Santibáñez el Alto

At 650 metres above sea level, Santibáñez el Alto starts where the road decides climbing is easier than turning. The village hangs off the western flank of the Sierra de Gata, its stone houses staggered down a ridge like uneven steps. From the upper lane you look south-west across cork oak and sweet-chestnut folds that fade into Portugal; north-east, the land drops sharply towards the Alagón valley and, on a clear evening, the Gredos massif prints a jagged silhouette against the sky.

The altitude matters. Even in late May the night air carries a nip, and July afternoons top out at 30 °C rather than the 40 °C that fries the plains below. Winters can bring a dusting of snow, enough to make the single access road slippery for a morning but rarely enough to close it. If you arrive between December and February, pack treaded shoes and expect the occasional power cut—tree branches weighed down by wet snow love a good cable.

Stone, slate and the sound of boots on granite

No one strolls here; they climb or they descend. The medieval core is a cascade of granite setts, narrow enough to graze elbows on the blasoned doorways that belonged to merchants who once traded wool and chestnuts across the border. Houses are built from the same grey stone, roofed with dark slate that shines like wet metal after rain. Timber is chestnut—local, durable, and left unpainted so it silver-grey weathers to match the rock. The effect is monochrome but not dull: light changes quickly on the ridge, and the village shifts from pewter to honey between noon and dusk.

Start at the Plaza Mayor, really just a widening of the main street where the bar terraces spill onto cobbles. The ayuntamiento clock strikes quarters you can hear all over town because traffic is almost nil. From here every route is up or down. Head uphill past the old bread oven—now a tiny folk museum open on request (ask in the bar, they’ll phone the key-holder)—and you reach the Iglesia de San Benito. The church is fifteenth-century, retro-fitted with a Baroque tower whose bells still call the 200-odd remaining residents to mass on Sunday. Step inside for five minutes: the nave is cool, floor uneven, and someone has left a plastic jug of water and a sprig of rosemary beneath a plaster Virgin. More importantly, the atrium gives the best 180-degree wraparound view; bring wide-angle glass if you photograph.

Walking tracks that remember queens and smugglers

Santibáñez is a way-station on the Ruta de Isabel la Católica, a 70-kilometre medieval trail that once linked the Castilian plateau to Portuguese ports. The village section is way-marked with green-and-white flashes and needs no permit. A comfortable out-and-back begins opposite the cemetery gate: follow the stone water channel west for ninety minutes and you reach the abandoned hamlet of El Marco, its terraces now grazed by wild goats and the occasional Iberian pig. The path is clear but stony; trainers suffice outside midsummer, when the ground bakes to ankle-turning hardness.

If you fancy a circuit, continue from El Marco down to the river Alagón, cross the medieval pack-horse bridge, and climb back via Valdunciel. The loop is 14 km with 500 m of ascent; allow four hours and carry water—there is none en route. In October the chestnut woods smell of cider and damp bark, and locals appear at weekends with woven sacks to gather the crop. They are happy to share directions if you attempt school Spanish; few speak English, though the bar owner knows enough to warn “very steep, yes?” which is generally accurate.

Food that understands hunger

After walking you will be hungry, and Santibáñez delivers the mountain trilogy: meat, paprika, and anything that can be mashed with pork fat. The mesón on the plaza opens at 08:00 for coffee and churros, then shuts until 13:00—don’t arrive in between expecting toast. Midday menu del día runs to €12 and might start with patatas revolconas, a brick-red mash bound with garlic, sweet pimentón and nuggets of pork belly. Follow it with chuletón for two: a 1.2 kg beef rib cooked over holm-oak embers, served rare and wheeled to the table on a wooden board with nothing more than a jug of local pitarra wine, light enough to drink chilled even at lunch. Vegetarians get eggs—usually scrambled with wild mushrooms in season—or a tomato salad sharp enough to make you wince.

Evening eating is minimal. The same mesón reopens at 20:00 but will close early if no one appears; Spaniards here eat their big meal at two and sit in the plaza afterwards. If you need supplies, the mini-market on Calle Real stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and excellent honey from the Sierra. Bread arrives in a white van around 11:00; locals queue, tourists wonder why the shop smells of diesel.

Getting there, staying there

Fly to Madrid, pick up a hire car, and head west on the A-5 for two hours. Leave at exit 368 towards Plasencia, then follow the EX-205 to Robledillo de Gata and finally take the EX-387 for the last 12 km of hairpins. Petrol is 10 ¢ cheaper in Plasencia than the village’s single pump, so fill up before the climb. There is no railway; buses from Madrid stop at Baños de Montemayor, 22 km away, and a pre-booked taxi costs €30. Without wheels you are stranded—factor that into the budget.

Accommodation is limited to four small guesthouses, none with more than eight rooms. Expect stone walls, beams you will bang your head on, and bathrooms updated sometime after 2005. Two places offer small pools, unheated but welcome in July. Prices hover around €65 B&B; the smartest house, built into the old town wall, charges €95 and includes a terrace where swifts scythe the sky at dusk. Book ahead for May and October—weekenders from Cáceres snap up rooms for chestnut or mushroom weekends.

What can go wrong

The village is quiet, sometimes eerily so. August sees Spanish families return, quadrupling the headcount and filling the plaza with toddlers on scooters; if you crave silence, choose June or late September instead. Mobile coverage is patchy inside stone houses; WhatsApp works in the street, less so in bed. Wi-Fi exists but streams at 1990s patience—download films before you arrive. Finally, remember altitude equals darkness: carry a torch if you wander after 22:00; street lighting is ornamental and the cobbles are unforgiving.

Leave Santibáñez after breakfast and you will still catch the coast for lunch, but the village’s pull is the opposite of seaside urgency. Time is told by church bells, by wood smoke curling from chimneys at dusk, by the soft thud of chestnuts falling onto corrugated roofs. Come prepared for slopes, silence and the smell of paprika on cold air, and the high ridge will feel like somewhere Spain forgot to modernise—deliberately, and for the better.