Baños de Montemayor

The first clue is the steam rising from a stone grille beside the road. At dawn, when the Ambroz valley is still in shadow, the warm air hits the cold and the whole centre of Baños de Montemayor looks as though someone has left the kettle on. This is not morning mist: it is 43-degree mineral water that has been burbling up since before the Legions arrived, and the village still organises its day around it.

Why the Romans cared about a dead-end valley

Look at a map and the place makes no strategic sense. The A-66 motorway now swings past twenty minutes below the village, but the old Roman silver highway, the Vía de la Plata, climbed straight through the pass at 750m to reach the plateau. Legionaries needed somewhere to soak aching feet; two millennia later the baths are doing the same job for Brits who have spent eight hours driving south from Santander. The stone doorway labelled “Termas Romanas” is no grand archaeological park—just two rectangular pools under a modern shed roof—but the water smells faintly of iron and the temperature is perfect after a day on the mountain paths that fan out above the chestnut woods. Entry is €7 for 90 minutes, cash only, and weekday mornings are almost empty. Spanish coach parties arrive after twelve; aim to be out by then.

A village scaled to calves, not calves’ liver

Everything in Baños is built on a 15-degree slope, so calves get a workout. The main street, Calle Real, runs for 400m and that is essentially it: stone houses with wooden balconies, a single bakery that sells out of empanadillas by 10 a.m., and a parish church whose bell tolls the quarter-hour whether anyone is listening or not. There is no picturesque plaza mayor with umbrellaed terraces; instead, neighbours pull plastic chairs onto the narrow pavement and drink coffee from proper cups brought out by the bar owner. This is the sort of detail that tells you tourism is still optional here.

Walk uphill past the 16th-century chapel and you reach the chestnut-lined corniche path. Thirty minutes later the village is a toy-town below and the only sound is beech mast crunching underfoot. The loop to the abandoned hamlet of San Juan is 7km with 300m of ascent—moderate by British hill-walking standards, but carry water; the cafés do not reopen until 5 p.m. In late October the forest turns copper and locals spend weekends collecting chestnuts that reappear as purée in the autumn pudding called ponche de castañas—order it at Bar Goya before they run out.

When to come and when to stay away

Spring and early autumn are the sweet spots. April brings wild rosemary and 22-degree afternoons; you can sit outside at midday without burning and the night temperature drops enough to make the thermal water feel like a radiator. October is chestnut and mushroom month, with set-menu lunches at €12 that start with judiones, butter-bean stew the size of conkers. July and August are hotter than most of Extremadura because the altitude traps the heat; daytime peaks of 38°C send visitors scurrying into the baths, but the village accommodation fills with Spanish families and the single public car park overflows by 11 a.m. Winter is surprisingly sharp—night frosts are common and the pools’ outdoor deck can be rimed with ice—yet that is when the water feels best. Just do not expect nightlife: even on a Saturday the bars close by 22:30 and the only light comes from the illuminated church tower.

Eating without the Instagram filter

There are no fusion restaurants, no tasting menus, and absolutely no sea bass ceviche. What you get is mountain fuel: migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and scraps of chorizo—served in a clay dish big enough for two; cabrito (kid goat) stew that tastes faintly of wild thyme; and quesaílla, a soft goat cheese that spreads like room-temperature Philadelphia. Locals breakfast on patatera, a spreadable chorizo-and-potato sausage that looks like pâté and works surprisingly well on toasted baguette. Vegetarians can assemble a decent meal from roasted piquillo peppers, local honey and the almond biscuits called perrunillas, but do not expect soya lattes—coffee comes black or with condensed milk, full stop. House wine is from the nearby Tierra de Barros and costs €2.50 a glass; it tastes better if you remember the altitude is the same as parts of the Peak District.

Practical stuff no one puts on the postcard

Getting here: The village sits 45 minutes north of Cáceres on the EX-205. If the central car parks are full, follow signs to “Piscina Municipal” for a free field behind the sports centre. There is one bus a day from Cáceres (departs 14:00, returns 07:00), but no Sunday service—hire a car or be prepared to wait.

Sleeping: Options range from the 19th-century Gran Hotel Balneario—with its own private thermal pool, doubles from €85—to three-bedroom village houses on Airbnb for €60. August books up early; outside peak season you can turn up and knock on doors with “se alquila” signs.

Language: English is rarely spoken. Learn three phrases—“¿Hay thermas libres?” (are there baths free?), “sin picante” (not spicy), “la cuenta, por favor” (the bill)—and you will be met with exaggerated courtesy.

Cash: The bath ticket machine, the bakery and several bars do not accept cards. The nearest ATM is inside the pharmacy; it charges €1.50 and occasionally runs out of notes on Sunday evening.

Half a day is enough—unless you slow down

You could tick Baños de Montemayor in three hours: dip in the Roman pool, stroll the chestnut loop, eat migas, leave. Many ferry-weary Brits do exactly that, reaching Santander refreshed but none the wiser. The alternative is to treat the place as a lesson in scaled-down living. Check in, switch off your data, and let the day be measured by church bells and the smell of oak smoke from kitchen chimneys. The water will still be hot tomorrow, and the mountain will still be there when you finally decide to walk it.