Burgohondo

The first thing you notice is the smell of chestnuts drifting from somebody’s kitchen chimney, even in May. At 847 m above the Alberche valley, Burgohondo’s evenings stay cool enough for wood smoke and hearty stews long after Andalucía has switched on its air-conditioning. The village – barely 1,200 souls – clings to the eastern lip of the Sierra de Gredos, close enough to Madrid for a weekend dash yet far enough up the mountain for phone reception to flicker in and out. That alone keeps the tour-bus circuit at bay.

Stone houses climb the slope in irregular terraces, their grey granite turning honey-coloured where the evening sun hits. Narrow lanes double back on themselves, ending abruptly in vegetable plots or in gates that open straight onto forest. There is no grand plaza mayor, only a modest square with a fountain that has supplied drinking water since 1782 and a single bar whose metal tables wobble on the cobbles. Order a caña and you will be asked whether you want the local red from Cebreros (€2.20) or something from La Mancha; either way, the glass arrives with a paper coaster advertising fertiliser.

Walking the border between plain and peak

Burgohondo functions as the gateway to the northern Gredos. Within ten minutes of leaving the last houses behind you are under pine and sweet chestnut, following stone-walled drove roads that once moved merino sheep onto the summer pastures. The signed Ruta de las Fuentes is an undemanding 6 km loop that threads past five natural springs; bring a bottle and top up – the water is cold, iron-rich and tastes faintly of the granite it has filtered through. Serious walkers can continue upwards to the Cuerda de las Siete Lagunas, a full-day haul that tops 2,000 m and gives views west to the highest peaks, but the path is unmarked after the tree line and mist rolls in fast: OS-equivalent Gredos maps are sold in the tiny librería-papelería on Calle Real (closed Wed afternoons).

Spring and autumn provide the kindest conditions. In April the slopes are bright with broom and the first orchids; by late October the chestnut woods look as though someone has up-ended a box of Quality Street wrappers across the hillside. Summer brings relief from Madrid’s heat – daytime highs sit five degrees below the capital – yet the village’s only public pool is the string of granite potholes known as Las Pozas, ten minutes down a dirt track. Water temperature rarely creeps above 16 °C; at weekends families from the regional capital claim every flat rock, so arrive before 11 a.m. or be prepared to share.

What closes on Monday (and why it matters)

Monday is the village’s weekly shutdown. The abbey church of San Esteban Protomártir – part of a ruined Cistercian monastery whose carved portal still shows the grooves where merchants sharpened their knives – keeps its doors locked. So does the one-room ethnographic museum with its display of 19th-century chestnut-drying sheds. Even the bakery pulls its shutter, meaning breakfast becomes a packet digestif from the Supermercado López eaten on a bench while watching the village dogs conduct their own slow patrol.

Every other day life ticks to agrarian time. Cows outnumber cars at dawn, driven through the streets to pastures above the tree line; the same herd ambles back at dusk, bells clanking like lost church paraphernalia. The weekly market sets up on Friday morning: two fruit vans, a fishmonger whose hake is still stiff from the overnight run from Galicia, and a stall selling kitchen knives that will slice the end off a courgette to prove sharpness. Cash is expected – the nearest reliable ATM is inside the BBVA on Plaza de España, but it runs dry during fiestas when returning grandchildren empty it of €50 notes.

Eating mountain, not marina

Restaurants are thin on the ground, but what exists is proudly local. La Abadía, in a former monk’s cell opposite the ruined cloister, serves judiones del Barco – giant white beans stewed with pig’s cheek and morcilla. A portion feeds two modest British appetites or one hungry Spanish shepherd (€14). The chuletón de Ávila is a Flintstone-sized T-bone designed for sharing; ask for "hecho al punto" if you dislike bleeding beef. House red comes in a plain bottle with no label and costs €9; it will not challenge a Rioja for complexity but washes down roast meat without argument. Vegetarians are limited to patatas a lo pobre – potatoes slow-cooked with green pepper and plenty of olive oil – and a salad that arrives topped with tinned tuna unless you plead otherwise. Pudding is usually yemas de Santa Teresa, sickly-sweet egg-yolk confections bought from the monastery shop; they travel better than Madeira cake and survive the flight home in hand luggage.

If you are self-catering, the Carnicería Manoli sells local veal that has never seen a feedlot and seasonal wild boar when the hunting syndicate has a successful weekend. Ask for "carne para guisar" and you will get sinewy chunks that soften after three hours in a rented apartment’s undersized casserole. Bread arrives at the panadería at 9 a.m. and again at 5 p.m.; outside those times you will be offered yesterday’s barra with a shrug that says take it or leave it.

When to come, when to stay away

Burgohondo works best as a two-night stop. Arrive Thursday evening, walk on Friday, browse the market, then linger over lunch before the afternoon siesta turns the village into a silent film set. Saturday sees Madrid-plated cars nose into every gap, but most day-trippers head straight for the river pools and leave again by seven, restoring calm. Sunday lunchtime every extended family packs the bar terraces; service slows to geological speed, but the people-watching is superb and the church bell still marks the Angelus as if smartphones had never been invented.

August fiestas around the feast of San Roque (15-17th) double the population. Brass bands march at 2 a.m., fireworks echo off the granite, and you will queue twenty minutes for a beer. Accommodation is booked months ahead by returning emigrants; if you crave silence, avoid those dates. Winter brings dustings of snow that melt by midday and views so sharp you can pick out the Gredos circue twenty kilometres away, yet cafés close early and some landlords drain the water pipes rather than risk a freeze. Unless you have a reason – mushroom permit, photography commission, ancestral paperwork – November to March is best left to locals.

Stay in one of the half-dozen village houses converted into low-key guest rooms; expect patchy Wi-Fi, wood-burning stoves instead of central heating, and a breakfast tray that includes mantecados left over from Christmas regardless of the month. Prices hover around €55 a night, cheaper mid-week. The smarter alternative is the stone-built Hostería del Mudéjar in nearby Navaluenga (12 km), but then you miss the 7 a.m. cow parade and the chestnut smell that first announced the sierra.

Burgohondo will not change your life. It offers no souvenir magnets, no Michelin stars, no sunrise yoga on paddleboards. What it does give is a calibrated sense of scale: stone, forest, water and sky, measured out in cow-bell time. Come for that, bring cash, and plan to be mildly bored by 4 p.m. – which, after all, is what siestas were invented for.