Hoyocasero

The first thing you notice is the altitude. At 1,348 metres, the air thins and cools even in late May, carrying the scent of resin and woodsmoke down the narrow lanes. Hoyocasero sits cupped between granite shoulders, its stone houses huddled so tight that winter draughts have to squeeze through. This is not a village that opened its doors to tourism and forgot to close them again; it is still a working scatter of 294 souls who stack firewood on first-floor balconies and keep goats in the back garden.

Drive in from the N-502 and the tarmac narrows to a single thread. Park where the lane flattens by the stone trough—no charge, no meter, no need to lock unless you're feeling urban—and walk. Gravity does the rest, pulling you past granitic façades the colour of weathered pewter, past windows no wider than a paperback, past the single bar that flies the burgundy-and-gold flag of Castilla y León even on windless days. Mobile signal drops to one flickering bar; Google Maps gives up and shows a blue dot floating in green nowhere. Perfect.

Granite, Gredos and Goat Bells

The Sierra de Gredos is not a gentle range. Summits crest 2,500 metres a few kilometres north, snow clinging until June, and the village feels their shadow. Mornings can start at 6 °C in August; by teatime the thermometer has sprinted to 28 °C, then tumbles again at dusk. Pack as if for a British spring hike: fleece, sunhat, waterproof. The reward is light so sharp it etches every pine needle, and night skies so dark the Milky Way looks like someone has smeared chalk across blackboard.

Footpaths branch straight from the top of the village. One of the easiest is the Pinar del Hoyo circuit, a 5-kilometre loop that keeps under canopy most of the way. The gravel is steady, gradients mild enough for anyone who can manage a Lake District catwalk, and every bend seems to open onto a different bouquet of wild rosemary or flowering broom. British visitors who leave TripAdvisor reviews talk less about the views—lovely though they are—than about the silence: "like stepping inside a recording studio," wrote a couple from Norwich last October, "except the soundtrack is goat bells."

More ambitious walkers can follow the signed trail south-east towards the Garganta de las Pozas, a stream-cut gorge where granite walls funnel water into chestnut-deep pools. Allow four hours return, carry more water than you think necessary, and expect wobbly knees on the descent. The path is way-marked but stone-polished; boots with ankle support save ankles and pride.

Smoke, Paprika and the Absence of Souvenirs

Lunch options are limited, honest and filling. The Bar Casa Juan opens at 08:00 for truckers' coffee and stays busy until the last chuletón is grilled around 16:00. A T-bone for two—usually 700 g—costs about €28 and arrives on a hot plate with nothing more than a lemon wedge and a dish of coarse salt. Order it en su punto (medium) unless you enjoy apologising to dental work. Patatas revolconas, the local paprika mash, tastes like smoky bubble-and-squeak and arrives under a crisp curl of pork belly. Vegetarians get a plate of judías del Barco—buttery white beans stewed with saffron—filling enough to silence even a teenage appetite.

There is no gift shop. If you want a souvenir, walk up to the Quesería San Esteban on the road towards Navarredonda de Gredos (ten minutes by car) and buy a small wheel of goat's cheese rubbed in olive ash. It costs €9, keeps for three weeks in a cool rucksack, and tastes like a nuttier, cleaner Cheshire. Otherwise, bring home the pine resin that sticks to your trousers; it lingers in the washing machine for weeks and doubles as Proustian madeleine each time you open the lid.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

Festivities are short, loud and rooted. The Fiestas de San Bartolomé (24–26 August) squeeze 294 residents plus twice that number of returnee relatives into lanes barely wide enough for a tractor. A brass band plays pasodobles outside the church, barrels of Ribera del Duero wine appear on trestle tables, and at dusk the plaza becomes an impromptu dance floor where toddlers career between grandparents doing a stately chotis. Visitors are welcome but not announced; buy a raffle ticket from the woman with the shopping trolley and you might win a ham.

October belongs to the Fiesta de la Seta. Mycologists from Madrid lead dawn forays into the pine belts; novices learn the difference between Lactarius deliciosus and anything that might hospitalise you. British foragers used to penny-bun hunts should note Spanish rules: carry knives with blades under 10 cm, cut not pull, and never exceed 3 kg per person. The local mycological society checks hauls in the plaza, dishes up free setas a la plancha, and sends you home with a certificate proving you didn't poison anyone.

Getting There, Staying Warm, Spending Cash

Madrid Barajas to Hoyocasero takes 2 hours 15 minutes by hire car. Take the A-5 west, peel off at Talavera de la Reina, then follow the N-502 through Navalmoral de la Mata and Arenas de San Pedro. The final 18 km switchback over the Puerto de San Bartolomé is fully paved but narrow; meet a lorry and someone must reverse. There is no petrol station in the village—fill up in Arenas or Hoyos del Espino.

Public transport exists in theory. One Alsa coach leaves Madrid's Estación Sur at 16:00 on weekdays, reaches Hoyocasero at 18:30, then turns round and leaves again at 06:00 next morning. Miss it and you're looking at a €70 taxi from Arenas. Sunday service is non-existent.

Accommodation is mostly casa rural rentals booked through the regional tourist board or Airbnb. Expect stone walls, wood-burning stoves, Wi-Fi via a 4G router that wheezes in bad weather, and nightly rates between €70 and €120 for a two-bedroom house. Bring slippers—granite floors are cold at dawn—and buy groceries before you arrive. The village shop opens 09:00–13:00, stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, excellent local chorizo and little else. The nearest supermarket is in Arenas de San Pedro, twenty minutes down the mountain.

Cash is king. The only ATM is in Hoyos del Espino, 12 km away, and it runs dry at weekends. Spanish banks charge non-EU cardholders €1.50–€2 per withdrawal; Starling and Monzo refund the fee, Halifax doesn't. Bars accept cards grudgingly; if the terminal is down, you walk home thirsty.

The Catch

Hoyocasero is quiet—sometimes oppressively so. In January the sun drops behind the sierra at 17:30, mercury slides below zero, and the only sound is a distant chainsaw. Mobile reception is patchy on every UK network; Vodafone and EE users get one bar on the church steps, nothing indoors. If you measure holiday success by cocktail menus or Instagram likes, book elsewhere. Come instead for the smell of pine smoke in your hair, for goat cheese that tastes of the meadow it grazed, for stars so bright they cast shadows on the lane. Just remember to fill the car, download offline maps and bring a jacket—even in August the sierra keeps a wintery ace up its sleeve.