Zarzuela del Monte

The first thing you notice is the quiet that arrives at ear-level. Stand on the plaza at 10:05 on a Tuesday and the only sound is the church clock striking a note so deep it seems to come from the limestone itself. Zarzuela del Monte, a scatter of stone and whitewash 25 minutes’ drive north of Segovia, has not rearranged itself for visitors. Tractors still use the main street, bread is delivered in plastic crates, and the barman will finish his conversation before he reaches for the coffee lever. At just over 1,000 metres altitude the air is thinner than the tourist footprint, and that, for many British travellers, is the point.

A Plateau that Breathes

The village sits on the southern lip of Spain’s central plateau, the meseta, where cereal fields roll like a calm Atlantic until they bump into low pine ridges. There are no postcard ravines or vertigo viewpoints; instead you get horizon in every direction, a landscape that changes colour the way the Pennines change weather. Late April turns the wheat an almost unreasonable green, by mid-July it has bleached to biscuit, and in October stubble fires send thin columns of smoke into skies that feel three times bigger than they should. Bring binoculars: kestrels hang above the verges and migrant honey-buzzards slip through in spring, easy to spot because nothing much gets in the way.

The single best walk is the loop that climbs Monte de Herreros, the iron-workers’ ridge two kilometres west of the village. The path starts beside the cemetery, follows a stone-drovers’ track, then cuts up through holm-oak to a breezy summit at 1,180 m. From the top Segovia’s cathedral spire pokes up 22 km away, the Sierra de Guadarrama floats like a grey reef on the horizon, and the only noise is wind hissing through phone-mast guy-wires. Allow 90 minutes up, 60 down, and carry water even in May: the altitude dries you out faster than you expect.

Stone, Adobe and the Working-Day Truth

Zarzuela’s houses are built from what lay underneath them. Lower courses are granite hauled from local quarries, upper walls are adobe brick the colour of digestive biscuits, all capped with terracotta tiles whose edges have gone mossy after centuries of freeze-thaw. Restoration grants have patched some façades, others sag gently, but the village is no museum piece. A 1970s SEAT 600 still noses out of a barn doorway; a modern glass balcony sprouts above a medieval arch. The church of San Pedro, locked except for Sunday mass, is plain Romanesque thickened up in the 16th century after a fire. Step inside when the caretaker opens up and you’ll find a single nave, cedar-scented and cool, with a retablo whose gold leaf was paid for by farmers selling merino wool to Flanders.

There is no interpretation board, no audio guide, no gift shop. Interpretation is supplied, if you want it, by the retired teacher having a cigar outside the pharmacy. Ask him why the main street kinks and he’ll tell you about the 1930s lorry that mis-judged the corner and took a corner-stone with it; the bend was kept because it slowed the livestock lorries that followed.

What You’ll Eat and When You’ll Eat It

Food is Castilian rather than fancy: roast suckling pig if you order ahead, but more likely cordero asado (shoulder of milk-fed lamb) or a judión bean stew thick enough to stand a spoon in. The only reliable restaurant is the one attached to Pensión Los Herreros on Calle Real. It opens at 14:00 sharp, closes the kitchen at 15:30, and will not restart until 21:00. Mid-afternoon hunger is solved at the bar opposite: toasted baguette rubbed with tomato, a slice of manchego, and a caña of chilled rosé that costs €1.80. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and salads; vegans should self-cater. The nearest supermarket is in Collado Hermoso, 9 km east, and the Saturday-morning market there is useful for fruit, cheese and the excellent local chorizo that carries a faint smack of smoked paprika strong enough to make you rethink the British banger.

Season by Season, Siesta by Siesta

Spring arrives late at this altitude; frosts can nip until mid-April, but when they lift the fields turn emerald overnight. Walking temperatures sit in the high teens, wild gladiolus speckle the road verges, and the village’s handful of weekend houses fill with Madrileños who know enough to bring firewood. May is probably the sweet spot: daylight until 21:00, café tables outside, and only the swallows for company.

Summer is hot, just not Costa-hot. Thirty-degree days happen, yet the mercury still drops to 14 °C after midnight. Locals shift their routines: dogs are walked at 07:00, fields are worked at first light, everything closes from 14:00 to 17:00. If you want lunch at 12:30 you’ll get it; if you arrive at 16:15 you’ll be told—politely but firmly—that the chef is asleep. Mid-August brings the fiestas patronales: inflatable castles in the plaza, brass bands that play until 03:00, and a communal paella cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish. For three nights the village triples in population and the quiet is temporarily stored away.

Autumn smells of straw and diesel as the harvest comes in. September light is sharp, skies cloudless, and the grain trailers leave grey snail-trails of dust along the lanes. By November the first snow can dust the ridge; the fields turn the colour of burnt toast and the stone houses hunker down. Winter is serious: night temperatures of –8 °C, pipes that freeze if the tap isn’t left dripping, and a wood-smoke haze that hangs like fog at knee level. The upside is crystalline air and a silence so complete you can hear your own pulse. Bring a down jacket and request the rooms at Pensión Los Herreros that have north-facing walls—thicker stone equals better insulation.

Getting Here, Getting Out

There is no railway, no Uber, no car-hire desk. From Madrid’s Chamartín station take the high-speed AVE to Segovia-Guiomar (27 min), then pre-book a taxi for the 35 km run to Zarzuela; count on €50 each way. A cheaper but slower option is the La Sepulvedana coach to Segovia old-town, followed by a local bus that leaves you at the crossroads 3 km below the village—fine if you like uphill walks with luggage. A hire car collected at the airport is simplest: take the A-6, swing onto the SG-20 ring road, then the CL-601 north; the turn-off is signposted but easy to overshoot at 100 km/h. Petrol is cheaper at the supermarket pumps on the Segovia bypass than on the motorway.

Once arrived you can leave the car keys in the drawer. Everything in Zarzuela is ten minutes on foot, and the ridge walk starts from the edge of town. If you fancy a cathedral-and-aqueduct day, Segovia’s old centre is 25 minutes by road; park in the underground facility under Plaza de la Artillería before 10:00 or after 18:00 when coach tours are elsewhere. Avila’s medieval walls lie 45 minutes west, and the Granja palace with its French-style gardens is even closer. Just remember that Spanish dusk lingers long; if you stay in Segovia for the 20:00 illuminated aqueduct show you’ll be driving the final country lanes in proper darkness—watch out for wild boar.

The Honest Exit

Zarzuela del Monte will not change your life. You will not rave about it the way you might rave about Seville or San Sebastián. What it does is slow the metronome. A long weekend here teaches you to read the hour by the church bell, to shop before siesta, to walk ridge paths where the only other footprints belong to the shepherd who passed through yesterday. If that sounds like respite rather than restraint, come before the rest of Britain realises the village exists. Bring cash, download offline maps, and pack a light jumper even in July. After dark, sit on the plaza bench, look up at a Milky Way you had forgotten was that bright, and let the plateau breathe around you. When Tuesday morning rolls around again you’ll hear the same clock strike, but by then you might have remembered what 10:05 actually feels like.