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about La Matilla
Small town ringed by junipers and sabines; noted for its quiet.
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The grain silo rises like a concrete exclamation mark above La Matilla's stone roofs. At 1,082 metres, this is one of Castilla y León's highest villages—high enough that the air thins perceptibly when you step from the car, high enough that Madrid's orange glow never reaches the night sky here.
Seventy-four people call this home. On weekdays, the number drops further when farmers drive their tractors to distant fields. The silence isn't poetic; it's absolute. A lorry shifting gears on the N-110, five kilometres away, carries across the páramo like thunder.
What passes for a centre
There's no plaza mayor, no café-lined square. La Matilla's heart is a triangle of dusty tarmac where three lanes converge: the road in from Carbonero el Mayor, the track to the cemetery, and the lane past the village's only shop. The shop opens 9-11am, assuming Concha hasn't gone to Segovia for supplies. Bread arrives Tuesdays and Fridays; order your baguette the day before or go without.
The parish church stands unlocked, its bell tower visible from every approach. Inside, the retablo depicts Saint Roch in pilgrim's garb—appropriate for a village that sees more shepherds than tourists. The pews bear nameplates: "Donación de la familia Herrero, 1947." These families still occupy the same stone houses their grandparents built, though most children have migrated to Valladolid or Madrid.
Stone walls divide properties at shoulder height. Peek over and you'll see working courtyards: firewood stacked methodically, rabbit hutches, the occasional rusted Seat 600 that grandfather can't bear to scrap. This isn't museum-Spain; it's agricultural Spain hanging on by its fingernails.
Walking the cereal ocean
The camino real heads east toward Villarejo de Montalbán, following a ridge that drops gently into the Duratón valley. Wheat and barley flow like water across gentle swells, their colour shifting from emerald in April to bronze by July. Markers appear every kilometre: stone piles, ancient boundary stones, once a concrete post from Franco's era now lying on its side.
Spring brings calçotada season—local families dig wild onions from field edges, roasting them over fires of pruned vine wood. The smell drifts across the village for days. In autumn, mushrooms appear after the first rains. Pilar at number 47 will examine your basket if you ask nicely; she's been foraging these fields for sixty years and knows which species the English shouldn't touch.
Night walking requires minimal equipment. The Milky Way provides sufficient illumination once eyes adjust—no torch needed on clear nights. Orion hangs low in winter, so close you could reach up and adjust his belt. The village's only streetlight (installed 2018) switches off at midnight to preserve darkness for astronomers at the nearby Montes de Torozo observatory.
Practicalities that matter
The bakery closed in 2019. Your nearest loaf requires a 17-kilometre drive to Carbonero el Mayor—remember this when planning breakfast. The village slaughterhouse operates November through February; during matanza, locals transform entire pigs into chorizo and morcilla. Buy vacuum-packed portions (£8-12 per kilo) that survive the flight home in hold luggage.
Accommodation means one of two renovated houses. La Bótica de Doña Luisa occupies the former pharmacy; keys wait in a safe box, no reception exists. Wi-fi reaches 8 Mbps on good days—sufficient for WhatsApp, hopeless for Netflix. The alternative, Casa del Páramo, faces directly onto fields where bulls graze from May to October. Both cost €80-95 nightly, minimum two nights.
Mobile signal varies by provider. Vodafone users get one bar near the church; EE customers should climb the silo for coverage. The village WhatsApp group (invite only) announces when someone's driving to Segovia—ask for a lift and you'll return loaded with their shopping lists.
Eating and drinking (or not)
No restaurant serves dinner. The bar opens 10am-2pm, longer if Paco feels like company. His tortilla contains potatoes, eggs, and pine nuts gathered from local forests—order by the slice (€3) before he sells out. House wine comes from Nieva vineyards, 30 kilometres north; it's young, fruity, costs €2.50 a glass, and tastes better after your third.
Self-catering requires forward planning. Mercadona in Segovia stocks everything, but the village fridge accepts only essentials. Summer temperatures reach 35°C—buy ice in Carbonero el Mayor because the local shop's freezer broke in 2021 and nobody's fixed it.
During fiestas (15-17 August if the organiser remembers), villagers roast a lamb in the square. Visitors contributing wine get invited to share; those arriving empty-handed watch from the margins. The same rule applies at Christmas when every family displays their nativity scene. Knock, admire, receive a glass of anís.
When to come, when to stay away
May delivers green wheat and comfortable 22°C afternoons. October brings harvest colours and the smell of burning stubble. Both months guarantee solitude—and the risk of finding nothing open.
July and August fry the landscape brown. Temperatures drop 10 degrees after sunset; bring layers for 12°C nights. Winter hits -5°C regularly; snow closes surrounding roads several days yearly. The village becomes inaccessible except by 4WD when easterlies drift snow across exposed roads.
Avoid Mondays entirely. The shop, bakery (in Carbonero), and café all close. Attempting a day trip means carrying provisions from Segovia—and explaining to hungry companions why civilisation stops at the village sign.
The verdict
La Matilla offers no Instagram moments, no boutique experiences, no scheduled activities beyond sunrise and sunset. What exists is harder to package: space to think, darkness to remember stars exist, and conversations with people who've never heard of gap years or digital nomads.
Come prepared or don't come at all. Bring food, water, cash, and a full petrol tank. Download offline maps. Most importantly, abandon expectations of being entertained. The village's greatest luxury isn't something you consume—it's the temporary suspension of everything demanding your attention elsewhere.
Drive away at dusk and La Matilla shrinks in the rear-view mirror until only the silo remains visible. Then that too disappears, leaving just wheat fields merging with sky. You'll wonder if the place actually existed, or if you dreamed a Spain that tourism forgot to spoil.
