La Torre

The Edge of the Plateau

At 1,129 metres, La Torre sits high enough for ears to pop on the drive up. The N-110 from Ávila climbs through wheat then oak scrub, until the road levels out on a ridge and the Valle de Amblés drops away like a green tide far below. Stone walls appear first, then terracotta roofs, then the blunt square tower of the parish church—useful bearing point, because beyond it lies nothing but pasture and sky. Fewer than 240 people live here; mid-week you can stand in the single square and hear only a tractor two fields off and the click of your own camera shutter.

The village belongs to the old Castile that guidebooks skip. No souvenir stalls, no coach park, not even a cash machine. What it does have is altitude: nights run eight degrees cooler than Madrid, and winter arrives early. Frost can glitter on the windscreen in October; by January the approach road is salted and the stone houses stay shuttered until the sun clears the ridge. Summer, on the other hand, is walking-shirt weather at midday but still cool enough at dusk to want a jersey. British visitors used to Cornwall’s damp hedgerows often forget the UV this far south—sun-cream is not optional.

Granite, Gaps and the Occasional Eagle

Houses are built from what the ground offered: coarse grey granite scooped from nearby outcrops, held together with lime mortar the colour of old bone. Some facades carry chipped coats-of-arms—evidence of minor nobility who once taxed the grain here—though today the grandest buildings are the agricultural co-op barns. Calle de la Iglesia twists uphill barely wide enough for a SEAT Toledo; drivers fold mirrors in and hope nobody approaches from the other end. Park instead by the cement trough at the entrance: locals leave vans unlocked, keys on the dash, and expect you to do the same.

The church itself is locked unless the sacristan, Julián, is around; his house faces the porch, knock twice. Inside, the nave is barrel-vaulted in brick, seventeenth-century but patched after lightning in 1934. The baroque altar is gilded pine, not marble—timber was cheaper to haul up the mountain. If the doors stay shut, walk the perimeter path anyway; red kites use the thermals above the bell tower and can usually be seen before 9 a.m. when the sun warms the east slope.

Walking Without Waymarks

La Torre is a crossroads for drove roads older than the tarmac. The Cañada Real Leonesa, still a public right of way, heads south-west across stone bridges towards the Sierra de Gredos; shepherds move cattle here in May and October, same dates medieval charters set. Maps are advisable: the regional government signposts some sections, then abandons them. A useful loop is the 8 km circle to Navalacruz—mostly flat, following an irrigation channel built under Ferdinand VI. Allow two and a half hours and take water; there is no bar until you reach the neighbouring village, and that one shuts on Tuesdays.

Serious hikers can start the ascent of Cerro de la Cuesta (1,710 m) direct from the square: a dusty track doubles back behind the cemetery, then narrows to a footpath through broom and hawthorn. The final 200 m are loose shale—walking poles help. From the summit the meseta spreads north like a ruffled cloth, while the Gredos wall looms south, still streaked with June snowfields. Phone reception is perfect up there, if you need to check in with a worried other half back in Worcester.

Eating When There’s Nobody to Cook

There is no restaurant in La Torre. The grocery-bar El Pozo opens at seven for coffee and sells tinned tuna, bread rolls, and the local version of custard creams; it closes by two and stays shut on Monday afternoon. Plan accordingly. Picnic supplies are better bought in Arenas de San Pedro, 20 km down the AV-941, where the Dia supermarket stocks manchego, chorizo and plastic cups.

If you want a hot meal, drive eight kilometres south to El Fogón de Gredos, a roadside asador that specialises in chuletón de Ávila—an aged T-bone designed for two, served rare unless you protest. Judiones, the butter-bean stew, comes in a clay bowl big enough for a family of four; ask for “media ración” to avoid waste. House red is from nearby Cebreros, tastes of cherries and pepper, and costs under sixteen euros a bottle—cheaper than the water in some London brasseries.

Winter Silence, Spring Surprise

November to March the village empties. Half the houses are second homes for Madrilenians who never appear; chimneys smoke only at weekends. Temperatures can dip to minus eight, and the single village fountain freezes solid. Chains are recommended even after light snow—the council ploughs, but not before school run hours, and there is no school here. Yet January brings the clearest skies: night walks with the torch off reveal Orion sharp enough to sketch, and the Milky Way reflects off pale stone walls.

Come back in April and the change is absurd. Meadows below the church yellow with wild daisies; barley shoots push between granite slabs; swallows reclaim the wires. The fiesta patronal falls on the third weekend of the month: one marquee, one brass band, unlimited beer from a plastic tap. Visitors are expected to buy a raffle ticket—first prize is a ham—then dance the chotis in whatever space remains between livestock pens and the burger van. It finishes at five in the morning with chocolate and churros served by the mayor’s wife, who also doubles as the parish treasurer.

How to Do It (and When Not To)

Base yourself here only if you value quiet over choice. Accommodation is limited to three self-catering cottages booked through the regional tourism board; two accept one-nighters, the third insists on a week in August. Rates hover round ninety euros a night for a two-bedroom house, firewood included. Bring slippers—stone floors are cold even in June—and expect the Wi-Fi to drop when the wind is from the north.

Do not aim to “do” La Torre in an hour between Ávila and the Gredos lakes. The place works slowly: gates creak, neighbours pause to discuss rainfall, and the evening light deserves more than a dashboard photograph. Stay two nights minimum, pack a pair of decent boots, and carry cash. If the silence after ten o’clock feels eerie, remember that is exactly what you came for; if it doesn’t, the meseta has plenty of louder towns further down the road.