Gata

The morning bus from Cáceres wheezes to a stop beside Gata’s stone water trough, and the temperature drops a good three degrees. At 637 metres, this is the Sierra de Gata’s high point in every sense: the air thins, granite doorways narrow, and even the swallows seem to fly lower. British visitors fresh from Seville’s heat often reach for a jumper they thought they’d never need.

Gata’s builders worked with what the mountain gave them. Every roof is layered slate, thick as shortbread, pinned down by more slate. Walls alternate between honey-coloured granite and muddy-purple shale; the effect is less chocolate-box, more geological survey. Walk slowly and you’ll spot 1698 chiselled above a stable door, or a re-used Roman milestone jammed sideways into a cottage wall. The whole old quarter is listed, so no aluminium patio doors or PVC conservatories spoil the rhythm—just the occasional satellite dish clinging like a limpet.

Start at the Torre del Homenaje, the castle’s last upright piece. Climb the wedge of steps beside it and you’re on the village’s roof ridge: slate to the left, slate to the right, and the valley dropping away in three directions. From here the Árrago River looks like a dropped ribbon; buzzards ride thermals at eye level. The church bell strikes the hour and slate echoes it back, a dry clack that travels.

Downhill, Calle San Pedro tunnels between houses so tight you can touch both walls. Iron balconies sag under geraniums; every window has wooden shutters the colour of ox-blood. Halfway along, the Palacio de los Marqueses de Torreorgaz displays a coat of arms chipped by 500 winters. You can’t go in—the family still uses the upstairs rooms—but the doorway alone is wider than most London flats. Further on, the Convento de San Miguel hides a pocket-sized cloister where swallows nest in the vaulting. Ring the bell and a nun may sell you a packet of almond biscuits for €2; silence is part of the price.

Food is mountain-plain. At Bar La Torre the menu is written on a slate and changes with the weather. Order migas—fried breadcrumbs with pancetta and grapes—plus a glass of local pitarra, a rough country wine that tastes of damsons and tin. Lunch for two lands under €20 if you avoid the jamón ibérico. Vegetarians get roasted piquillo peppers stuffed with goat’s cheese; vegans are offered tortilla española without the egg, which is basically fried potatoes—Extremadura hasn’t quite caught up.

Afternoons are for walking off the carbs. A 45-minute loop, the Ruta de los Molinos, follows the arroyo past four ruined watermills. The path can be slick with fallen chestnut leaves; after rain you’ll need tread. In May the valley smells of wild thyme and the mills are framed by yellow broom; by September the stream is a trickle and lizards own the stones. Serious hikers can keep going to the Portuguese border along the GR-11, but carry water—bars don’t reappear for 18 km.

Come 6 pm the village performs its daily miracle: temperature inversion. Warm air from the valley rises; café tables migrate into the street. Order a caña and you’ll hear more Galician than English—Gata’s visitors are mostly Spanish weekenders from Madrid. Overnight options are thin. Casa Rural La Vera has three slate-roofed apartments around a plunge pool; book early for May blossom or October chestnut season. Otherwise base yourself in nearby Villanueva de la Vera and drive up the EX-204, a road that coils like a dropped Slinky.

Winter brings a different village. At 637 metres Gata catches every Atlantic front; slate roofs glitter with frost and the smell of wood-smoke drifts from chimneys. The baker sells hot torrijas—Spanish bread-and-butter pudding—at 8 am sharp. Between December and February daylight is rationed to six good hours, but the reward is silence broken only by church bells and the occasional donkey. Snow is rare; ice is not, so pack sensible soles. Summer, by contrast, hits 36 °C by midday. Locals seal shutters at noon and re-emerge after 5; plan hikes for dawn or risk melting into the granite.

Festivals bookend the year. On Christmas Eve Los Escobazos sees villagers swing flaming broom bundles through the streets—think Lewes Bonfire but with more beard-singeing. Late June brings the fiesta of San Pedro: processions, brass bands, and a temporary bar in the bullring serving €1 cañas. August’s Cultural Week is tamer—craft stalls, folk concerts, Saturday night fireworks that rattle slate tiles like hail.

Getting here without a car requires patience. Fly to Madrid, AVE train to Cáceres (3 h from Atocha), then ALSA bus 668 to Gata (2 h, €11). The last bus leaves Cáceres at 19:00; miss it and you’re in for a €90 taxi. Hire cars from Madrid airport take the A-5 west, turning off at Navalmoral de la Mata onto the EX-118—toll-free, but the final 30 km twist like a sailor’s knot. Fill the tank before the mountains; petrol stations close on Sundays.

Leave the village with what you came for: lungs full of cool air, shoes dusty from slate paths, the church clock still ticking in your ears. Gata doesn’t shout; it simply lets the altitude speak.