Robledillo de Gata

A Village You Can Walk in Fifteen Minutes—But Won’t

The first thing that strikes you is the sound of water. Even before you see the chestnut balconies almost kissing overhead, you hear a stream rushing somewhere below the slate roofs. Robledillo de Gata has 86 permanent souls, two resident storks and no traffic lights. At 700 m above sea level it sits just high enough for the summer heat to lose its edge after sundown, yet low enough for holm oaks and sweet chestnuts to share the same slope. Morning air comes cool and resinous; by 11 a.m. the stone walls begin to radiate stored warmth and the village smells of woodsmoke, even in June.

Stone, Slate and the Smell of Chestnut Wood

Every house is a geology lesson. Granite blocks form the ground floor, slate splits into the upper walls, and hand-carved chestnut props up the balconies. Tilt your head back and you’ll spot the year 1737 chiselled beneath a window, but no grand palace breaks the rhythm—just three-storey cottages that grew when families grew. The streets are barely shoulder-wide; locals greet you with “buenos días” and then carry on heaving logs into ground-floor cellars. Tourism is tolerated rather than courted: the nearest souvenir is twenty minutes away in Gata, and that’s a packet of locally made goat’s-milk soap.

Start at the upper fountain, Fuente del Caño, where the water is so soft that shampoo foams like crazy. From here the village tumbles down one main lane, Calle Real. Five minutes later you’re at the lower fountain, Fuente de Abajo, which irrigates a pocket-sized vegetable patch—leeks, cabbages and a rogue artichoke. Between the two is the entire settlement, so instead of marching, wander sideways into the pasadizos—tunnel alleys that cut under houses—emerging onto microscopic plazas where washing flaps like prayer flags.

The parish church has no tower, just a stone belfry that looks bolted on as an afterthought. Push the door (it’s usually unlocked) and the interior is refreshingly bare: no gold leaf, only whitewash, a single baroque altar and pews worn smooth by centuries of Sunday coats. Light a candle if you like; the box asks for €1 but accepts 50 c.

Walking Out: Oak, Heather and a Surprise View

Robledillo is the trailhead, not the terminus. A signed footpath, the PR-CC 235, wriggles east through sweet-chestnut coppice towards the even tinier hamlet of El Soto de Gata. The gradient is gentle, the surface a forgiving mix of leaf mould and granite grit; allow 45 minutes each way. Mid-route you pass a charcoal burner’s platform, a blackened circle the size of a dining table where wood was slowly cooked into fuel a century ago. Spring brings purple heather and the distant clang of goat bells; October smells of fungus and drifting bonfire smoke. Take a light jacket—even in July the shade is cool, and the wind across the 1,200 m ridge behind the village can drop the temperature ten degrees.

If you fancy a longer loop, continue past El Soto to the Roman bridge at La Cuerda, a further 3 km. The bridge is single-track, unmortared and still driven over byfarm tractors; stand aside. Total circuit from Robledillo: 11 km, three hours, zero entrance fees.

What to Eat When There’s Only One Bar

The social centre is Bar La Sociedad, open 07:00–15:00 and 18:00–22:00, closed Tuesdays. Inside are three tables, a ceiling fan from 1978 and a telly that’s permanently muted. Order migas extremeñas—breadcrumbs fried in olive oil with garlic and diced bacon—and a coffee for €4.50. The dish arrives in a mound, steaming like Christmas stuffing; locals drape it with grapes from the bar counter. Weekend mornings mean churros, but when the batter runs out the steel shutter clatters down, usually by 10:30. Vegetarians can ask for patatas revolconas without the pork scratchings; the kitchen will oblige, but you’ll still get the smoky paprika.

There is no restaurant, no tasting menu, no craft beer. House red comes from a cooperative in neighbouring Villamiel and costs €2.50 a glass—light enough for lunch, honest enough for supper. If you need variety, drive 20 minutes to Gata where Mesón Francisco grills kid goat over holm-oak embers.

When to Come—and When to Stay Away

April–May and mid-September to mid-October are goldilocks months: 22 °C by day, 10 °C at night, wildflowers or autumn colour depending on the calendar. Accommodation is limited to three self-catering cottages booked through the Sierra de Gata tourist office; expect stone floors, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that falters when the wind is in the north. Weekend rates hover round €90 a night for two; mid-week drops to €65. Interiors are atmospheric but dim—pack a torch for midnight stair descents.

August is doable only if you start walking at dawn. By 13:00 the slate walls turn into storage radiators and the only shade is inside the church. December and January bring sharp frosts; the village road is gritted but the approach from the A-66 can ice over. Carry snow chains if a northerly front is forecast—Extremadura does not squander money on ploughs.

Getting There, Cash and Other Boring Essentials

Fly to Madrid (3 h drive) or Salamanca (1 h 45 min). Ryanair’s Stansted–Salamanca service runs twice weekly in summer; outside those days Madrid is simpler. A car is non-negotiable—there are two buses a week from Coria, timed for pensioners, not planes. Hire cars disappear at Salamanca airport in high season; reserve early and refuse the “premium” sat-nav; your phone works better.

The village has no cash machine and Bar La Sociedad prefers notes to cards. The nearest ATM is a 20-minute twisty drive to Gata; withdraw before you ascend. The tiny grocer opens 09:00–14:00, sells tinned tuna, tinned tomatoes and little else—stock up in Coria on the way through. Mobile coverage is patchy: Vodafone picks up outside the church; EE users need to stand on the picnic table by the lower fountain.

The Honest Verdict

Robledillo de Gata will not keep you busy for a week. Half a day poking around the alleys, two hours on the trail, a beer under the balcony where the swallows nest—that’s the standard itinerary. What it does offer is the antidote to Spain’s costas: a place where houses still inherit their names, where the evening soundtrack is goat bells and the evening entertainment is watching light drain from the slate until the Milky Way appears. Come for the quiet, stay for the water’s murmur, leave before you start counting the inhabitants by name.