Encinillas

The tractor starts at dawn. Not the gentle purr of a country estate mower, but the proper diesel growl of a Massey Ferguson that hasn't missed a harvest since the 1970s. By 7am, its exhaust hangs in the cold air at 947 metres above sea level, while the first thermals lift storks from the church bell tower into a sky that stretches uninterrupted to the Sierra de Guadarrama, fifty kilometres south.

Encinillas doesn't announce itself. The village—if you can call a scattering of 340 souls a village—sits where the Segovia plains begin their subtle roll towards the Duero basin. Stone houses with conical chimneys rise directly from earth the colour of winter wheat, their walls built from the same limestone that farmers have been clearing from fields for eight centuries. There's no dramatic approach road, no suddenly revealed vista. You simply notice the houses thickening along the CL-601, then the church tower appears, and you've arrived somewhere that feels like it's been waiting for you to notice the quiet.

Stone, Sky and the Scent of Thyme

The air here carries weight. At nearly a thousand metres, sunlight strikes sharper, and the wind that crosses from Portugal picks up resin from holm oaks and deposits it across fields that shimmer silver-green in early morning. Summer mornings start fresh—18°C at 8am—before climbing to the low thirties by midday, when the only sensible activity involves finding shade and watching clouds build over the Central System. Winters bite properly. Night temperatures drop to -8°C, and when snow comes (perhaps twice each winter), the road from Cuéllar becomes interesting enough to require chains.

This altitude creates its own calendar. Spring arrives three weeks later than Madrid, erupting suddenly in mid-April when the cereal fields turn from brown to emerald overnight. Autumn stretches long and golden through October, perfect for walking the network of farm tracks that radiate from the church like spokes. The Cordel de Segovia—a medieval drovers' road still marked by centuries of hoof-prints—passes two kilometres west, offering flat walking through dehesa woodland where black Iberian pigs root for acorns each November.

The church of San Juan Bautista commands what passes for a centre. Romanesque in its bones but modest in scale, it squats beneath a pyramid-capped tower that once doubled as the village's lookout. Inside, the single nave holds shadows cool enough to make you reach for a jumper even in August. The altar's nothing special—19th-century neo-classical work that replaced Baroque pieces sold during Spain's 1830s desamortización—but the acoustics reward anyone who times their visit for the Sunday service. Four villagers singing the responses can fill the space like a cathedral choir.

Where Lunch Means a Picnic and Dinner Means Cuéllar

Practicalities first: Encinillas has no shop, no bar, no restaurant. The last grocery closed when its proprietor died in 2018, and the social hub—formerly the pharmacy—now opens only two mornings weekly for prescriptions collected from Íscar. This isn't a village for spontaneous visits. Stock up in Cuéllar (twelve kilometres north) where the Supermercado Día sells everything from Cathedral City cheddar to Branston pickle, or time your arrival for the Tuesday market that fills the Plaza Mayor with local cheese and chorizo worth the suitcase space.

Accommodation means self-catering, and remarkably, it's excellent. A stone cottage on the western edge (VRBO listing 6736530ha) offers underfloor heating and views across wheat fields that persuaded Robert A. from Maidstone to write: "Wonderful location and views. Excellent communication with the owner." He's not alone—every English-speaking guest has awarded five stars, unusual consistency even by Spain's high rural standards. The alternative, an Airbnb conversion of the former schoolhouse, keeps original beams and adds a kitchen that serious cooks will appreciate. Both properties cost around £85 nightly, drop to £60 outside July-August, and include firewood—necessary because August nights can drop to 12°C, and October mornings start at 6°C.

Walking Through Four Centuries in Four Miles

The real museum here lies underfoot. From the church door, follow Calle Real past houses whose lower stones show the irregular quarrying of the 16th century, while upper courses reveal 18th-century brickwork where populations peaked. Notice how door heights change—Medieval entrances requiring a duck of the head give way to grander 19th-century portals, testimony to wool money that briefly made these plains rich. By the time the lane becomes a track, you're walking the same route that carried merino sheep to Segovia's cloth mills, their bells audible in the silence that presses against your ears when the wind drops.

Three kilometres out, the track passes an Era—threshing circle—stone-paved and perfectly circular, last used in 1973 when the final working oxen retired. Beyond it, holm oak woodland proper begins, scattered with madroño trees whose strawberry-like fruit ripens in October. This is where mushroom hunters appear each autumn, wicker baskets in hand, searching for níscalos (saffron milk-caps) that fetch €18 per kilo in Cuéllar's Saturday market. Join them if you know your fungi—otherwise stick to photographing the spectacle of proper country folk wielding knives that would make a Sheffield cutler proud.

The loop back crosses the Arroyo de Encinillas, usually dry until November but lined with tamarisk and wild rose that perfume evening walks. Distance: 7.4 kilometres. Time: two hours including stops to watch a booted eagle circle overhead, or to examine badger sets dug into the sandy bank. Gradient: negligible. Essential kit: water (the tap in the church square tastes metallic), sunhat even in March, and binoculars—golden eagles breed in the Sierra de Guadarrama and hunt these fields regularly.

When the Village Remembers How to Party

Visit during August's fiesta mayor and Encinillas transforms. The population quadruples as descendants return from Madrid, Barcelona, even Birmingham. A sound system appears in the square, playing Spanish pop at volumes that would shame Glastonbury, while the evening street market sells chorizo rolls for €2 and cold Estrella for €1.50. The highlight comes Saturday night when residents drag tables into the street for a communal dinner that starts at 10pm and continues past 3am. Visitors are welcome—bring a bottle of something decent and expect to be adopted by a family who'll insist you try their grandmother's tortilla.

September brings the fiesta de la siega, celebrating the grain harvest with less noise but more authenticity. An ancient reaper-binder clanks through wheat stubble while children stack sheaves in traditional shocks. It's agricultural theatre, yes, but performed by people whose grandparents invented these techniques, and the pride is palpable. The local council (based in Cuéllar) lays on a free lunch of cocido segoviano—chickpea stew richer than any Borough Market version—served from copper cauldrons that have fed these fields' workers for generations.

The Catch in the Ointment

Let's not romanticise. July and August bring tourists from Madrid who treat the village like their private racetrack, roaring along lanes in SUVs better suited to the M40. Rubbish appears in hedgerows—energy drink cans mostly, proof that Spanish youth share British habits. The church bell rings every quarter hour through the night, loud enough to penetrate double-glazing, and when the wind's from the east, you smell pig farms three kilometres distant. Mobile reception is patchy—Vodafone works, EE roams inconsistently—and the nearest petrol station closes at 10pm, a shock when you're used to 24-hour convenience.

Winter access can be tricky. Snow falls rarely but lies when it comes; the council grits the main road but side streets become skating rinks. One February in three, the village is cut off for 48 hours—locals treat it as normal, but visitors have been known to panic. Book with hosts who include 4G internet (both recommended properties do) and keep the fridge stocked. The alternative is a 25-kilometre detour via the N-110, adding forty minutes to any journey.

Leaving Before the Silence Becomes Habit

Encinillas won't suit everyone. If you need artisan coffee within walking distance, stick to Segovia's old town. If the idea of driving fifteen minutes for a newspaper sounds like hardship, head elsewhere. But for those curious about how Spain functioned before tourism—when villages survived on what they could grow, when neighbours shared bread ovens, when the tractor's timing mattered more than Twitter's—this scatter of stone and sky offers something increasingly rare: a place where the modern world feels like an optional extra rather than an assumed right.

Drive away at dusk and the village shrinks in the rear-view mirror until only the church tower remains, silhouetted against a sky that fades from copper to indigo. The tractor has fallen silent, replaced by nightjars calling from the oak scrub. Somewhere a dog barks once, then thinks better of it. Twenty minutes later you're on the dual-carriageway, Madrid's lights glowing orange on the horizon, already wondering if the quiet was real or imagined. It was real. It still is. But only if you return before the harvest starts and the fields surrender their silence to the combines.