Villasbuenas de Gata

The morning bus from Cáceres drops you twelve kilometres short. From there the road tilts upwards, cork oak giving way to sweet chestnut, until granite houses appear between the trunks like stone bookmarks jammed into the hillside. At 429 metres above sea level, Villasbuenas de Gata sits high enough for the air to feel thinner, yet low enough for the sun to still burn the back of your neck in April. The village sign reads 379 inhabitants; locals say the number swells by three when the baker’s daughter comes home from university and shrinks by five every January when the cold sends pensioners to stay with children in Madrid.

Granite, Gravity and a Church that Isn’t Medieval

British feet instinctively expect a Moorish arch or a Roman wall the moment Spanish place-names appear on road signs. Villasbuenas offers something quieter: an early-twentieth-century parish church, Iglesia de la Asunción, its bell tower patched with lichen the colour of oxidised copper. Step inside and the nave smells of candle wax and chestnut wood rather than incense age. No audio guides, no €7 tickets, just a laminated sheet by the door explaining—only in Spanish—why the altarpiece was rebuilt after lightning struck in 1936. Spend five minutes here and you will have outlasted most weekend visitors.

The same sheet recommends a clockwise loop through the oldest lanes. Follow it and you pass houses whose granite blocks were split on site, the tool-marks still visible like coarse braille. Balconies the width of a single Wellington boot jut out overhead, iron railings painted the green of a London tube seat circa 1978. An hour is enough to cover every street, including the detour to peek into a courtyard where a chestnut tree has pushed its roots under the flagstones and lifted them like a slow-motion earthquake. The village is small, but the gradients are not; what the tourist office calls “a gentle stroll” involves thigh-burning ramps that would have Health & Safety reaching for warning signs back home.

Walking Tracks that Start Where the Tarmac Ends

Leave the last streetlamp behind and three footpaths peel off into the Sierra de Gata. The most straightforward follows an old mule trail towards the neighbouring hamlet of Robledillo, 5.5 km away. The gradient is civilised—about 150 m of ascent—but the surface is ankle-turning granite grit peppered with chestnut shells. In October the path looks like someone has scattered burnt paprika across the track. Mid-May brings wild peonies and the distant clank of cowbells. There is no café at the far end, so pack water and something to eat; the only bar in Robledillo opens randomly and the owner regards smartphones with the suspicion of a man who has seen too many TripAdvisor reviews.

A stiffer option climbs east to the ruins of the Castillo de Trevejo, perched at 850 m. Allow three hours return and carry a jacket—temperatures can drop ten degrees in twenty minutes when cloud drags across the ridge. The castle itself is a hollowed-out shell, but the views stretch south to the Portuguese border, a corrugated line of blue hills that might remind Devonians of Dartmoor in a drought year. Vodafone signal dies halfway up; download an offline map before you set off.

Roast Pig, Goat Cheese and the €12 Menu Mystery

Food here is calibrated to people who have spent the morning swinging a hoe rather than a selfie stick. Lunch is served at 14:30 sharp; arrive at 15:15 and the kitchen is mopping the floor. Cantina Silvestre, the only restaurant with an online footprint, offers a three-course menú del día for €12. Expect a bowl of hearty soup thick with pasta shells, followed by grilled pork shoulder or trout that was swimming the night before. Vegetarians get an omelette the size of a steering wheel. Pudding is usually arroz con leche, cinnamon-dusted and served at room temperature—think rice pudding left to contemplate life on a Spanish windowsill.

Those self-catering should stop at the Saturday farmers’ market in Gata, 15 km away. A half-cured Torta del Casar costs around €8 and tastes like an earthy Brie that has been to the gym. Buy it on day one and it will be spoonably ripe by the time you leave. The village grocer—open 09:00-14:00, 17:00-20:30 except Sunday—stocks local chorizo at €4 a loop; the label simply reads “del pueblo” and the ingredient list is shorter than this sentence.

When the Village Closes, the Sky Opens

Night-time entertainment is limited to the clack of dominoes in the single bar and, if you time it right, a choir practice echoing from the church. Light pollution is negligible; step beyond the last street lamp and the Milky Way appears like someone has smudged chalk across navy felt. August brings the Perseids; locals drag plastic chairs onto the football pitch and watch meteors scratch white lines above the chestnut canopy. Bring a blanket—the thermometer may read 28 °C at dusk but the altitude lets dew form within an hour.

Winter reverses the deal. January highs struggle past 9 °C and the granite houses bleed heat. Many casas rurales rely on wood-burners; the owner delivers a wheelbarrow of oak at €5 a load and expects you to sweep your own ash. Snow is rare but frost glues the cobbles together until midday. If the forecast drops below zero, fill the car in Gata—petrol stations here close when pipes freeze.

Getting There, Getting Cash, Getting Stuck

No UK airline flies directly to the region; most routes run via Madrid, then a two-hour train to Cáceres and another hour by car. Hire something with decent ground clearance—the final 6 km snakes over a pass where the road shrinks to single-track and the stone parapet has dents shaped like Spanish number plates. Public transport exists on weekdays: a 07:30 bus from Cáceres reaches the turn-off at 09:05, but the connecting village taxi must be booked a day ahead and costs €20. Miss the link and you are walking uphill with your suitcase.

Cards are accepted at the hotel reception; everywhere else prefers cash. The nearest ATM is back down the mountain in Gata, so withdraw before you climb. Phone signal on O2 and Vodafone flickers in the upper lanes; EE fares slightly better. Download offline maps, then embrace the temporary disconnection—there are worse places to be off-grid than a granite balcony scented by woodsmoke and chestnut blossom.

Leave before the August fiestas if you value sleep. For three days the village quadruples in size, brass bands march at 02:00 and the football field becomes a neon-fairground that sells €1 shots of aniseed liquor. Come in late September instead, when the chestnut harvest begins and the air smells like roasted sweetness even at dawn. The roads are empty, the menú del día still costs €12, and the only crowds are swallows lining up on the church roof before their flight south.