Piedralaves

The queue at the village chemist starts at nine. Half the customers are speaking madrileño, back for August with their grandparents’ accent still intact. By eleven they’ll be towel-laden and heading up the stony lanes that leave Piedralaves in twos and threes, bound for water cold enough to make a Castilian swear. This is the ritual: return, greet, submerge.

Piedralaves sits 717 m up on the sun-bleached southern lip of the Sierra de Gredos, exactly where the Mediterranean begins to temper the meseta’s harsh continental bite. The altitude is just high enough for the nights to stay tolerable in July, yet low enough for holm oaks and sweet chestnuts to survive alongside the stone pines. Drive the AV-931 from Ávila and you watch the thermometer drop seven degrees in twenty minutes; roll down the window and the smell shifts from hot dust to resin and running water.

Stone, water and what the glacier left behind

The name means “stones you can see”, and glacial litter is everywhere—smooth boulders the size of delivery vans, balanced in meadows as if still waiting for the ice to return. The Tiétar River has since sliced narrow gorges through this rubble, creating the natural plunge pools that appear on every Spanish travel blog each June.

Garganta de Santa María is the closest gorge: a twenty-minute riverside walk from the church square, then a scramble over granite slabs. The first pool, Poza del Tío Canuto, is waist-deep and filmed with mid-morning shadow; the second, Charco del Tío Pintao, is broader, sun-lit and instantly familiar if you have seen any of Madrid’s tourism posters. Arrive before ten or after six and you may share it with only a handful of teenagers leaping from the rock lip. Arrive at midday in August and you will be one of fifty, soundtracked by reggaetón drifting from a mobile phone. The water is always cold—14 °C even in late July—but after the first involuntary gasp it feels like a reset button for circulation.

Upstream paths keep going, narrowing into a boulder choke that only serious canyoneers attempt. Most visitors turn back, which means the higher pools stay comparatively quiet. Wear shoes with grip; granite blackened by water is treacherous.

A village that refuses to be a museum

Unlike many Gredos settlements, Piedralaves never emptied completely. Its 2,100 inhabitants still run a butcher, a baker and two small grocers, so the place functions even when tourists vanish after the grape harvest. Houses are built from local stone and timber, their balconies painted the deep green prescribed by the 18th-century council so eyes would rest after looking at snow. Beans turn ochre on drying racks in September; someone is always burning pine prunings, giving the streets a campfire scent that no luxury lodge has managed to bottle.

The Iglesia de la Asunción is technically the monument to tick, but its real value lies in the tower view: the roofscape of slate and terracotta, the allotment strips following the river bends, the first ridge of the Circo de Gredos white on the horizon. Inside, the retablo is pure Castilian sobriety—no dripping gold, just carved walnut and the sort of restrained artistry the Spanish do better than anyone when they are not trying to impress foreigners. Outside, the Cruz de los Amantes (1681) gives couples a wooden perch for selfies; legend says anyone who sits here after Mass will marry within a year, a superstition that keeps local photographers busy every Sunday.

Eating between swims

Piedralaves is inside the Judías del Barco protected bean region, so expect judiones (butter beans the size of a 50-p coin) stewed with morcilla and bay. Mesón Venerito does the classic version, plus roast kid that falls off the bone in fragrant shards; Brits who balk at oily fish tend to find this menu reassuringly meat-and-two-veg, except the “veg” are chips cooked in olive oil that actually tastes of something. El Puente offers a cod timbal for less-adventurous palates and surprisingly good homemade sponge—useful if you are travelling with children who regard garbanzos as a human-rights violation.

Vegetarians survive at La Huerta de Edi, a micro-bistro that plates whatever the family garden produces—perhaps a pumpkin and cumin soup followed by grilled courgette flowers. Drink the local Cebreros reds: Garnacha-heavy, chilled for twenty minutes, easier going than the darker Riojas you find on UK shelves. Most restaurants shut their kitchens by 22:00; Spaniards holidaying here eat early by national standards (21:00) because they, too, have to negotiate the lanes back to their rural cottages in the dark.

Walking it off

You can burn off lunch without climbing a 2,000 m summit. The Ruta de las Gargantas threads together pools and old threshing circles in a 7 km loop that takes three hours if you stop to swim. Markers are painted white-and-yellow; a free leaflet showing the circuit is available from the ayuntamiento on Plaza de España (weekday mornings only).

Mountain-bikers head south on forest tracks that contour through sweet-chestnut and reboll-oak, climbing 350 m to the Puente del Congosto viewpoint where, on clear winter days, you can pick out the cathedral of Toledo 90 km away. Bring a spare inner tube—the stone shards that give the village its name are equally enthusiastic about shredding tyres.

Birders simply look up: griffon vultures ride the thermals above the cliffs by nine, followed by booted eagles and the occasional golden eagle if the weather turns unsettled. You do not need hides; the birds cruise at eye-level from most miradors.

Seasons and how to pick one

April–May bring almond blossom and daytime highs of 22 °C; the gorges run full but not violent, and wild marjoram scents the paths. This is prime walking weather, though rural houses still fire up wood-burners at night—pack a fleece.

July–August are hot (34 °C) but bearable thanks to altitude and the pools. Weekends swarm with madrileños; book accommodation early or come Sunday-to-Thursday when rates drop by a third.

October is harvest: vines glow crimson, beans dry on balconies and the smell of new wine follows you around. Rain is possible; carry a light jacket.

December–February can see snow at 900 m, but the village rarely cuts off. Guesthouses promote “snow-and-fire” weekends; if you fancy empty trails and the smell of roasting chestnuts, this is the time. Bring chains for the hire car—the final 4 km from the main road can turn slushy after dusk.

Getting here, staying, paying

The simplest route from Britain is to fly into Madrid-Barajas, then take the hourly Avanza coach from Estación Sur to Piedralaves (1 h 30 min, about £15 one-way). Buses stop on the main road; ring your accommodation and someone will collect you—there is no taxi rank. If you want wheels, hire at the airport; the drive is 120 km on the A-5 and AV-931, the last 20 km winding but well surfaced.

Accommodation splits between stone cottages on the outskirts and three small hotels in the nucleus. Hotel La Canela styles itself Japanese-Spanish fusion: tatami mats, rice-paper screens and a garden that looks lifted from Kyoto until you notice the view of sun-baked granite crags. Access is via an unpaved 1 km lane; after rain a normal saloon car scrapes its sump—request the hotel’s 4×4 pick-up from the bus stop. Quinta San José, 3 km south, offers heated floors for winter guests and a pool that overlooks the valley without the public-pool soundtrack. Expect €90–€120 for a double B&B in high season, €60 in winter.

Plastic is still treated with suspicion. Bars accept cards grudgingly; the bakery and the Saturday market stalls do not. The village cashpoint sometimes runs dry on summer Sundays—withdraw euros at Madrid airport while you wait for the coach.

The catch

Piedralaves is not undiscovered. Every August weekend the population triples; car stereos compete with the sound of water and you may queue ten minutes for coffee. English is rarely spoken—learn the Spanish for “sin cascara” (no ice) if you dislike lukewarm tap water in your Rioja. The natural pools have no lifeguards, sharp rocks lurk just below the surface and phone signals die the moment you enter the gorges. Swim, by all means, but pack waterproof plasters and a dose of common sense.

Come outside high season, however, and the village reverts to its weekday self: shutters half-closed, old men arguing over dominoes, the smell of wood smoke drifting across stone roofs. You will not find souvenir shops or curated tapas trails; instead you get a functioning mountain settlement that happens to own some of the clearest swimming water in central Spain. Arrive with that expectation and Piedralaves delivers—no postcard hyperbole required.