Lanzahíta

The first clue that Lanzahita isn’t standard Castilian plateau is the smell of orange blossom drifting across vegetable plots in April. At 450 m above sea level—low for these parts—the village sits in a trough carved by the Tiétar River, far enough south of the Gredos peaks to trap warm air yet near enough to steal their melt-water. The result is a pocket of irrigated terraces that locals simply call la huerta, a word that sounds almost exotic in a province famed for parched grain fields.

Drive in early morning and the place reveals itself slowly: poplar windbreaks, then cherry orchards, then stone houses with wooden balconies painted the colour of oxidised copper. Irrigation channels—stone sluices older than most European capitals—still divide the water by ancient turns. You’ll see plastic tubing snaking through lettuce beds and hear the click-clack of a petrol pump feeding a lemon grove that shouldn’t, by rights, survive a Castilian winter. It does, because nights here rarely drop below zero.

A village that works for a living

The census claims 800 residents; subtract those who commute to the Avila hospitals or the Renault plant in Valladolid and you’re left with perhaps four hundred permanent souls. They grow vegetables, keep bees and, every June, sell cherries from trestle tables outside their garages. There is no tourist office, only a laminated A4 sheet taped to the pharmacy door listing fiesta dates. The pharmacist doubles as the key-holder for the castle keep; ask nicely and she’ll ring the caretaker, who arrives on a quad bike with a ring of keys that look older than the Spanish constitution.

The castle itself—really a fortified tower—is worth the climb for the view north to the Gredos cirque, still streaked with snow into May. Inside, the stone spiral is unlit, so borrow the caretaker’s torch (he’ll pretend not to notice the €1 coin you slip into his tobacco tin). From the roof you can trace the original Moorish irrigation ditches, now shaded by allotments where grandfather and grandson hoe companionably in silence.

Down in the grid of narrow lanes, houses are built from local granite the colour of wet slate. Some have been sand-blasted back to pristine ashlar by weekenders from Madrid; others slump gently under centuries of rendering, their ground-floor doorways widened to admit a tractor. The mix is refreshingly un-stage-managed. A glossy Idealista brochure this is not.

Walking without the crowds

Serious Gredos hiking starts 25 km further north at Hoyos del Espino, but Lanzahita offers an easier primer. A way-marked loop, the Cañada Real Leonesa, follows an old drovers’ trail through pine and cork oak. The gradient is gentle enough for walking trainers, and you’ll meet more goats than people. Allow two hours and carry water—bars in the countryside don’t do takeaway coffee.

If you’d rather stay on the flat, follow the river south for 3 km to the abandoned flour mill at El Chauz. The path is shaded by eucalyptus and the water smells faintly of mint. Kingfishers use the sluice gates as diving boards; mid-week you’ll have the place to yourself. Weekends bring families from Ávila who park on the verge and fire up disposable barbecues, so come Friday if you want solitude.

What lands on the plate

Evenings revolve around the two bars on Plaza Mayor. Neither has a website; opening hours are dictated by the proprietor’s grandchildren. Order a chuletón de Ávila for two (€32 at Bar Gredos) and you’ll receive a T-bone the size of a laptop, cooked rare on an open oak grill. vegetarians aren’t an afterthought—judiones del Tiétar, giant butter beans stewed with saffron and bay, arrive in a clay bowl big enough for mains.

Cherry season (mid-June to early July) turns the village into an informal farmers’ market. Knock on any door displaying a hand-written “Cerezas” sign and you’ll leave with a kilo crate for €3. The variety is Picota, the same de-stemmed fruit Waitrose charges £6 for in July. If you’re self-catering, the bakery opens at 07:30 for still-warm pan de pueblo; buy two loaves—one for breakfast, one to tear up for the evening’s migas accompaniment.

When to come, how to get here, what can go wrong

Spring and autumn give you daylight hiking without the 40 °C furnace of August. Winter is mild by Castilian standards—think Herefordshire with more sun—but mountain roads can ice over overnight. Chains are rarely needed, yet a hire car without winter tyres will spin on the climb out of the Tiétar gorge.

Public transport is essentially fiction. One bus leaves Ávila at 14:00, returns at 06:45 next day; miss it and a taxi is €70 pre-booked. Driving from Madrid airport takes 2 h 15 min: west on the A-5, peel off at Talavera on to the A-50, then south on the N-502 to Arenas de San Pedro and finally the AV-900. Fuel up in Arenas; the village garage keeps Spanish hours—closed 14:00-17:00 and all Sunday. The only ATM occasionally runs dry on summer weekends; bring cash.

Monday is the weekly dead day: both bars close early, the bakery shutters at noon and the castle key stays in the caretaker’s pocket. Plan a riverside picnic or drive 20 km to the Roman bridge at El Tiemblo for an alternative wander.

Worth the detour?

Lanzahita will never tick the “must-see” box for first-time Spain visitors. It lacks the postcard plaza of neighbouring Arenas or the glacier cirque drama of the northern Gredos. What it offers instead is the unselfconscious rhythm of a place that still functions as a village first, destination second. Sit long enough on a bench outside the church and someone will offer directions to the best cherry tree, warn you about the loose mastiff three farms up, or simply share the silence that comes from knowing the mountains will still be there tomorrow.