Navahondilla

The 11 a.m. bell rings twice because the sacristan is never sure the first clout caught properly. In Navahondilla that counts as traffic noise. Barely 350 souls live at 740 m on the sun-trap southern flank of the Sierra de Gredos, and the sound rolls down the hollow—nava in Old Castilian—until it meets the Tiétar River rustling through almond terraces below. Stand still for sixty seconds and you will hear the second bounce echo back off chestnut woods that turn butter-gold in late October.

This is not a postcard village propped up for week-enders; it is a working pocket of Ávila province where tractors have right of way and the parish noticeboard still advertises cherry-picking wages instead of yoga retreats. Stone houses are freshly limewashed each spring, yet satellite dishes bloom like grey mushrooms on every balcony—people farm, but they also stream Netflix after dark. The effect is oddly reassuring: old fabric, modern pulse, no museum smell.

Stone, Timber and the Smell of Roast Flour

Navahondilla’s core fits inside one leisurely circuit. The Iglesia de San Pedro looms over a cobbled triangle just wide enough for two parked pickups. Its tower, rebuilt piecemeal since the 1500s, is the skyline; swifts nest inside the belfry and dust the plaza with stray feathers. Opposite, the old communal washhouse—now swept clean and roofed—makes a cool refuge when the plateau sun starts hammering around noon. Notice the wooden balconies: they are painted traditional ox-blood, not tourist crimson, and drying peppers hang from the rails in obedient rows.

Walk downhill past the last houses and you meet the Roman bridge that isn’t Roman at all—locals cheerfully admit the 1950s council rebuilt it from a ford mentioned in medieval tithe rolls. Cross anyway; the path turns into a stony track that threads through allotments where every lettuce is netted against partridges. Ten minutes on, you reach the first chestnut mill, roof caved in but the water channel still gushing. Peek inside: the grinding stone lies cracked, yet someone has wedged a fresh bottle of red between beam and wall—picnic storage, mountain style.

Choosing Your Altitude: Strolls or Serious Thigh Burn

The municipality stretches up to 1 600 m along the Chilla massif, so you can pick walks the way others choose wine—light, medium, or eye-watering. For a soft afternoon, follow the PR-AV 314 way-marks south-east to the Fuente de la Mora, two kilometres of gentle descent through cherry orchards. The spring emerges from a pipe in the rock; cup your hands and the water tastes faintly of iron—good for hangovers, say the builders who refill their plastic jugs at dawn.

Feeling ambitious? Drive the unpaved but passable track to Puerto del Boquerón (1 390 m). From the pass it is another 400 m climb on foot to the Cirque of Cinco Lagunas, where glacial ponds mirror the granite teeth of the high ridge. Go early: clouds often bubble up by 2 p.m. and thunder ricochets round the stone amphitheatre like indoor applause. In May the slope is polka-dotted with purple digitalis—tempting photo, toxic brew, so hands off.

Winter changes the rules. Navahondilla itself rarely sees more than a dusting, but the same road that took you to the pass can be blocked by drifts above 1 200 m from December to February. Chains or 4×4 are obligatory if you insist on high trails; otherwise enjoy snow-free rambles along the Tiétar, where almond blossom starts in late January and locals insist you taste the nuts green—fuzzy, tart, closer to a mango than marzipan.

What You’ll Actually Eat and Where

There is no restaurant strip. The only bar, Casa Curro, opens at 7 a.m. for coffee and churros, shuts at 4 p.m., then reappears at 9 p.m. as an asador—lamb or goat slow-roasted in a wood-fired brick oven built into the hillside out back. A half-ration of cordero feeds two Brits comfortably; expect to pay €18 plus wine so young it still fizzes. Mid-week you must book before noon because the owner buys meat daily from a farm six kilometres away.

If you are self-catering, stop at Sotillo de la Adrada (12 km) and raid the Friday market: a kilo of judiones—giant butter beans—costs €4, and two red peppers the size of cricket balls set you back 70 c. Cherries appear in late May; roadside honesty boxes ask €3 a kilo. Leave exact coins; no one hovers and the stock does not magically refill.

The Quiet Season and the Other Quiet Season

August fiestas pull former residents back from Madrid, tripling the head-count for four days. Brass bands play until 3 a.m., and the village square becomes an open-air disco where toddlers career between adults clutching plastic cups of tinto de verano. Accommodation anywhere within 20 km books up months ahead; if you crave silence, avoid.

Spring and late September are kinder. Temperatures hover around 22 °C in the valley, nights drop to 10 °C—perfect walking weather. Mid-October brings the chestnut fiesta: neighbours roast hundreds of kilos in perforated metal drums, hand them out in paper cones, and pair them with queimada, a flaming aguardiente brew that tastes like alcoholic Bonfire Night. You will not find a programme in English; just follow the smell of caramelising sugar on 1 Nov.

Getting Here, Staying Here, Coping

Fly to Madrid, collect a hire car, head west on the A-5 and then the A-50; after 90 minutes take the exit for Sotillo–El Tiemblo and snake up the CV-345 for 15 km. Public transport is fiction: one bus a day reaches Sotillo at 6 p.m., too late for the final taxi. Phone coverage fades in the last gorge; download offline maps before you leave the motorway.

Accommodation is thin. Villa Punto de Encuentro sleeps six, has thick stone walls and a wood stove, but Wi-Fi dribbles at 3 Mbps—enough for WhatsApp, hopeless for Zoom. Bring slippers; floors are chilly even in July. If it is booked, look 12 km south near the San Juan reservoir where converted farmhouses offer kayaks and slightly better internet, though you trade the sierra hush for weekend jet-ski buzz.

Pack a Spanish phrasebook. Not one waiter, shopkeeper or octogenarian on a bench speaks English, yet people will walk you to the turning you asked about rather than risk confusing you further. Return the courtesy: greet with “Buenos días” before any question, and do not march into the bar at 3.30 p.m. demanding lunch—the grill is long cold and you will meet a politely closed kitchen door.

Leaving the Hollow

Navahondilla offers no souvenir stalls, no microwaved paella, no ticketed selfie spot. What it does give you is a calibration exercise in time: days measured by bells, appetite and the angle of sun on a granite crag. You may depart wondering if 48 hours counts as a holiday at all—there are no brag-worthy check-ins, only muddy boots and a pocket of chestnuts. Yet back home, when the 07:42 is cancelled and rain sweeps across the platform, the echo of that double bell at 11 a.m. will sound clearer than any Instagram shot. Whether that memory justifies the petrol from Madrid is yours to decide; the village, at least, will not try to sell it to you twice.