Santa Cruz del Valle

The first thing you notice is the chestnuts. Not the odd tree, but whole slopes of them, their trunks thick enough to hide a tractor. They start just beyond the last stone house, rolling upwards until the granite of the Sierra de Gredos takes over. Santa Cruz del Valle sits at 725 metres, high enough for the air to feel scrubbed, low enough for almonds and figs to still grow in the warmer corners of village gardens. It is, by Castilian standards, a vertical place—something the region isn’t famous for.

Three hundred souls live here year-round, a number that swells to maybe four hundred when Madrid families retreat for long weekends. The village straddles a ridge above the Tiétar valley, the sort of geography that means every street ends in a view. Walk to the bakery for a loaf and you’ll see three climate zones: the green irrigated vega below, the chestnut belt you’re standing in, and the bare alpine zone where snow linges until May. British visitors expecting the meseta’s endless wheat often blink twice.

Granite, Wood and the Smell of Mushrooms

The houses are what estate agents would call “honest stone”. Thick granite walls keep interiors cool in July and warm in January; rooflines sag just enough to prove they’re pre-fab. Timber balconies are painted the colour of oxidised copper, a tradition that began when local foundries had spare pigment left over from railway work. Flowerpots are filled with geraniums that somehow survive the altitude, though they sulk in October when night temperatures dip below five degrees.

There is no formal heritage trail, and that is the pleasure. Turn right at the church—an unadorned sixteenth-century box with a single bell—and you’re on a lane that becomes a path within two hundred metres. Five minutes later the tarmac gives up entirely and you’re between dry-stone walls built to keep goats, not tourists. In autumn the air smells of leaf mould and boletus. Mushroom hunters from Valladolid arrive with wicker baskets and Opinel knives, but mid-week you’ll have the forest to yourself. Locals ask only that you cut, don’t pull, and leave the small ones. Anyone caught with a plastic supermarket bag is quietly judged.

Water You Can Drink and a Pool You Probably Won’t

The Gredos range catches Atlantic weather systems that the plateau behind misses, so streams here run year-round. Follow any track downhill and you’ll reach a garganta—a narrow gorge where water has polished granite into slides and pockets deep enough for a swim. The temperature hovers around fourteen degrees even in August; jump in, scream, climb out warmer than you went in. There are no lifeguards, no entry fee and, on a Tuesday morning, no one else.

Higher up, past the tree line, snowmelt forms shallow lagoons called charcas. The biggest, Charca Suiza, is a two-hour stiff walk from the village; bring shoes with grip, because the final kilometre crosses bare granite slabs polished by glaciers and lethal when wet. The reward is a mirror of water reflecting the Cirque of Gredos, framed by tawny ibex that watch without moving.

Food That Knows the Day of the Week

Santa Cruz has one restaurant, open Thursday to Sunday for lunch only. The menu is written on a chalkboard and never changes more than the weather. Expect a bowl of judías del Barco—buttery white beans spiked with smoked paprika—followed by grilled trout caught that dawn in the Tiétar. Lamb shoulder appears on Saturdays; it’s slow-cooked with garlic and bay until the bone slides out like a bookmark. Vegetarians get a plate of roast peppers and a fried egg, which sounds basic until you taste the pepper. House wine comes from a co-op forty kilometres away and costs eight euros a bottle; it’s rough, honest and better than anything on the Gatwick flight.

If you’re self-catering, the mobile fish van arrives Wednesday at eleven thirty. Hake is €12 a kilo, already gutted. The baker’s van does the rounds daily except Monday; ask for pan candeal, a dense wheat loaf that keeps four days and toasts brilliantly on an open fire. There is no supermarket, no cash machine and, delightfully, no adverts for Irish bars.

How to Arrive Without Cursing

Fly to Madrid, then drive. The A-5 motorway is dull but fast; turn south at Talavera de la Reina and the road begins to climb. The final thirty kilometres twist through oak forest where wild boar wander at dusk—keep the headlights on full beam. Total journey time from Heathrow door to village square is roughly five hours including the inevitable car-hire queue at Barajas. Public transport does not reach Santa Cruz; a taxi from Ávila costs €70 if you book ahead, €90 if you just wave at the rank.

Car hire is non-negotiable unless you plan to sit on the cottage terrace for a week, which some people do and swear is therapy. Petrol stations are scarce once you leave the N-502; fill up in Candeleda, the last town before the mountain. In winter carry snow chains from December onwards; the road is cleared eventually, but “eventually” is a flexible concept here.

Where to Sleep (and Why It Won’t Be a Hotel)

Accommodation is cottage-only. Casa Rural El Mirador del Pico sleeps six, has underfloor heating and a pool that is technically unheated but absorbs enough sun to reach twenty-four degrees by late July. It books solid for Easter and the first two weeks of October; outside those windows you can negotiate three nights for the price of two just by asking. Smaller options scatter the hillside—look for “VUT” on the gate, the regional licence for tourist lets. Most are converted barns with beams low enough to crack a forehead; ducking becomes second nature after the second glass of Rioja.

Bring slippers: stone floors are cold before May. Hosts leave a litre of olive oil, a jar of local honey and enough firewood for one night; after that you chop your own or pay €5 a basket. Phone signal drifts in and out; WhatsApp works from the upstairs window if you stand on a chair and face north-east. The village council installed fibre in 2021, then discovered the contractor hadn’t connected the final kilometre. They’re working on it, which in Castilian Spanish means sometime before 2030.

The Quiet Season

January and February are brutal. Fog pools in the valley for days, the sun doesn’t clear the ridge until ten o’clock and every path is either mud or ice. April explodes into blossom overnight; by then the first Madrid cars appear, skis strapped to the roof even though the nearest resort is an hour away. May is perfect for walking—warm days, cool nights, wildflowers that would make a Chelsea gardener weep. June grows hot but the forest canopy keeps trails breathable. August is surprisingly empty; Spanish schools are out, yet families head to the coast, leaving the mountains to a handful of Germans and the occasional British couple who read too much Laurie Lee.

October is chestnut season. The village hosts a modest feria on the third weekend: one stall roasts nuts in a perforated drum, another sells ponche, an alcoholic custard that tastes like liquid Christmas. Entry is free; donations go to the volunteer fire brigade whose engine is a 1987 Bedford and still starts first time.

Leave before dusk on Sunday and the place folds in on itself. Shutters bang closed, the church bell counts seven, and the only sound is the river three hundred metres below. Somewhere a dog barks once, then thinks better of it. You drive away with the windows down, the smell of woodsmoke in your hair, wondering why more places can’t stay this small.