El Hornillo

The last six kilometres to El Hornillo feel like someone pressed rewind on the快进 button. The dual carriageway from Madrid dissolves into the AV-900, a single-lane ribbon that corkscrews up 350 metres through holm oak and chestnut. By the time the stone houses appear, mobile signal has already given up, and the temperature drops a good five degrees. At 748 metres above sea level, the village sits exactly where the dusty plains of Castilla decide they’ve had enough and turn into proper mountain country.

A village that still works for a living

Drop down a gear, ease past the stone trough where an old man is rinsing lettuces, and you’ll notice El Hornillo hasn’t been polished for the coach trade. The granite slabs underfoot are scarred by decades of tractor tyres; washing flaps from first-floor balconies; someone’s hunting dog dozes outside the only bar. With 270 permanent residents, the place is small enough that the barman still shouts your coffee order across the plaza when he spots you coming.

There is no souvenir shop, no interpretive centre, no medieval gate to photograph. What you get instead is the sound of the Tiétar river filtering up through poplars, and the smell of oak smoke drifting from tiny chimneys. Houses are built from whatever the mountain provided: mottled granite blocks the colour of weathered sheep fleece, roof tiles the warm red of local clay. A few newer breeze-block garages stick out, but the overall palette is still stone, timber and sky.

Walking before breakfast

The serious Gredos treks – the Circo de Gredos lagoon, the Almanzor summit – start half an hour further west at Plataforma de Gredos. El Hornillo offers something more immediate: trails that leave straight from your rented doorway. Within ten minutes the tarmac ends and you’re on a chestnut-shaded path where wild boar have rooted up the verge during the night. The most popular outing is the hour-long loop to the Cascada del Chorro, a 15-metre waterfall that swells to a proper torrent after spring snow-melt. Trainers will do in high summer, but the shale is slippery after rain; boots are a wiser bet.

Keener hikers can use the village as a launch pad for the 1,500-metre climb to La Serrana, a rocky prow that gives views right back over the Tiétar reservoir. Set off at seven, share the trail only with bee-eaters and the occasional local shepherd, and you’ll be down in time for a second breakfast of toasted village bread rubbed with tomato and a drizzle of Gredos honey.

Night skies and silence

British visitors tend to arrive expecting rustic charm and leave raving about the dark. With no streetlights beyond the central plaza, the Milky Way reveals itself in embarrassing detail. Stand in the lane at 11 p.m. and you’ll hear nothing but tawny owls and, if the wind is right, the church clock striking the quarter. Light-pollution refugees from the M25 corridor have been known to spend entire evenings on rental terraces, wine glass in hand, counting shooting stars.

Inside, the houses are warmer than their thick walls suggest. Traditional stone cottages have been retro-fitted with wood-burning stoves and, crucially, British-compatible plug sockets by Madrid owners who let them out at weekends. A two-bedroom place runs €90–€120 a night year-round; August books up in May, so plan ahead.

What passes for gastronomy

There are no restaurants, only Bar El Rollo. Its opening hours follow a lunar logic: lunch 1–4 p.m., dinner 9–11 p.m., closed Monday and whenever the owner drives to Ávila for supplies. The laminated menu offers three choices: plate of the day (usually bean stew with morcilla), mixed grill that could feed a small climbing team, or tortilla the size of a cartwheel. Vegetarians get patatas bravas and a resigned shrug. Prices hover around €10 a head, cash only.

Shop before you arrive. The last supermarket lies 14 km back in Arenas de San Pedro, and the village shop closed in 2018. Bring milk for tea, breakfast cereal for fussy children, and something green if your constitution rebels at two bean-based meals a day. What you can buy on site is drinkable: local young red from Cebreros vineyards for €4.50 a bottle, and that soft goat’s cheese that tastes like a cross between Wensleydale and Philadelphia.

Seasons and how to read them

April-May turns the surrounding hills into a polka-dot carpet of rockrose and orchids; day-time temperatures sit in the low twenties, perfect for walking without the midsummer glare. October brings fungus hunters: cars with Madrid plates prowl the verges, boots emerge, wicker baskets fill with orange-bristled níscalos. November can be damp and moody, but the chestnut woods glow copper and the village bar starts serving roast chestnuts in paper cones for €1.

Winter is when you discover whether your rental agreement includes firewood. Night frosts are common from December to February; the road up from Arenas can ice over, and snow chains are not theatrical extras. Daytime highs still reach 12 °C, so crisp blue-sky walking is possible – just pack a fleece and don’t expect the bar to open for an early coffee.

Summer, frankly, splits the audience. July and August are hot, but the altitude knocks the edge off; expect 28 °C at midday rather than the 38 °C baking Madrid. The catch is everyone else knows this too. Weekenders from the capital book every spare bed, the waterfall path turns into a conga line, and the plaza fills with toddlers on scooters. If you must come in peak season, arrive mid-week and walk at dawn. The village belongs to you again by 7 a.m.

Getting here without the drama

Fly to Madrid, pick up a hire car at Terminal 1, and allow two and a half hours door-to-door. The final stretch after Arenas de San Pedro is steep but perfectly asphalted; ignore the sat-nav lady when she claims the journey is “14 km, 12 minutes”. She hasn’t met the coach full of pilgrims that forces you into a reversing manoeuvre on a 12 % gradient. A manual gearbox is helpful, and petrolheads will enjoy the switchbacks. Non-drivers can take a Monbus from Madrid’s Estación Sur to Arenas (1 h 45 min), then pray: there is no scheduled link up the hill, so you’ll need a taxi (€25) or a kindly landlord.

Worth it?

El Hornillo will never make the front page of a Spanish tourism brochure. It offers no cathedral, no Michelin stars, no flamenco tablaos. What it does offer is a village that functions on its own terms: bread delivered to the bar at dawn, neighbours arguing over the water allotments, trails that start outside your front door and end on empty summits. If you measure holiday success by tick-box attractions, stay on the coast. If you’re content to wake up to church bells instead of car alarms, fill your water bottle from a granite fountain, and watch the sun drop behind peaks that still have Iberian wolves, then yes – drive up the mountain and keep going until the signal dies.