Hervás

The first thing that strikes visitors to Hervás is the altitude. At 688 metres above the Ambroz Valley, this mountain village catches breezes that never reach the scorched plains of lower Extremadura. Even in August, when Seville swelters at 45°C, Hervás keeps its cool—though only just. The difference is palpable enough that Madrilenians drive two-and-a-half hours west for relief, filling the natural swimming pools before eleven o'clock and dozing through the siesta beneath sweet-chestnut shade.

Orientation is simple: the river curves like a moat below the historic core, the modern town spreads south on the flats, and the road to Béjar corkscrews north into the Sierra. Park on the perimeter; the medieval lanes were designed for mules, not hatchbacks. From the free car park beside the Ambroz it is a three-minute uphill walk to Calle Braulio Navas, the pedestrian spine where the tourist office hands out maps reluctantly, as if to admit the place is too small to get lost in.

Jewish footprints and chestnut beams

The barrio judío tumbles down the northern slope in a jumble of timber and adobe. Official literature calls it the best-preserved Jewish quarter in Spain, a claim that invites scepticism until you notice the carpentry: every balcony wears a different pattern of hand-hewn brackets, the oak darkened by five centuries of smoke. Alleyways twist and shrink—Calle Rabilero is barely shoulder-wide—then suddenly open onto pocket plazas where washing flaps above geraniums. The synagogue disappeared in 1492, yet the street that bore its name still ends in a blank wall, as though the building stepped politely out of history.

Climbing towards the sixteenth-century church of Santa María de Aguas Vivas requires calves of steel. The tower appears long before you reach the door, commanding views across red-tiled roofs to cherry orchards that explode into white foam each March. Inside, gothic ribs merge with baroque gold leaf; outside, the plaza offers the only flat bench in the quarter, a strategic pause for runners who tackle the annual half-marathon in October. From here stone steps descend to the Romanesque bridge, rebuilt so many times that only the footings remain original. Stand mid-span at dusk and the old town glows amber, reflected in water low enough to reveal trout holding station against the current.

Paths, pools and pistes

Walkers have two worlds to pick from. Down-valley the Vía Verde follows a disused railway for 8.5 km to the spa village of Baños de Montemayor, an easy amble past walnut groves and disused stations now converted into cafés. Uphill, way-marked trails enter the Sierra de Béjar, climbing through sweet-chestnut woods to the ski resort of La Covatilla, thirty minutes away by car. Snow cover is reliable only in February, but the lifts spin until Easter and the cafeteria sells surprisingly decent cortados. In summer the same road provides access to the natural pools—deep, tea-coloured basins where the Ambroz has been dammed to create free, lifeguarded swimming. Arrive late and you'll share the water with hundreds of day-trippers; arrive early and the only sound is the splash of fish rising to hawthorn flies.

Cyclists can rent hybrids in the square for €18 a day and follow the Vía Verde westwards, or test legs on the road to Plasencia that crests at Puerto de Honduras (1,040 m). The gradient reaches ten per cent in places—sufficient excuse to stop and photograph the olive terraces that quilt the lower slopes, each tree pruned into a goblet shape that would please a Bordeaux vigneron.

Smoke, paprika and pork fat

Extremaduran cooking is built on winter survival: paprika, pork and whatever the river yields. In Hervás the speciality is trucha a la extremeña—river trout stuffed with jamón and garlic, pan-fried until the skin crackles. A plate costs €12 at El Rincón de la Sierra, enough to make you overlook the Formica tables. Migas, fried breadcrumbs studded with grapes, appear at Sunday lunch and taste better than they sound, especially when the grapes burst against the smoked paprika that colours everything here. Vegetarians get zorongollo, a salad of roasted peppers and tomatoes sharpened with sherry vinegar; vegans should probably keep walking.

Cherry season brings its own menu. From late March the valley's million trees bloom in sequence, starting at lower altitude and creeping uphill for three weeks. Local kitchens respond with picotas—dark, sweet cherries served macerated in local orujo, a firewater that tastes of almonds and regret. The Cherry Blossom Festival (exact dates vary; check Facebook) draws coach parties from Madrid; hotel prices spike, but orchard walks remain free if you avoid the official car parks.

When the fiesta starts

November, not summer, is the loudest month. Otoño Mágico fills weekends with chestnut-roasting, folk concerts and night-time tours by lamplight. Temperatures drop to 8°C after dark—bring a fleece. San Andrés at month's end is more neighbourhood knees-up: townsfolk haul new wine down the main street in wooden carts, doling out free churros to anyone who can prove they brought a glass. July's Conversos weekend revives Sephardic music; concerts echo off stone walls until well after midnight, yet the crowd skews local and accommodation stays reasonable.

Semana Santa is understated but photogenic. Nazarenos in purple robes squeeze through the Jewish quarter's alleys, incense drifting into balconies where elderly women mutter responses. Visitors are welcome; seats are not provided, so follow the procession for a hundred metres, duck into a bar for caña and tortilla, then re-emerge further down the route—Spanish tapas-bar theology at its finest.

The practical grind

Getting here without a car means flying to Madrid or Lisbon, then a bus to Plasencia and a second to Hervás. Total journey time from Heathrow: about six hours, including a coffee in Plasencia's Plaza Mayor while you wait for the connection. Drivers should note the final 30 km from the A-66 are winding; allow extra time if you value your clutch.

Accommodation divides neatly between stone cottages in the old town and modern hostels on the flat. Casa de los Hornos de San Pedro offers beams, Wi-Fi and breakfast for €70 double; book early for cherry season. Budget travellers can bunk in the Xarandas youth hostel (€18 dorm) opposite the pools—handy for a dawn swim before checkout.

What the brochures omit is the decay. Some timber houses are propped with scaffolding; others have slipped so far that roofs sag like tired horses. The population has fallen by a quarter since 1980, and shuttered shops line side streets. Yet the place refuses to become a museum. Washing still hangs from wrought-iron rails, teenagers career downhill on scooters, and the evening paseo follows the same circuit grandparents walked in Franco's time. Hervás may not dazzle, but it breathes—and for travellers seeking altitude without alpine prices, that is recommendation enough.