Vallelado

Vallelado wakes up to the smell of resin. At 775 metres above the surrounding plain, the morning air carries a faint tang of pine that drifts through streets barely two cars wide. By eight o’clock the first tractors are already ticking over outside the single bar on Plaza de España, and the only sound competing with them is the church bell that has marked the hour since 1732.

This is the Tierra de Pinares, the “Land of Pine Forests” that stretches across the provinces of Segovia and Valladolid. Vallelado sits squarely in its centre, 44 km north-west of Segovia city and a good 90 minutes from Madrid airport. The village is small—officially 704 inhabitants, though you’ll meet fewer than that on an ordinary weekday—and its economy still follows the forest cycle: resin in spring, timber in autumn, mushrooms whenever the weather obliges.

The Forest Pays the Rent

Look closely at the pine trunks on the edge of town and you’ll see diagonal scars the width of a hand: the old resin taps. From the 1940s to the 1980s these cuts supplied Spain’s chemical industry; today only a handful of resineros still work the groves, but the memory is fresh. The cooperative warehouse beside the road to Carbonero el Mayor still buys pine chips for paper pulp, and every family seems to have a cousin who drives a timber lorry.

Walking tracks radiate from the top of the village like spokes. The shortest, a 45-minute loop signed as Ruta de las Carboneras, dips into the sandy groves and emerges at a clearing where charcoal kilns smouldered until the 1970s. The ground is flat, the shade generous, and the only difficulty is remembering to take water—summer temperatures sit in the mid-30s and there are no fountains once you leave the streets. If you prefer pedals to boots, the same forest roads link Vallelado with Villacastín and San Cristóbal de la Vega; a circular ride of 35 km can be done before lunch on a hybrid bike, meeting more wild boar tracks than vehicles.

A Church, a Bakery, and Adobe Walls

Back in the village, the monuments won’t keep you long. The parish church of San Andrés is open only for mass (Sunday 11 a.m. and 7 p.m.; weekday evenings vary). Inside, a single Baroque retablo glitters beneath a timber roof blackened by centuries of candle smoke. Otherwise the interest is domestic: rows of adobe houses whose upper walls bulge outward like well-risen loaves, their terracotta tiles patched with modern cement. Number 14 on Calle Real still carries the painted sign “Pan y Vinos”—a reminder that the ground floor served as both bakery and tavern until the 1960s. Peek through the half-open door and you can see the domed brick oven, now used as a woodshed.

There is no museum, no tourist office, and—crucially—no cash machine. The nearest cajero is 11 km away in Cuéllar, so fill your wallet before you arrive. What Vallelado does offer is proximity: the medieval walled town of Coca with its Mudéjar castle is 25 minutes by car, while Segovia’s aqueduct is under an hour. Many visitors base themselves here simply to avoid Segovia’s hotel prices, which triple at weekends.

Eating What the Woods Give

Meals follow the agricultural calendar. In October the bar posts a handwritten notice: “Hoy setas de temporada”—today’s mushrooms come from the owner’s morning foray. Expect them scrambled with egg (revuelto) and served with chunks of pan candeal, the dense wheaten loaf that keeps for a week. The same kitchen turns out judiones—giant butter beans stewed with bay leaf and pig’s cheek—year-round, but they taste best once evening temperatures drop below 10 °C. A three-course menú del día costs €12 mid-week; dinner at the weekend is à la carte, and you should book if more than two tables are occupied. Vegetarians survive on omelettes and salads; vegans should self-cater.

Buy supplies at the tiny ultramarinos on Calle Nueva (open 9 a.m.–1 p.m., 5 p.m.–8 p.m.). Local sheep’s cheese runs €14 a kilo, vacuum-packed so it survives the flight home in hand luggage. The shop also stocks chuletón—a T-bone the size of a dinner plate—should you have access to a barbecue. Spanish visitors often bring their own portable grills; the picnic area south of the pine nursery has stone tables and tolerated open fires outside summer drought bans.

When to Come, and When to Stay Away

April and May are the kindest months: the forest floor is carpeted with white campanillas (star-of-Bethlehem), daytime highs hover around 20 °C, and night frosts are rare. September echoes the same weather, but with added wild mushrooms and grape harvest fumes drifting over from the Douro basin. July and August are fierce: by 10 a.m. the sandy tracks radiate heat, and the village water supply occasionally drops to a trickle. If you must visit then, plan dawn walks and reserve a room with air-conditioning—only two of the four rental houses offer it.

Winter is bright but sharp. Thermometers can read –8 °C at dawn, and the occasional snowstorm blocks the CL-601 road for half a day. On the plus side, you get the forests to yourself, and smoke from open hearrows smells better than any scented candle. The bar keeps a log fire, and the patron will pour you a resol—local brandy mixed with anise—while you wait for the plough to clear the tarmac.

Beds, Bikes, and Buses

Accommodation is entirely private. On Airbnb you’ll find three cottages, two with Wi-Fi fast enough for Zoom, one deliberately without. Prices swing from €60 a night for a two-bedroom house in February to €140 over Easter weekend. There is no hotel, and the nearest hostel is in Cuéllar. Cyclists can rent basic mountain bikes in Nava de la Asunción (20 km) for €15 a day—reserve by WhatsApp because the shop opens randomly.

Public transport exists, but only just. One morning bus leaves Segovia at 7:15 a.m. and reaches Vallelado by 8:30; the return departs at 2 p.m. A Saturday-only service continues to Valladolid. Miss it and a taxi costs €55. In short, you need a car unless you’re content to stay put and walk.

A Place that Keeps its Own Time

Vallelado will never feature on a whirlwind tour of Spain. It offers no selfies with iconic backdrops, no flamenco, no sunset beach bars. Instead it gives you permission to slow down until you notice the squeak of pine trunks in a breeze, or the way swallows stitch the sky before a storm. Stay a night and the barman will remember your coffee order the next morning; stay three and someone will hand you a bag of homegrown almonds “for the road”.

Leave before you become part of the furniture, and you’ll carry out a useful reminder: not every Spanish village wants to be discovered—some are quite happy just to carry on.