Sebúlcor

The resin smell hits before the village comes into view. It leaks from the scored pine trunks that blanket the plateau, a sharp, sweet perfume that clings to clothes and boots for days. Sebulcor appears suddenly after the last bend—a tight cluster of stone walls and terracotta roofs balanced on a ridge at 950 m, with nothing but forest rolling northwards all the way to Valladolid. No souvenir stalls, no coach bays, just a single bar whose terrace faces the drop and a church tower that still calls the 240-odd residents to mass on Sundays.

This is the Tierra de Pinares, Europe’s largest resin-tapped pine forest, and the village owes its existence to the trade. Men still walk the woods with metal claws and tin pots, wounding the bark so the sap bleeds slowly into bags. The work starts at dawn when the air is knife-cold even in May; by midday the resin has thickened and the bags are hauled to the cooperative in Coca, 25 km west. Ask in the Bar Gregoris and someone will slide a sticky bead across the counter—chew it like toffee, it tastes of forest and diesel.

What passes for a centre

The plaza is a rectangle of cracked concrete shaded by a single walnut. On one side the ayuntamiento, on the other the bakery that opens three mornings a week and sells bread at €1.20 a barra that stays fresh for exactly one meal. The church, Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, is locked unless the priest is in town; peer through the iron grille and you’ll see a single nave rebuilt after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake shook half the stones loose. The altarpiece is dull gold, the colour of pine pollen, and the pews are polished by generations of work trousers.

Houses are built from what lay to hand: limestone for the lower walls, adobe bricks above, roof tiles fired in the nearby village of Cantimpalos where they still use pine needles as kiln fuel. Many are empty now—second homes for Madrilenians who arrive in August with cool-boxes and leave Labour Day weekend. Shutters stay closed eleven months, but the geraniums on the balconies keep flowering thanks to retired neighbours who water by agreement. Property prices hover around €400 per square metre, less than a tenth of Segovia city 45 minutes south, yet sales are slow; the broadband is patchy and the nearest secondary school is a 30-minute bus ride.

Walking among the scored trees

Three marked footpaths start from the top end of the village where the asphalt gives out. The shortest, a 5 km loop to the abandoned resin store, is signposted in fading yellow paint. Follow it at dusk and you’ll meet wild boar shuffling uphill; they ignore humans but will shred a rucksack for an apple. The longer PR-S4 cuts east through the Navafría valley, a full day’s hike that finishes at the Roman bridge of Canto de la Virgen where the river Eresma is shallow enough to ford in trainers. Mobile reception dies after the first kilometre—download the GPS track before leaving the bar.

Spring brings colour in fits: white rockrose on cleared fire breaks, purple thyme crushed underfoot, and carpets of wild daffodils so toxic that sheep leave them untouched. Temperatures stay five degrees cooler than Madrid, so even July rarely tops 28 °C; nights drop to 12 °C, perfect for sleeping with the window open and a single blanket. Come October the forest floor turns orange with níscalos, the prized saffron milk-cap mushroom. Locals carry curved knives and wicker baskets; foreigners need a permit (€3 daily, sold online) and must limit the haul to 3 kg. Mistakes can be lethal—every village has a story about the university student who confused a milk-cap with a deadly webcap.

Calories and caffeine

There are exactly two places to eat. Gregoris opens at 07:30 for farmers who want a brandy-and-coffee before checking their sheep; the menu del día costs €12 and runs to roast lamb, pine-nut tart and a half-litre of house wine that could degrease an engine. Olegario’s Tabernen feels like a 1970s social club—formica tables, bullfight posters, a television permanently tuned to horse racing. Order the patatas estrelladas: fried eggs broken over chips so the yolk sets into a yellow varnish. Vegetarians get tortilla or leave hungry; coeliacs should bring their own bread because the baker doesn’t do gluten-free.

Supplies arrive on a Tuesday van from Segovia: fresh fish laid on crushed ice, tubs of alioli, and vacuum-packed morcilla de Burgos that keeps for months. If you need cash, the nearest ATM is 12 km back towards the motorway; the bar will advance you €50 if you buy two rounds. Petrol is cheaper in Villacastín, 18 km south, so fill up before the climb.

Getting stuck, getting out

Public transport is a myth. There was a bus on market days, the driver retired and no one replaced him. From Madrid-Barajas hire a car, take the A-6 to Villacastín, then the SG-20 local road that corkscrews up through the pines. In winter the last 4 km can ice over; carry chains even if the forecast claims clear skies. A taxi from Segovia railway station costs €45—book in advance because drivers refuse to come up for less. The high-speed train from Madrid Chamartín reaches Segovia in 27 minutes, making a day-trip theoretically possible, but you’d spend longer in the taxi than on the AVE.

Accommodation is thin. Hotel Rural La Charca has eight rooms, a pool that overlooks the forest and rates from €70 including breakfast (toast, jam, coffee, no deviations). The cottages at La Cerca sleep four, have fireplaces and charge €120 a night with a two-night minimum; firewood is extra and must be ordered before 18:00. Outside fiesta week in mid-August you can usually turn up unannounced, but call ahead from April onwards—birdwatchers book months ahead for spring migration.

When the village remembers it’s Spanish

The fiesta patronal begins on the third weekend of August. Suddenly the population quadruples: emigrants fly in from Basel and Birmingham, a sound system appears in the plaza, and the bar runs a beer tent that stays open until the Guardia Civil suggest otherwise. The highlight is the encierro miniature—six heifers released in a makeshift ring while teenagers practise their caping skills. No one is gored, though sprained ankles are currency. At 06:00 on Sunday the church bell summons the faithful to the misa de romero, followed by chocolate con churros served from a cauldron so wide it needs two men to stir. By Tuesday the plaza is swept, the walnut leaves already curling like spent tickets, and Sebulcor slips back into its usual rhythm of resin, silence and the occasional lost tourist wondering whether the map is wrong.

Leave before the scent fades from your jacket; it lingers just long enough to make the motorway seem colourless.