Casas del Monte

The natural pool at Garganta Ancha opens for exactly eleven weeks each year. Turn up in mid-September and you'll find a chained gate, a dusty car park, and a hand-painted sign that simply says "Cerrado". Time it right—late June to early September—and the same spot buzzes with Extremaduran families who've driven up from Plasencia for the afternoon, cool boxes rattling in the boot.

Casas del Monte sits 598 m above sea level on the northern flank of the Valle del Ambroz, thirty minutes by car from the nearest city. Stone houses roofed with dark slate climb a gentle ridge; beyond the last street the land drops into sweet-chestnut plantations that smell of moss and damp bark after rain. The village population hovers around 775, roughly the same number of souls it held a century ago. There is no railway, no daily market, and—crucially—no supermarket. What there is instead is shade: deep, deciduous shade that drops the temperature by four degrees the moment you leave the road.

Morning: church, coffee, chestnut woods

The parish church of San Roque anchors the upper square. Built from the same granite as the cottages, it looks more like a solid village cousin than a house of God: small windows, thick walls, a bell that clangs the hour five minutes late. Step inside and the air smells of candle wax and the previous night's incense; the fresco over the altar was touched up in 1952 and has been fading steadily ever since. Visitors are welcome before 11 a.m.; afterwards the door is locked unless there's a funeral or a wedding.

Café-Bar Plaza, directly opposite, opens at seven for field workers and night-shift nurses from the Ambroz care home. Order a café con leche and they'll ask "¿Tostada?"—a wedge of village bread rubbed with tomato, drizzled with olive oil, and served with a paper packet of cured jamón that costs €2.50. Eat it at the counter if you want the gossip; the terrace is quieter but the coffee cools faster in the mountain air.

Once the caffeine lands, walk east along Calle de los Barreros. Within three minutes tarmac gives way to a stony track signed "Castañar de los Ríos". The path threads between allotments where elderly residents grow runner beans up twiggy wigwams, then enters the chestnut forest proper. October is the money month: leaves the colour of burnt sugar, husks splitting to reveal glossy nuts, and the soft thud of fruit falling on leaf litter. Locals appear with wicker baskets and rubber boots; they'll point out the best trees if you ask politely, but steer clear of anything marked with red paint—those belong to someone's cousin in Hervás.

Afternoon: water, or the absence of it

The swimming spot everyone talks about is actually two kilometres outside the village boundary. Drive, cycle, or follow the yellow-and-white waymarks on foot; whichever method you choose, the last 400 m are downhill on loose shale. What awaits is a dammed section of the Ambroz river: fifty metres long, banked by boulders the size of hatchbacks, and deep enough for a proper dive off the upstream rock. Spanish lifeguards whistle from noon till six; outside those hours you swim at your own risk and the water is startlingly cold even in July.

Weekends fill up with multi-generational picnics: grandparents under parasols, teenagers comparing TikToks, toddlers naked except for sun-cream. Arrive before eleven or after five if you want space to spread a towel. Bring plastic shoes—river pebbles are ankle-breakers—and don't count on phone signal; the gorge acts like a Faraday cage.

Miss the summer window and the alternative is a walk upstream to the smaller pozas, natural pots that hold water year-round. They're colder, shallower, and require a twenty-minute scramble over tree roots, but you'll probably have them to yourself except for the occasional wild-boar print in the mud.

Evening: food that tastes of altitude

Casas del Monte's restaurants fit on one hand. Mesón La Garganta, beside the pool, only opens when the lifeguards do; the rest of the year locals eat at home. Expect migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, paprika and scraps of bacon—followed by grilled goat kid that tastes closer to spring lamb than to anything you'd find in a curry. Portions are built for labourers; half-raciones are available if you ask before ordering.

If you prefer plant-based, you're limited to salads and the vegetable of the day, usually green beans stewed with potato and bay leaf. Perrunillas arrive with the coffee: crumbly short-bread biscuits flavoured with aniseed, easy on the Anglo palate and perfect for dunking. A three-course lunch with wine runs to €18–22; dinner menus are identical but €3 cheaper because bread isn't included.

Cherry season—late May through June—brings roadside honesty stalls. Paper bags of picota variety (the ones without stalks) sell for €2 a kilo; the farmer restocks at dusk and trusts you to leave the correct coins in an old biscuit tin. Try one straight from the tree and you'll understand why the Spanish complain that supermarket cherries taste of nothing.

Staying over: silence after ten

There are two small hotels, both converted village houses with four rooms apiece, and a handful of rural cottages rented by the night. Beds are firm, Wi-Fi is patchy, and the only evening entertainment is the sound of swifts slicing through the air above the chimney pots. Check whether your accommodation has internet if you need it; several British guests have left plaintive reviews headed "No signal for four days!"

Night-time temperatures drop sharply even in August—pack a fleece. If you visit between December and February, bring shoes with proper grip; slate pavements turn lethal when frost forms. Snow is rare but not unheard-of, and the one gritting lorry covers the entire valley, so queues form quickly.

When to cut your losses

Casas del Monte works best as a pause rather than a destination. Spend a morning walking the chestnut woods, swim or paddle after lunch, then drive on to Hervás for the Jewish quarter or to Plasencia for cathedral tourism and a proper supermarket. Treat it as the slow chapter in a faster book and the village repays you with river-cold water, biscuit-coloured leaves, and a silence so complete you can hear chestnuts hit the ground. Treat it as the whole story and you'll be looking at your watch by teatime, wondering when the plot begins.