Navalacruz

The Village That Winter Won

Navalacruz sits at 1,238 metres, high enough for the air to nip your cheeks even in May. Stand in the single stone-paved square at seven in the evening and you’ll hear two things: the clank of a tractor heading home and the wind combing through the pines that bristle on the ridge above. The place feels accidental, as though a handful of granite houses were scattered from a passing lorry and the mountains simply agreed to let them stay.

Below 200 permanent souls live here year-round. Summer swells the numbers—grandchildren arrive from Madrid, tents sprout on back-garden plots—but October trims them back again. The bar shuts on random Tuesdays, the bakery opens only when the owner’s sciatica behaves, and the village cashpoint has never existed. Plan accordingly.

Granite, Gorse and a Church That Could Survive Anything

Architectural splendour is not the point. The parish church, chunky and slate-roofed, looks built to withstand siege rather than inspire awe. Its bell tolls the hour with the enthusiasm of someone who has done the job for three centuries and sees no reason to hurry. Walk a loop of the lanes and you’ll pass timber balconies warped by snow, stable doors still wide enough for a mule, and stone walls the colour of yesterday’s porridge. Pretty? Not especially. Honest? Entirely.

Outside the village, old drove roads snake into the Sierra de Gredos. One path climbs gently past abandoned threshing circles to the Puerto de Menga, an hour’s stroll that gifts a sudden, sweeping view of the Alberche valley. Another, steeper track heads towards the Cerca de las Nava, where Spanish ibex sometimes appear on the skyline like an afterthought. Both routes are way-marked by faded yellow dashes; if the paint stops, so should you—private cortijos guard the high pastures and their dogs have no sense of humour.

Food Meant for Log Fires and Second Helpings

There are two places to eat: the restaurant attached to Casa Rural El Piorno and the smaller bar next to the church. Neither advertises opening hours because neither commits to them. Ring before 18:00 and ask politely; if the voice on the line says “Vale, venid,” you’ve secured a table. Expect a fixed menu—usually a soup thick with chickpeas, followed by judiones (butter beans the size of conkers) stewed with pancetta, then chuletón, a T-bone the width of a paving slab. Vegetarians get eggs and apology. House red comes from Cebreros, tastes of blackberries and costs under €12 a bottle. Pudding is sheep’s cheese with local honey; accept it, the freezer rarely accommodates ice cream.

Breakfast is DIY. The mini-market (open 09:30-13:00 except Sunday, Monday, Thursday and whenever Doña Feli visits her sister) sells sliced pan de pueblo, cured loin and tomatoes that still carry greenhouse grit. Bring coffee; the village machine broke in 2019 and no one has rushed to replace it.

When the Snow Comes, the Rules Change

Navalacruz is a gateway rather than a destination. In spring, orchids speckle the roadside banks and day-trippers from Ávila motor up for the blossom. By mid-November the same road is salted and chained tyres rattle over the tarmac. The Guardia Civil close the Puerto de Menga when drifts deepen; without a four-wheel-drive you’re stuck until the plough appears, usually after the farmers have finished their own tracks first. Book accommodation with parking at the door—digging a Corsa out of a metre of powder is nobody’s idea of holiday fun.

Winter brings its own quiet magic. Snow muffles the valley, wood smoke hangs motionless above the roofs and the night sky is so sharp you feel you could slice cheese with the Milky Way. Locals celebrate with hogueras on the eve of San Antón, dragging old pallets into the square and setting light to the year’s debris. Bring gloves and a willingness to drink anis from a shared tin cup; speeches are short and the fire is hot.

Practicalities for the Stubborn Traveller

Getting here: From Ávila, take the N-502 towards Arenas de San Pedro, then follow the AV-510. The final 22 kilometres twist through pine woods; allow 75 minutes for what the map swears is a 60-kilometre run. Petrol up first—El Barraco’s station is 30 kilometres away and closes at lunchtime on Saturday, all day Sunday.

Sleeping: There are two rural houses, four rooms each, both spotless, both €70 a double including breakfast if you remind them. Neither takes plastic; cash only. Mobile signal on Vodafone flickers between one bar and none—Movistar users fare better. Wi-fi exists but obeys mountain time: leisurely, occasionally fictional.

Walking gear: Even July can be 12 °C at dawn. Pack a windproof, water-resistant jacket and boots with grip; slate paths polish themselves into slides after rain. A stick deters over-friendly mastiffs on the lower farms.

Language: English is rarely heard. Learn to ask “¿Hay cena esta noche?” before 18:00 and you’ll eat; forget and you’ll be buttering bread in your room.

The Parting Glance

Navalacruz will not change your life. It offers no souvenir magnets, no sunset yoga, no boutique anything. What it does provide is an unvarnished slice of high Spain: the smell of resin on a hot noon, the sudden hush when wind drops among pines, the knowledge that the village lights you see across the valley are the only ones for twenty kilometres. Come if you want the country as it is, not as marketing departments wish it to be. Leave before the snow seals the pass, or stay and help stack someone’s woodpile—either way, Navalacruz will forget you by morning, and that is part of its hard, bright charm.