El Tiemblo

The morning bus from Madrid drops you at the only zebra crossing in El Tiemblo and the driver yells “¡Ya estamos!” as if 689 m of altitude were the summit of Everest. At 09:45 the bakery is still warm from the night ovens, pensioners occupy the metal tables outside Bar Lucho, and the air smells of roast coffee and resin. Nothing in this small Sierra de Gredos foothill town announces itself with a flourish, yet within half an hour you can be walking under chestnut trees where the only sound is your boots on last year’s leaves and the odd grunt of a free-range pig that has wandered up from a nearby farm.

Stone, Forest and Reservoir Light

El Tiemblo’s houses are the colour of the surrounding granite, which makes the village look as though it grew out of the rock rather than being built on it. Narrow lanes climb from the modest Plaza de España; some keep their original cobbles, polished smooth by centuries of hooves, tyres and the rubber soles of weekend walkers. A five-minute stroll west and the streets simply stop: gates open on to pine and oak where sign-posted footpaths start immediately. No ticket office, no car park fee, just a wooden post that reads “Castañar 2 km” in both Spanish and matter-of-fact English.

The Castañar loop—4 km, flat enough for grandparents yet cool enough for dogs—delivers October colour that Yorkshire would envy. British visitors who discover it tend to be Madrid-based expats repeating a quiet weekend; they download the route on AllTrails before leaving the village because the signal dies among the trees. Phone reception returns at the reservoir, five minutes down by car or twenty on foot. El Burguillo, created in the 1930s by damming the Alberche, is a long steel-blue finger backed by folded hills. Stand-up paddle boards and sit-on-top kayaks can be hired at the eastern end for €12 an hour; swimming is permitted in the roped-off playa but the water stays bracing until late June. British families usually bring picnic supplies—there is no café within walking distance of the shore and the village cash machine empties on Saturday night.

Bulls Older Than the Tudors

Four granite bulls the size of small cars have guarded the southern boundary since the second century BC. The Toros de Guisando sit in open pasture 4 km from the centre; walk, cycle or take the car up the narrow AV-512 and you will spot them long before the lay-by appears. They are not cute: necks are thick, snouts flattened, expressions blankly menacing. Yet the pasture is wind-tossed and quiet, and the view stretches south across the valley all the way to the distant plains of Toledo. Here, in 1468, Henry IV of Castile signed the treaty that made his half-sister Isabel heir; the animals watched impassively, as they still do. There is no visitor centre, no audio guide, only a modest panel in Spanish and English and a stone bench that invites a ten-minute breather before the walk back.

Inside the village the 15th-century Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción offers a quarter-hour detour. Granite walls, low side chapels, a wooden ceiling like an upturned boat—nothing spectacular, but the interior smells of candle wax and old incense in the way English parish churches used to before they were converted into flats. Drop a euro in the box and the sacristan will switch on the lights so you can see the faded fresco of the Assumption above the altar.

Eating Between Hikes

Spanish trail food tends to be liquid—coffee at 11:00, beer at 13:00—so plan calories carefully. The bakery on Calle Real bakes empanadas of tuna and pepper that survive a day in a rucksack; buy before 11:00 or they sell out. For a sit-down lunch Casa Paco in the main square does judiones de perdiz, a game-rich bean stew that tastes like cassoulet wearing a sombrero. A media ración is large enough for one hungry walker and costs €9; add a plate of local cheese and you are set until supper. Vegetarians usually default to the grilled pimientos de Padrón and a tortilla served lukewarm, which is how the Spanish like it even if Brits prefer it hot. Sunday lunch means cordero lechal—milk-fed lamb roasted until the skin crackles. The restaurant will sell a quarter portion if you ask, useful if the children want chips and you still fancy a taste.

Outside July and August nearly every bar closes on Monday and all day Tuesday. Self-catering is the safe option: the small Supermercado El Árbol keeps Spanish hours (shut 14:00–17:30) but stocks cheddar-lookalike “queso tierno” for children who refuse Manchego. Bring cash; foreign contactless cards are still regarded with deep suspicion and the village ATMs run dry at weekends.

Seasons, Silence and the August Invasion

January is silent. Bars heat their terraces with gas mushrooms, locals wear quilted coats the colour of the granite, and the high peaks behind the village carry enough snow to make the road to Gredos impassable without chains. Come May the same slopes blaze with lavender and broom; night temperatures stay above 10 °C so you can sleep with the window open and wake to cuckoos rather than car alarms. June is perfect for cycling: the AV-501 to San Martín de Valdeiglesias is smooth, carries almost no lorries, and rolls through wheat fields that turn ochre under an English-looking sky.

Then August arrives. Madrilenios descend with body boards and labradors, the population triples, and cars park two abreast along the road to the reservoir. The fiestas—music until 04:00, street foam party, fairground rides in the polideportivo—run from 12 to 17 August. If you want rural solitude, book another week. September empties again, October smells of wet earth and wild mushrooms, and by mid-November the first frost silences the crickets.

Getting There and Away

Madrid-Barajas is 110 km east. Pick up a hire car, take the A-5 towards Badajoz, then the AV-501 north at San Martín; the last 15 km twist through oak forest but the tarmac is wide and no worse than the A591 to Windermere. Without wheels you can ride the weekday bus from Estación Sur (three departures, none on Sunday). The service reaches El Tiemblo at 11:15; if you miss it, a shared taxi from San Martín costs about €25. Trains do not come here: the railway stops at Talavera de la Reina, 60 km south, and you would still need a bus that only runs twice a day.

Leave the car in the signed car park next to the ayuntamiento; it is free and you will not need it again until the reservoir or the bulls. The village itself is twenty minutes’ end to end—steeply uphill at 689 m, so pace yourself until the lungs adjust.

Worth It?

El Tiemblo will not change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no souvenir tat, no spa hotel. What it does give is a working Spanish mountain town where you can walk from bedroom to forest in ten minutes, eat beans cooked with partridge for under a tenner, and swim beneath peaks that still carry snow into May. Turn up with realistic expectations—closing days, patchy Wi-Fi, the possibility of rain in July—and you will understand why Madridenios keep the place to themselves. Just do not tell everyone; the bus only has thirty-seven seats.