Villanueva de la Vera

The first thing you notice is the scent. Long before Villanueva de la Vera's stone roofs appear round the bend, the air carries a faint curl of smoke—sweet, earthy, unmistakably paprika. It drifts from low-slung drying huts where local farmers toast red peppers over holm-oak fires, the same process that has earned pimentón de la Vera a protected designation alongside Champagne or Stilton. At 500 m above sea-level on the southern flank of the Sierra de Gredos, the village sits just high enough for chestnuts to outnumber olives, yet low enough for the morning sun to feel warm even in late October.

Streets That Remember Hooves

Leave the car where the tarmac thins—Google’s blue dot still works beside the cemetery—and walk. Cobbles the colour of weathered slate tilt at angles designed for medieval hooves, not weekend wheels. Overhead, timber balconies sag with geraniums; their iron brackets have been painted the same ox-blood red since the 1920s. Half-timbered houses lean in until upper storeys almost touch, creating a tunnel of shade that keeps the July heat at bay. There are no souvenir shops, only a single hardware store that sells everything from goat-feed to mobile-phone chargers, and a bakery whose window displays the same three pastries every day of the year. Locals insist the napolitanas—chocolate-filled croissants—are best eaten at 08:30 while still too hot to hold.

The parish church of San Andrés acts as a compass. Built in stages between the 15th and 18th centuries, it squats at the top of the village like a stone toad. The west door is pure plateresque, all curls and scallop shells, but step inside and the roof timbers smell of incense and damp chestnut. A side chapel houses a 17th-century statue of the Virgin whose cloak is changed twice a year: deep green for ordinary time, cloth-of-gold for fiestas. If the doors are locked—common on weekday afternoons—circle round to the smaller chapel of La Soledad; the key hangs on a nail inside the bar opposite, an honour system that still works.

Water, Falls and Midnight Dips

Fifteen minutes downstream, the Garganta de la Vera narrows to a granite chute fed by snowmelt from Almanzor, the province’s highest peak. A 150-metre footpath—slippery with moss, handrail optional—leads to the Cascada del Diablo, a pair of chest-deep pools the colour of chilled gin. Arrive before 09:00 and you’ll share the water only with grey wagtails. By 11:00 Spanish families arrive armed with inflatable unicorns and Bluetooth speakers; the mood shifts from cathedral to fairground. Bring footwear you don’t mind soaking; the stone staircases double as waterfalls after rain. In high summer the village levies a €2 parking fee at the barrier; the machine accepts coins only and steadfastly refuses contactless.

Walkers with energy to burn can continue another 6 km up-valley to the ruins of the 15th-century monastery of San Jerónimo de Yuste, where Emperor Charles V spent his final years. The route follows an old mule track shaded by sweet-chestnut and Pyrenean oak; elevation gain is a modest 250 m, but carry water—there are no fountains after the first kilometre. October brings edible mushrooms: boletus edulis the size of bread rolls and, closer to the stream, the alarming but harmless Amanita caesarea known locally as hongo de Yuste. Picking is tolerated if you ask first; most farmers will wave you through in exchange for a handful for their own supper.

Pepper, Paprika and Pork Fat

Food here is governed by smoke. Pimentón de la Vera flavours everything from lentil stew to chocolate truffles, but the real revelation is how gently it is used. Order patatas revolconas at Llano Tineo and you receive a bowl of mash the colour of terracotta, the paprika adding depth rather than heat. The same smoky note lifts migas—fried breadcrumbs studded with pancetta and grapes—traditionally eaten at 11:00 with a glass of pitarra, the local rough red that tastes like Beaujolais left in a barn. For the cautious, almost every dish can be ordered sin picante; chefs oblige without the raised eyebrows you’d get in Andalucía.

Sunday lunch is serious business. Restaurants open at 14:00 sharp, tables allocated on a first-come basis. Try the caldo de pimentón, a clear broth poured over bread and a soft-boiled egg; it costs €3.50 and arrives within three minutes, the kitchen’s way of buying time while the wood-fired grill heats. Main courses revolve around kid goat or Ibérico pork; both are sold by weight, so a quarter-kilo of secreto (the marbled shoulder flap) easily feeds two. Pudding is either torta del Casar cheese or pochas—white beans stewed with clams—depending on whether you prefer sweet or savoury; there is no middle ground.

When the Clouds Sit on the Roofs

Come November, the village slips into a slower gear. Mornings start at 12 °C inside the houses—stone walls 80 cm thick take days to warm—so locals dress as if for a British autumn even when the plaza thermometer shows 18 °C. Chestnut producers set up roadside braziers, selling paper cones of roasted nuts for €2; eat them immediately, peeled while still too hot to hold. By January night-time temperatures can drop to –3 °C, and the waterfall freezes into chandeliers of green ice. Access is rarely blocked, but the CM510 from the A5 carries a yellow "snow chains advisable" sign from kilometre 37 onwards. If the forecast mentions cierzo, the freezing north wind that barrels down the Tietar valley, fill the petrol tank; the Repsol at Losar de la Vera is the last for 40 km.

Spring brings the return of the storks. Two pairs nest on the church tower, their clacking beaks audible inside the nave during quiet moments. Wild cherry blossoms along the lane to the cemetery; locals collect the fruit in June, then macerate it in aguardiente for a liqueur that tastes like marzipan and costs €5 a bottle from kitchen doorways. May is arguably the kindest month: daylight until 21:30, midday highs of 25 °C, and the first outdoor supper tables appearing under the plane trees. Accommodation prices remain 30% below August; the three-bedroom house with roof terrace opposite the town hall rents for €90 a night, minimum stay two nights, owner’s WhatsApp reply within ten minutes.

Paper Maps Still Matter

Practicalities are simple, but inflexible. There is no cash machine; the nearest sits 9 km away beside the N110 in Madrigal de la Vera, and it charges €2 per withdrawal. Shops close from 14:00 to 17:30; on Sunday everything except the bar and the church is shuttered. Mobile coverage is patchy inside stone houses—step into the street if you need to summon a taxi. The regional bus from Madrid’s Estación Sur takes three hours and terminates at Jarandilla de la Vera; from there a pre-booked taxi covers the final 12 km for €18. Driving is quicker—2 h 15 min from the M40 once you clear the Friday-afternoon crawl at Talavera de la Reina—but remember the London-style congestion charge for central Madrid if your route clips the M30.

Leave room in the suitcase for a 250 g tin of pimentón dulce; airport security consider it a powder, so pack it in hold luggage unless you fancy explaining paprika to a bored customs officer. Better still, buy two: one for the kitchen, one for the shed. Sprinkled over charcoal, it turns a standard British barbecue into something that smells, briefly, like a village street at dawn, where wood smoke drifts through chestnut woods and the mountains still belong to hoofbeats rather than headlights.