Garganta la Olla

The first thing that strikes you is the sound of water. Before you've even found a parking space—tight, mind, for anything wider than a Fiesta—the faint hiss of the Chorrito fountain drifts up the hill, mingling with the creak of timber balconies that lean so far across the lanes they nearly touch. Garganta la Olla, population 919, sits 590 metres up on the sun-baked lip of the Sierra de Gredos, yet it feels permanently shaded. The reason: every street is tunnelled by upper floors of chestnut-brown wood, the village's answer to the fierce July heat that turns the surrounding chestnut forests brittle.

A town that forgot to straighten its streets

No-one planned this place. Streets wriggle, split and dead-end without warning, laid out by mules and gravity rather than surveyors. Houses grow out of the granite, their ground floors stone, their upper storeys wattle-and-daub bulging like well-stuffed puddings. The effect is half medieval Cotswold, half Wild West frontier—especially where plaster has fallen away to reveal straw and ochre earth. Restoration grants have patched some façades, but walk fifty metres and you'll find a neighbour still living behind cracked adobe, satellite dish bolted precariously to history.

The Casa de la Inquisition, a fifteenth-century timber frame painted ox-blood red, gives the most theatrical example. Tours are informal: ring the mobile taped to the door, pay €2, and the caretaker appears with a jangling set of keys. Inside, the air smells of resinous pine and cold smoke; carved balustrades show where inquisitors once leant to harangue the plaza. It's the only "museum" in the village, yet most visitors spend longer photographing the bright-blue brothel opposite—now a private house, still universally known as the Casa de las Muñecas after the dolls its madam perched in the windows to signal availability.

Cold water on a hot afternoon

The real draw lies below the houses. Follow the stony track that drops east of the church and within ten minutes the temperature falls five degrees. Garganta Mayor is a procession of natural pools fed by snowmelt from the high sierra. Water the colour of bottle glass slides over granite slabs into basins deep enough for a proper swim. Weekends fill with families from Cáceres, but arrive before eleven on a weekday and you'll share the spot only with damselflies and the occasional Iberian water dog. Footwear matters: the path is ankle-turning rubble, not flip-flop territory, and the rocks underwater are slimy. Take the small detour to the higher pool known as Los Chorradores for a shoulder-massaging waterfall—nature's answer to the post-code stress of SW6.

What lands on the plate

By the time you've climbed back up, calories need replacing. The Mesón de la Vera on Plaza Mayor does a respectable pochas—a paprika-laced chickpea stew thick with scraps of jamón that taste faintly of smoked paprika because everything here does. La Vera's pimentón is DOP-protected; the village cooperative still stone-grinds red peppers the way it did in 1600. If cherries are in season (late May to mid-June), order the tarta de picotas: sharp Jerte fruit set on almond cream, the pastry lighter than anything you'll coax from British flour at sea level. House red from the Tiétar valley arrives chilled in a squat carafe, more Beaujolais than Rioja—proof that Extremadura can do delicate when altitude lends a hand.

Vegetarians get short shrift; even the migas—breadcrumbs fried in olive oil—come studded with chorizo. Carnivores should try the cabrito, kid goat slow-cooked until the bones pull free like birthday ribbons. Prices hover around €12 for a main, wine included, so a two-course lunch for two costs less than a single cinema ticket in Leicester Square.

When the mountains turn white

Summer weekends buzz with Spanish licence plates and the thud of sevillanas from portable speakers, but come late October the place empties. That's when the village is at its most atmospheric: wood smoke drifts through balconies, elderly men in flat caps argue over cards in the only bar that stays open year-round, and the forest smells of damp earth and chestnuts you can pick off the ground. Winter proper brings snow—sometimes enough to cut the EX-203 road that corkscrews up from the Alagón valley. Locals switch to 4×4 pickups; visitors without chains are politely turned back by the Guardia Civil. Book a room with central heating: nights drop below freezing and traditional stone cottages bleed warmth.

Spring, by contrast, is brief and exuberant. Wild cherry blossoms appear in March, followed by a rush of green that makes the surrounding hills look upholstered in velvet. This is prime hiking time. A three-hour loop heads north along the Arroyo de la Muela, crests a ridge of holm oaks, then drops back via the abandoned hamlet of El Marco, whose stone terraces now house only lizards. Paths are way-marked but carry OS-style mapping on your phone—signposts vanish whenever two farmers disagree on whose land the right of way crosses.

The practical grit

Garganta la Olla is 45 minutes' drive north of Cáceres on the EX-203. There is no railway; buses from Plasencia run twice daily except Sundays, when nothing arrives at all. A hire car is almost mandatory, and even then park at the top of the village: lanes are single-track, mirrors brushing walls originally designed for donkeys. The solitary cash machine lives inside the grocery on Calle Nueva; it runs dry during fiestas, so bring euros. Mobile reception wobbles: EE fares best, Vodafone barely manages one bar on the square. Accommodation is limited to three small guesthouses and a handful of rural cottages booked through the regional tourist board. August fiestas (15-17) triple normal prices; a smarter move is to stay ten minutes away in Jarandilla de la Vera and drive up for the fireworks.

A parting shot

Garganta la Olla won't change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no souvenir tat, no epic museum wings. What it does provide is a dose of architectural honesty—houses built from whatever came to hand, still lived in, still leaking heat—and the chance to swim in water cold enough to make a Devon river feel tepid. Turn up with modest expectations, sturdy shoes and a taste for smoked paprika, and the village repays with something increasingly rare: a corner of Spain that functions for locals first, visitors second.