better than skinny road bikes, and the altitude means even fit riders feel the burn. A 20-kilometre loop starting from the village church climbs 400 metres to the Puerto de la Quesera pass before descending through a valley where wild boar root for acorns.

The Seasonal Reality Check

Winter arrives early at this altitude. The first frost typically hits mid-October, and snow isn't unusual from December through March. The village road gets ploughed eventually, but access becomes dicey during heavy falls. One January storm in 2021 left residents cut off for three days—a fact locals recount with perverse pride.

Summer brings the opposite problem. Daytime temperatures regularly top 30°C, and the thin atmosphere intensifies UV exposure. The forest provides shade, but midday hiking becomes unpleasant. Smart visitors follow Spanish schedules: early morning activity, long lunch indoors, then evening excursions as temperatures drop.

Spring and autumn offer the sweet spot. May sees the forest floor carpeted with wildflowers, while late September brings golden light and the first hints of woodsmoke from village chimneys. These shoulder seasons also avoid the worst of Spain's tourist influx—though calling it an influx here stretches credibility.

Where to Eat (or Not)

The village's only bar, Casa Curro, opens sporadically. Its opening hours depend entirely on whether Curro feels like working that day—a philosophical approach to commerce that frustrates guidebook writers but accurately reflects rural Spanish life. When operational, it serves basic tapas: tortilla, local cheese, perhaps chorizo from a neighbour's pig. A caña costs €1.20. Bring cash—card machines remain science fiction here.

The nearest reliable restaurant sits eight kilometres away in El Barraco. Venta de la Rubia occupies a 17th-century coaching inn, serving roast lamb and judiones (giant white beans) for around €18 per portion. The drive takes 15 minutes on winding mountain roads—factor in designated driver duties or prepare for hair-raising night navigation after a bottle of Ribera del Duero.

Self-catering works better. The village shop closed permanently in 2019, so stock up in Ávila before ascending the mountain. The 40-kilometre drive from the provincial capital takes 45 minutes on the N-502, a scenic route that crosses several mountain passes. Fill your boot with local specialties: morcilla de Burgos (blood sausage), queso de oveja from nearby Guijuelo, and bottles of Sierra de Gredos wine from the Cebreros vineyards.

Accommodation options remain limited. The Vivienda de Uso Turístico El Cerezo sleeps 12-14 in a restored stone house on the village outskirts. At €29 per person nightly (minimum two nights), it offers better value than similar properties in the Cotswolds, though standards follow Spanish rural rather than British boutique. The owners, a Madrid family who've owned the property for three generations, provide detailed arrival instructions in WhatsApp voice messages—typed Spanish feels too formal for village life.

The Honest Assessment

Santa Cruz de Pinares won't change your life. You won't discover ancient ruins or Michelin-starred dining. The village offers instead something increasingly rare: a place where forests stretch to the horizon, where neighbours still borrow sugar, where the loudest evening sound might be a nightjar calling from the pines.

Come prepared for inconvenience. Mobile coverage flickers in and out. The nearest doctor sits 25 kilometres away. If your car breaks down, you'll wait hours for a tow truck willing to climb the mountain.

Yet for walkers seeking empty trails, for birdwatchers wanting solitude, for anyone curious about Spain beyond the costas, Santa Cruz de Pinares delivers authenticity without artifice. Just don't expect anyone to roll out a red carpet. The village has dirt tracks instead, and they suit everyone just fine.