San Juan del Molinillo

The last bend before the village reveals a cluster of stone roofs clinging to a ridge like barnacles. At 1,140 m, San Juan del Molinillo is already above the tree line that most British motorists associate with the Pyrenees, yet here you are only an hour and a half west of Madrid. The air thins, diesel engines grunt, and the Alberche Valley drops away in a sweep of broom and resin-scented pine.

Why the village still has more tractors than tourists

Two hundred inhabitants, three narrow streets and zero souvenir shops. The village bar doubles as the grocer’s and opens when the owner finishes mucking out her goats. Expect to queue behind a farmer buying fence wire and a loaf, while the television murmurs yesterday’s football scores. Credit cards are regarded with polite suspicion; cash is king and conversation is free. English is not spoken, yet a nod towards the mountains and the word “sendero” will produce hand-drawn directions more reliable than any Ordnance Survey map.

Granite corrals, bread ovens the size of garden sheds and open haylofts show that the place still works for a living. A handful of slate-roofed cottages have been restored by weekenders from Ávila, but most houses remain in the family that built them, their coats of arms worn smooth by 300 winters of driven snow. Planning laws forbid plastic windows and satellite dishes on street façades, so even the television aerials are modest.

Walking without waymarks

Officially there are no signed footpaths. Unofficially, every cobbled lane becomes a shepherd’s track that zig-zags up to the tree line within twenty minutes. From the church door, follow the concrete road past the cemetery; it dissolves into a stony pista that contours through pinsapo pine and resurgent oak. After 4 km you reach the Collado de las Cabras, a pass where vultures turn on thermals and the granite bergs of the Gredos massif slide into view. The gradient is calf-noticeable, but there are no exposed drops; walking boots are sensible, yet a grippy pair of trainers will cope in dry weather.

Map? The 1:25,000 Adrados–Piedrahita sheet (IGN Serie Verde) is sold in Ávila for €9, but the village petrol station will photocopy the relevant square for 40 c. GPS tracks exist on Wikiloc—download them before you leave home because 4G flickers in and out above 1,200 m.

Autumn brings out the mushroom brigade. Níscalos (saffron milk caps) hide under pine needles after the first September storms; locals carry curved knives and wicker baskets, and they will quiz any stranger who looks suspiciously competent. Picking without a permit risks an €80 fine, but nobody objects to a handful for supper provided you ask first. The bar owner will cook them with garlic if you hand them over before 11 a.m.; she charges €6 for the service and insists you drink a glass of tinto de la casa while she works.

Where to sleep and how not to book the wrong continent

Accommodation totals one self-catering cottage and zero hotels. Casa de la Costanilla 15 is a two-bedroom granite house wedged between the church and the lane. It has a wood-burning stove, beams blackened by centuries of oak smoke and a balcony wide enough for two chairs and a bottle of verdejo. Prices hover around £75 per night year-round; firewood is extra and payable in cash to the caretaker who lives three doors down. Reserve through Airbnb, but confirm by WhatsApp three days before arrival—the owner drives a school bus and can be hard to pin down.

Do not confuse the village with the Ecuadorian guesthouse called Molino San Juan Hacienda; British bloggers periodically turn up in South America and wonder why the climate is tropical.

If you prefer a proper bar and someone else to fry the eggs, the Parador de Gredos is 26 km away in Navarredonda. Built in 1928 as the first parador, it offers stone corridors, stag heads and a dining room that serves judiones (buttery giant beans) for €18. Weekend doubles start at £120; book early because half of Madrid heads here when the first snow dusts the pass.

Food after the kitchen closes

The village itself has no restaurant. Lunch options are:

1. Drive 12 km to Burgohondo where Asador el Recuerdo grills ternera over holm-oak embers.
2. Ask in the bar before 10 a.m.; if Mercedes feels like cooking she’ll serve patatas revolconas (paprika mash with crispy pork belly) for €9 at a single communal table.
3. Self-cater—bread van arrives Tuesday and Friday, the tiny shop stocks tinned tuna, eggs and chorizo that tastes of pimentón rather than chilli heat.

Evening eating means driving or improvising. Buy steak from the butcher in El Barraco (20 min), sear it on the cottage iron griddle and open the balcony doors so the scent drifts across the rooftops. The village is dry—no off-licence—so bring wine from Ávila where the cooperative sells verdejo at €3.50 a bottle that punches well above its price.

When to go and when to stay away

April–June and September–October give crisp dawns and 22 °C afternoons. Night temperatures still drop to 5 °C, so pack a fleece even in May. July and August are hot but rarely sticky; the altitude knocks the edge off the heat and the village empties as locals head to the coast. August fiestas (15th weekend) bring fireworks, a communal paella and a temporary bar that spills onto the lane; rooms are booked months ahead, strangers are welcome but beds are scarce.

Winter is serious. Snow arrives by December and the final 8 km of road are gritted sporadically. Chains or 4×4 are compulsory on perhaps a dozen days each year. The cottage has central heating powered by a pellet stove; you feed it twice a day from sacks stacked in the cellar. Days are luminous, nights sink to –8 °C and the Milky Way feels close enough to snag on the church tower. If you relish silence and can handle ice, January is magical—just don’t expect to pop out for milk.

Getting there without a railcard

Fly to Madrid, rent a car and head west on the A-6. After the toll booth at Villacastín take the N-502 towards Arenas de San Pedro, then peel off on the AV-931. The final 20 km wriggle through oak woods where wild boar trot across the tarmac at dusk. Total driving time from Barajas terminal: 2 h 15 min, plus a coffee stop because the road demands concentration.

Public transport exists in theory: one ALSA coach leaves Madrid Estación Sur at 15:30 and reaches Burgohondo at 17:45. A taxi for the remaining 12 km costs €20 if you can persuade the driver to make the detour. Return coaches depart Burgohondo at 07:05, so a day trip is impossible and an overnight bag essential.

Parting shot

San Juan del Molinillo will not change your life. It offers no souvenir fridge magnets, no sunset yoga retreats, no Michelin stars. What it does provide is a working mountain village where stone walls outnumber residents, where the church bell still marks the hours, and where the night sky remains uncluttered by anything louder than an owl. Bring walking shoes, a Spanish phrasebook and a sense of chronological vertigo: the 21st century feels several ridges away, and that, for some, is exactly the point.