El Espinar

The granite walls along Calle Real still carry the morning chill at nine o'clock, even in May. Housewives hurry past clutching paper bags from the panadería, their breath visible in thin white streams. This is El Espinar at altitude—1,189 metres above sea level—and the 90-kilometre drive from Madrid's heat suddenly feels worthwhile.

Granite and pine needles

Most British visitors speed straight past the turn-off, bound for Segovia's aqueduct or the monastery at San Lorenzo de El Escorial. That suits the locals fine. El Espinar has spent centuries as a thoroughfare rather than a destination: first for merino sheep walking south to winter pastures, later for motorists taking the old N-601 to the capital. The result is a working town rather than a museum piece, where modern apartment blocks rise beyond a historic core that never quite qualified as "old quarter".

What the place lacks in medieval romance it makes up for in immediate access to proper mountain country. Walk five minutes north from the church square and tarmac gives way to sandy tracks through Scots pine and Pyrenean oak. Within half an hour the only sounds are woodpeckers and the distant hum of the A-6 far below. These forests belong to the Sierra de Guadarrama National Park, though boundaries here are fuzzy: one minute you're on municipal land, the next you're protected wilderness. Either way, the walking is free and extensive.

The town's architecture reflects its climate. Granite houses sit low and thick-walled, roofs weighted with rounded slates against winter gales. Windows are small, shutters solid. Even the newer builds follow these proportions, creating a coherence missing in many Spanish towns where concrete towers crash against stone cottages. It won't win beauty contests, but there's honesty in the uniformity.

Sunday lunch, mountain-style

British hikers expecting pub grub will need recalibration. The set-menu at Restaurante La Sierra runs to judiones—buttery white beans the size of marbles—followed by cordero asado, lamb slow-cooked until the bones pull clean. A half portion feeds two; attempting the full €18 menu alone counts as extreme sport. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and hope, though autumn brings wild mushroom dishes that almost make up for the meat fixation.

Service follows Castilian rhythms: swift at 2 pm, bewildered at 3:30, impossible by 4. Turn up late and you'll find chairs stacked while the owner finishes his own lunch. This isn't rudeness—it's a village where staff live on site and have families to feed. Plan accordingly, or stock up at the SuperSol supermarket which, miracle of miracles, stays open through siesta on Saturdays.

For lighter fare, Bar Asociación San Antonio does toasted sandwiches that Brits recognise immediately. Their tosta de chorizo offers a crash course in Spanish charcuterie: proper paprika-stained sausage, none of that orange supermarket stuff. Order a caña (small beer) and you might pay €2.20 total. The same snack in Madrid's centre costs twice that, minus the granite bar top worn smooth by decades of farmers' elbows.

When the clouds roll in

Weather here obeys mountain logic: bright sunshine can collapse into sleet within an hour. Spring arrives late—snow isn't unknown in April—and autumn lingers until November, when Madrid still swelters. This unpredictability keeps casual visitors away, which suits the serious walkers fine. They arrive with full kit, checking forecasts before attempting the four-hour circuit to Peña del Oso, whose summit delivers views across two provinces.

Winter transforms the place. At 8 am the thermometer reads minus six, granite doorsteps glitter with frost. The town's altitude means reliable snow when Madrid sees only rain, attracting cross-country skiers who head for the Navafría track twenty minutes drive north. Accommodation prices drop by half; bars fire up wood-burning stoves that scent clothes for days. British drivers should pack snow chains—the AP-6 gets cleared fast, but the slip road to El Espinar stays white longer than you'd expect.

Summer brings Madrid's heat refugees. They rent flats for August, fill the terrazas at 11 pm, and drive property prices beyond local wages. Weekends turn busy: every family seems to own a quad bike, and the forest trails echo with engine noise. Visit mid-week in June instead. You'll share paths only with silent Spanish hikers who nod politely then stride past, poles clicking granite.

Getting stuck, getting out

Public transport exists but tests patience. Three buses daily link to Segovia; the last returns at 4:30 pm, trapping day-trippers who linger over lunch. Madrid connections require changing at San Lorenzo de El Escorial, adding ninety minutes to a journey that takes fifty by car. Hire one at Barajas Airport—Terminal 4 has the shortest queues—and you'll reach El Espinar before your fellow passengers have cleared security.

Driving brings its own issues. The town spreads across a shallow valley; streets that look connected on Google Maps often dead-end in staircases designed for goats rather than Golfs. Park near the sports centre on arrival and walk everywhere else. The police tolerate foreign plates for a day, but local tow-truck drivers know every awkward corner.

Leave on a Monday and you'll discover why half the restaurants close. The bakery shuts at 1 pm, the chemist until 4. It's not personal—just a village catching breath after weekend chaos. Stock up on Sunday evening: buy a loaf still warm from Hornos de San Eutropio, add chorizo from Carnicería Gómez, and you've got trail food that beats any service-station sandwich.

Last orders at 1,189 metres

El Espinar won't change your life. It offers no ancient synagogue turned boutique hotel, no craft gin distilled by ex-London bankers. What it does provide is immediate mountain access without the Pyrenees price tag, plus glimpses of Spanish small-town life that coastal resorts lost decades ago. The granite may scratch your hire-car paint, the beans might test your digestion, but by 10 pm you'll be breathing air clean enough to taste starlight. Just remember: when the bar owner flips the chairs onto tables, that's your cue to leave. The mountains will still be there tomorrow, and the coffee's better at dawn anyway.