Losar de la Vera

The cyclist is permanently frozen mid-pedal, frozen in boxwood. Next to him, a horse rears on hind legs, mane clipped into perfect verdant curls. They stand in the centre of Losar de la Vera like polite green sentries, and every English number-plate that rolls in from the A-1 Madrid motorway brakes hard in front of them. The topiary avenue is the village’s handshake: odd, skilful and impossible to ignore.

Losar sits 545 m above the Tiétar valley, low enough for olives but high enough that the July air thins from stifling to merely warm. Granite streets tilt gently towards the river, and two-storey houses wear their wooden balconies like sun hats. It is not a film set; satellite dishes bloom beside the geraniums. Park on the southern edge (signed “Centro Urbano”) or you will be moved on by a bemused policeman who has seen it all before.

Green Horses, Red Dust

The topiary began in the 1960s when the local gardener decided clipped yew was more entertaining than municipal flowerbeds. Four decades of pruning later, the collection numbers forty pieces: a bull, a pilgrim, even a Galágo-style galleon. They are free, they are permanent, and they are the reason half of Britain’s Madrid–Santiago driving route suddenly discovers Extremadura.

Beyond the green sculptures, the town unrolls without flourish. The church of San Miguel Arcángel squats at the top of the slope, its tower a useful landmark if you lose your bearings among the stone alleys. Inside, the air smells of wax and extinguished candles; retablos painted in ox-blood reds and naval greens glimmer in the dim light. It is not the Prado, but it is the place where baptisms, funerals and Saturday evening Mass still govern the week.

Water in the Gorges, Silence in the Alleys

Leave the plaza, follow the sound of running water, and within five minutes you are among chestnut groves and miniature canyons. The Garganta de los Ganchos starts 800 m from the last house; the path is stony, narrow and mercifully shaded. Mid-October turns the canopy copper and gold; by December the same leaves rot into a slippery carpet and the gorge is better suited to boots than flip-flops. In June the water shrinks to emerald pools deep enough for a swim if you don’t mind audiences of goats. The locals call them “los pilones” and the best ones lie three kilometres out – drive or cycle, because the farm track offers no shade and the valley fries at 38 °C.

Hiking options stay low-level, rarely climbing above 900 m, which makes Losar a gentler base than the high Gredos passes further east. A circular route along the Arroyo de la Sierpe takes two hours, crosses three stone bridges and ends at an irrigation channel built by Cistercian monks in the 1400s. Bring water; cafés don’t exist once you leave the perimeter.

Lunch at Two or Not at All

Spanish clocks rule here. Shops pull shutters down at 14:00 and reopen at 17:30; miss the window and you will wander empty streets listening to your stomach. The bar that does stay open is Cafetería Avenida, halfway down the topiary strip, and it serves churros that British visitors consistently describe as “less greasy than the Madrid ones” – faint praise that somehow feels triumphant. Order patatas revolconas if you need comfort food: mashed potato whipped with sweet-smoked paprika and topped with crunchy bacon bits. Children recognise it as bubble-and-squeak in disguise.

For something more local, try the trout landed the same morning in the Tiétar. It arrives pan-fried in pimentón, the valley’s signature ingredient. The tin to take home carries a little monk logo and costs about €4 in the Sunday market. British cooks claim a teaspoon transforms chilli con carne; Spanish grandmothers simply look bemused that anyone needs instructions.

When to Come, When to Leave

April and late-September are the sweet spots. Temperatures hover around 22 °C, the gorges run full and the topiary looks freshly barbered. August weekends fill with families from Madrid; the natural pools resemble lidos, complete with inflatables and portable speakers. Winter is quiet, occasionally sharp: frost polishes the cobbles and the village reverts to wood smoke and card games. Snow is rare, but the mountain road to the Gredos ski-station can ice over; carry chains if you plan an onward dash north.

Sunday morning brings a produce market that occupies one car park and folds up by 13:00. Paprika, goat cheese the texture of Philadelphia, and bundles of cured Iberico are the only souvenirs on offer. Credit cards stay in pockets; cash is king and small notes appreciated.

The Honest Verdict

Losar is not a place to base a week-long holiday unless you intend to hike every day and read by the river every evening. It is, however, the perfect half-day pause between Madrid and the north, or a lazy overnight stop if you have had enough of motorway services. Book a room in neighbouring Jarandilla if you want restaurants open past 22:00; stay in Losar itself only if you are comfortable with silence after the cafés close.

Come for the green cyclist who will never reach the finish line, stay for the scent of paprika drifting across stone balconies, and leave before you start expecting anything more dramatic. Losar does not do drama; it does boxwood, bacon-scented potatoes and the sort of quiet that makes the water in the gorges sound louder than it is.