Mombeltrán

The castle appears first, four caramel-coloured towers riding a ridge 635 m above the Tiétar valley. From the A-5 motorway it looks like a film set that has lost the rest of its budget: intact battlements, empty hillsides, no souvenir stands in sight. Most drivers slow for the photograph, then press on towards the Sierra de Gredos. Those who bother to leave the slip-road discover that the village tucked beneath the fortress is still inhabited by 900 people, two bars and a pair of storks who nest on the church tower with the patience of unpaid sentries.

A fifteen-minute walk through five centuries

Park by the olive-oil cooperative and start uphill on Calle de las Peñuelas. The tarmac gives way to stone within thirty seconds; the temperature drops a couple of degrees as walls of granite block the afternoon sun. Half-timbered houses shoulder Renaissance mansions whose coats of arms identify the Dávila family, lords of these parts until the nineteenth century. Nobody has sandblasted the stonework, so lichen blooms orange and grey, and the brass door-knockers still work.

The street ends in a pocket-sized plaza furnished with a stone bench and a drinking fountain that tastes faintly of iron. Turn right and the castle gate swings into view. An honesty box is screwed to the wall: €3, coins only. If the keeper has gone home the gate may be padlocked regardless of the advertised timetable—weekend-only opening is common from November to March. Should the latch lift, climb the spiral stair in darkness (phone torch required) to the roof where the valley tilts away south-west like a crumpled green counterpane. On clear days the granite massif of Gredos glitters white along the horizon; on hazy summer afternoons the air thickens to a soft iodine blur that makes the olives shimmer.

Back outside, the fifteenth-century church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción stands a hundred metres down the slope. Its doorway is modest, but inside the retablo glows with gilded pine cones and a Virgin whose robe still carries a dab of medieval ultramarine. Doors close at 18:00; if the sacristan is locking up she will usually let visitors slip in for five minutes provided the day's candles have not yet been counted.

Lunch at Spanish time

By 14:00 the smell of oak smoke drifts from the chimneys of Bar El Castillo. The menu is written on a strip of brown cardboard: chuletón de Ávila (a T-bone that covers the plate), judiones del Barco (butter beans the size of pound coins) and a tumbler of cold Rueda white wine. Order the beef rare—asking for "bien hecho" earns a polite frown and an extra ten minutes on the grill. Kitchens close at 16:00 sharp; arrive at 15:55 and you will be fed, but don't expect coffee afterwards. Both bars are cash-only: notes larger than €20 are greeted with sighs.

Vegetarians can usually negotiate a plate of patatas revolconas—mashed potato tinted red by pimentón and topped with a fried egg. The local olive oil, pressed from blanqueta and cornicabra olives, has a peppery kick that makes British supermarket oil taste like candle wax. A half-litre bottle costs €6 from the cooperative if you remember to knock before 13:00; after that the manager drives home for siesta and the shutters stay down.

Up the valley or into the hills

Mombeltrán works as a sleep-over rather than a base camp. Walkers can follow the signed path that leaves the castle car park and climbs gently through holm-oak and sweet chestnut to the Garganta de Santa María, a shallow ravine where water runs even in August. The circuit takes ninety minutes, requires no specialist boots and delivers views back to the castle without the crowds that plague the better-known Gredos glacial cirque. Serious hikers with transport continue 20 km to Plataforma de Gredos, the trail-head for the 2,592 m peak of Almanzor, but that is a full day with ice-axe potential until late June.

If legs insist on a rest, drive ten minutes to the Roman bridge at El Tiemblo and swim in the glassy pools below the road. The water is mountain-cold even in July; local children leap from the parapet while grandparents time the immersion with stopwatches and shout "¡Aguanta!".

Where to sleep (and why you might not)

Hostal del Duque has eight rooms opposite the castle wall. Beds are firm, wi-fi patchy, windows open to the sound of swifts. At €65 a night including scrambled eggs and chorizo for breakfast it is decent value, but full most weekends from Easter to October. The alternative is a rural house: Casa Rural Los Olivos sleeps eight round a plunge pool, costs around €240 total per night and demands a €150 cleaning deposit—fine for two families sharing, overkill for a couple. Sunday-night stays can be problematic: owners live in Madrid and prefer Saturday-to-Saturday turnovers. Book mid-week and you may have the village to yourself, though you will also have nowhere to buy bread on Monday morning.

Weather that forgets the plateau

At 635 m Mombeltrán sits low enough to dodge the bitter nights of the northern Meseta. January averages 5 °C at midday; July pushes 32 °C but the altitude keeps humidity low and nights tolerable. Rain is scarce except during the May and October equinoxes, when 30 mm can fall in an hour and the cobbled streets turn into rivulets. Snow reaches the castle perhaps twice each winter and melts by noon, but the AV-941 access road ices over quickly—carry chains if you plan a Christmas visit.

When the village fills up

The fiestas of La Asunción on 15 August triple the population. A brass band marches through the streets at 07:00, fireworks echo off the castle walls at midnight and the plaza hosts an outdoor dance that finishes when the wine runs out. Rooms are booked months ahead; bars run out of change and patience. The September feria is smaller—handicraft stalls, a donkey-blessing ceremony and an auction of surplus vegetables—but it still clogs the single through-road with double-parked Seat hatchbacks. Visit in late April or mid-October instead: temperatures hover round 20 °C, the oil cooperative starts pressing, and the castle keeper is glad of company.

Leaving without the souvenir

There is no gift shop. The castle sells a photocopied leaflet for €1, Spanish only. The best memento is a 500 ml tin of cooperative oil, wrapped in last Sunday's ABC newspaper and wedged upright in the foot-well for the drive back to Madrid airport. The towers shrink in the rear-view mirror, the road dips into the valley, and within fifteen minutes Mombeltrán has reverted to a postage stamp on the ridge—worth the detour, but only just large enough for one good lunch and a stroll through centuries that have not been repainted for Instagram.