Villanueva de la Sierra

The morning silence breaks not with church bells but with the low rumble of a John Deere crawling past the bakery. By half past eight, the tractor's gone and the only sound left is the click of walking sticks from two elderly men shuffling towards the bar for their cortado. This is Villanueva de la Sierra on a Tuesday in March: population 476, altitude 524 metres, and zero postcards for sale.

Granite, Oak and the Smell of Woodsmoke

Houses here wear the same stone they were hewn from. Granite walls two feet thick keep bedrooms cool in July and warm in January; the mortar between them has been patched by the same family names for three centuries. Shutters are painted ox-blood red or municipal green, colours that look almost aggressive against the pale stone until the sun softens them at dusk. Rooflines sag like well-worn saddles, and every third chimney puffs out a ribbon of sweet chestnut smoke that drifts across the narrow lanes.

The village sits cupped in a fold of the Sierra de Gata, high enough that the air carries a pinch of altitude even in summer. Oaks dominate the surrounding slopes—holm and cork on the open dehesas, sessile and gall in the cooler gullies. Come October the chestnut orchards below the cemetery turn into a rustling carpet of spiny green balls; locals fill plastic crates and sell them for two euros a kilo from the boots of battered Seats. Between the trees, stone walls built during the post-war wheat campaigns still zig-zag uphill, useless now except as perches for stonechats.

A Twenty-Minute Historical Circuit

Start at the parish church of La Asunción. The building is 16th-century pragmatic: thick tower, slit windows, a single nave that feels more barn than basilica. Inside, the retablo is folk-Baroque, gold paint flaking off pine to reveal cheaper timber beneath. The priest only appears on alternate Sundays; the rest of the time the door stays locked, so check the noticeboard for the mobile number scribbled in biro if you want a look-in.

From the church door, walk downhill past the pink-washed bakery (opens 06:30, closes 13:00, bread €1.20) and turn right under the stone arcade. Three arches remain of what used to be the cattle market; now they frame a row of wheelie bins and a resident cat called Judas. Continue to the tiny Plaza de España—more a widening of the road than a square—where the ayuntamiento flies a flag that has faded from crimson to coral. The entire loop takes twenty unhurried minutes; linger longer and someone will ask if you're lost.

Tracks that Start with a Gate and a Piece of String

Maps exist, but they lie about width. The footpaths marked on the 1:25,000 sheet as "senderos locales" begin at metal gates tied shut with baling twine. Once you duck under, you're in dehesa country: widely spaced oaks, grass cropped tight by sheep, and the smell of wild thyme crushed underfoot. Within fifteen minutes the village shrinks to a pale smudge between hills; the only traffic is a booted eagle circling overhead.

Two waymarked routes start from the upper cemetery. The shorter climbs 250 m to the Peña de las Cruces, a granite outcrop where someone has wedged a dozen rusted crosses into crevices. The reward is a 270-degree sweep: the village roofs below, the Alagón valley to the north, and on very clear days the distant shimmer of the Sierra de Béjar still wearing a streak of April snow. Allow ninety minutes there and back, plus another twenty to pick the thorns out of your socks.

The longer circuit, five hours and 12 km, drops into the Arroyo de los Pájaros, follows the watercourse through dense chestnut, then climbs to an abandoned village called El Baldío. Roofs have collapsed, but the stone bread oven still stands and someone has planted petunias in the altar of the ruined chapel. Take water—none on route—and don't rely on phone signal after the second ford.

What Passes for a Menu

There are two places to eat. Bar La Sierra opens onto the arcade and serves whatever María has decided to cook that morning. Thursday is cocido extremeño, a pork-and-chickpea stew thick enough to hold a spoon upright; Friday, trout from the Alagón with garlic and jamón; Saturday, nothing at all because María drives to Cáceres to see her grandchildren. A plate costs €9, wine from the plastic jug is €1.50, and payment is cash only—María's card reader died in 2019.

Across the square, Casa Paco looks shut even when it's open. Push the door and you'll find three tables, a television muttering horse-racing, and Paco himself flipping pork cutlets. Order the plato de los montes: loin, chorizo, morcilla and a fried egg on fried bread, all for €11. Ask for salad and Paco will look offended; vegetables arrive anyway, a plate of chopped tomato dressed with olive oil pressed from his own groves last December. Pudding is whatever fruit is going soft in the bowl—persimmons in late autumn, cherries in June.

When the Village Remembers It's Spanish

August 15 brings the fiesta mayor. The population quadruples as emigrants return from Madrid, Barcelona and Geneva. A sound system appears in the square, playing 90s Eurodance until the Guardia Civil turn up at 03:00 to enforce the noise ordinance. Teenagers who speak Swiss-German among themselves dance queuing-system dances their cousins taught them in Basel. The next morning, a procession winds behind the brass band to the church; women carry sunflowers instead of candles because the priest has complained about wax on the granite steps.

November's chestnut fair is gentler. Locals roast nuts in perforated drums over open fires and hand them out in paper cones. There's mistela (sweet fortified wine) brewed in a bathtub and judged by three elderly men who have been competitors since 1978. The only foreigners are a couple from Gloucestershire who bought a ruin in 2004 and still haven't installed windows; they come down from the hills wearing identical Barbour jackets and ask where they can buy marmite. Answer: nowhere.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving Again

The nearest airport is Madrid, two-and-a-half hours by hire car. From the M40 take the A-5 towards Portugal, peel off at Navalmoral, then snake north on the EX-204 through hazelnut terraces and granite crags. Public transport means a morning bus from Cáceres that arrives at 14:15 and leaves again at 14:30—miss it and you're sleeping under the oaks.

Accommodation is scarce. The village itself has two rental houses: Casa Rural El Limonero (sleeps six, pool, €201 a night, minimum two nights) and a smaller flat on the main square booked through the bakery owner. Otherwise stay 35 km away in Plasencia where the Parador occupies a 15th-century convent and charges €130 for a room with cloister views. Petrol stations close at 20:00; fill up in Coria if you're arriving late.

The Honest Verdict

Villanueva de la Sierra will not change your life. It offers no souvenir shops, no Michelin stars, no sunrise yoga on panoramic decks. What it does offer is the sound of your own footsteps echoing off stone, the smell of oak smoke on a cold evening, and a bar where the television is turned down so the regulars can hear the swallows nesting in the eaves. Come if you want to remember how quiet the world can be, leave before you start resenting the tractor that wakes you at dawn.