Valdeprados

The church bell strikes noon and the only other sound is a tractor changing gear somewhere below the ridge. At 984 metres above sea level, Valdeprados sits just high enough for the air to feel thinner than the traffic: sixty-one residents, three streets, and a view that rolls straight over the Sierra de Guadarrama towards the Meseta. Most drivers on the N-110 flash past the turning, eyes fixed on Segovia’s aqueduct twenty minutes east. That is the single best reason to slow down.

Stone, Sky and Silence

Houses here are built from the same grey granite that pokes through the surrounding grass like knuckles. Roofs pitch steeply to shrug off winter snow; wooden doors are painted the wine-dark red of local tempranillo. Nothing is “restored” in the glossy-magazine sense—walls simply get patched when frost splits them, and new roofs appear when the old ones leak. The result feels lived-in rather than curated, more allotment shed than National Trust parlour.

Walk the single paved lane from the church to the last farm and you will pass a boarded-up bakery, its wooden sign still advertising pan de pueblo at prices last valid in 2008. Beyond it, the tarmac dissolves into a farm track that climbs through holm-oak pasture towards the Puerto de Navafría. In May the verges are waist-high in cow parsley and the smell is of wild thyme and diesel from the lone tractor that serves every smallholding for ten kilometres. By mid-July the same grass is bleached the colour of bone and crunches under boots like shredded wheat.

Even in high summer the village stays cool. Night temperatures dip below 15 °C, perfect for leaving windows open and hearing owls rather than air-conditioning units. Bring a jumper for the evening whatever the forecast says—Madrid day-trippers in shorts and espadrilles learn this the hard way.

Walking Without Waymarks

Valdeprados makes no claim to be a hiking hub, yet three separate footpaths fan out within 200 metres of the church. The most useful is the old drovers’ road south to Collado Hermoso: eight kilometres of gentle descent through dehesa pasture, returning via a loop past abandoned grain threshing circles. Expect zero signage; download the free IGN 1:25,000 map before you set off and carry water—there are no bars en route and the only spring listed on OpenStreetMap dried up in last year’s drought.

A stiffer option heads north-east to the ruins of the Ermita de San Juan, gaining 350 metres in just under five kilometres. The chapel roof collapsed in the 1970s but the stone arch still frames the Lozoya valley so neatly that half the wedding photos taken in Segovia province seem to be shot here. On a clear April morning you can pick out the blue-grey bulk of the Somosierra escarpment fifty kilometres away; by October the same view is blurred by wood-smoke from village chimneys.

After heavy rain the clay surface turns to grease. A pair of approach shoes is fine in summer, but if you visit in February—when the light is sharpest and the place almost empty—trade them for something with ankle support and expect to scrape mud off with a stick afterwards.

Where to Eat, Drink and Fill the Tank

There is no shop. None. The tiny ultramarinos closed during the 2008 crash and its corrugated shutter has become a noticeboard for sheep-dip suppliers and second-hand harrows. Plan accordingly: the last reliable supermarket is the Carrefour in Segovia, 35 minutes away by car. Bread and milk can be begged from the bar-owner if you arrive on a Sunday and ask nicely, but don’t bank on it.

Taberna Tomasa opens Thursday to Sunday, 13:00–16:00 and 20:00–22:30. The menu is chalked on a blackboard and never longer than six dishes. Quarter portions of cochinillo cost €18 and comfortably feed two; the meat arrives on a terracotta dish whose glaze is cracked like an old teacup. Order the tostón if it is available—pork belly braised in cider then flash-roasted so the rind shatters like an over-baked pork scratching. House red comes in a plain glass, €2.50 a throw, and tastes better once decanted into the empty water bottle you have been carrying all morning.

On Mondays and Tuesdays both bars shut. Locals drive to Caballar, six kilometres down the road, for coffee and gossip. If you are staying mid-week, self-cater or time lunch for Sepúlveda, where the Romanesque arcades hide half a dozen restaurants that do a roaring trade in roast lamb for tour coaches. Eat early (by Spanish standards) at 13:30 and you will miss the coach parties entirely.

Beds, Barns and Starlight

Accommodation is limited to three rural cottages, all converted within the last decade and booked solid at weekends from May to October. Casa Rural Los Pájaros sleeps six, has a wood-burner and charges €120 a night with a two-night minimum. The owners leave a bottle of local anisette on the kitchen table; ignore it and drink the tap water instead—it comes from a mountain spring and is softer than anything in London.

Mobile reception is patchy. Vodafone works on the upper terrace if you stand on the left-hand chair; EE gives up entirely. Wi-Fi is advertised but the router is in the neighbouring house and resets whenever someone runs the microwave. Embrace the disconnection: on a moonless night the Milky Way is bright enough to cast shadows and you will hear more nightjars than notifications.

Getting There, Getting Out

Fly Stansted to Madrid, pick up a rental car at Terminal 1 and head north on the A-1. Exit at junction 109, swing onto the N-110 towards Sepúlveda and turn off after twelve kilometres at the sign for Valdeprados. The final three kilometres are paved but narrow; meet a combine harvester and someone has to reverse 200 metres to the nearest passing place. A compact SUV is worth the extra €10 a day after rain, when the surface turns to custard.

There is no petrol station in the village; the nearest pumps are in Ayllón, twenty minutes west and closed between 14:00 and 17:00 for siesta. Fill up before you leave the airport or risk a tense Sunday morning staring at an amber fuel light and a locked garage.

Buses? Forget it. One school service leaves Segovia at 07:15 and returns at 14:00; non-residents are politely refused boarding. Taxis from Segovia cost €50 each way and drivers will wait exactly one hour before heading home—fine for a hurried picnic, useless for a full day’s walking.

The Catch

Valdeprados is not “unspoilt” in the brochure sense; it is simply too small to spoil. Weekends in May bring Madrid families who park SUVs across the lane, release labradors into wheat fields and argue over Bluetooth speakers. The church is usually locked, so if you want to step inside arrive during the Saturday evening mass (19:00, but don’t count on punctuality). Winter is quiet but bleak: when the wind drags snow across the mesa the place feels like the set of a spaghetti western, minus the glamour.

Come for the wide-screen views, the thyme-scented air and the pleasure of a bar that still writes your bill on the back of a cigarette packet. Leave before you need cash, petrol or entertainment. One night is enough to reset city lungs; two starts to feel like probation.