Villar del Pedroso

The road climbs past granite outcrops and cork-oak trunks scarred by decades of pig foraging. At 700 metres, Villar del Pedroso appears suddenly—a cluster of stone roofs balanced on a ridge, with the bell tower of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción poking above the treeline like a ships mast. The air smells of woodsmoke and wild thyme; the temperature drops three degrees from the valley floor below. This is Extremadura's high country, where even August afternoons demand a jumper once the sun slips behind the sierra.

A village that forgot to modernise (mostly)

Five hundred souls live here, plus a fluctuating population of Iberian pigs that fatten on the acorns of surrounding dehesa. Mobile data collapses to 3G within minutes of the plaza, and the lone cash machine beside the bakery works only when the wind blows from the south-west. Locals still call the weekly delivery van "el súper" and greet it like visiting royalty. British visitors expecting rustic-chic boutiques will find instead a hardware store selling goat feed and a single bar whose television permanently murmurs the bullfight channel.

The houses are built for extremes: metre-thick walls keep interiors cool through summer and warm when winter brings sharp frosts and occasional snow. Balconies are narrow, designed for drying chestnuts rather than sipping sundowners. Paint is optional; stone the colour of digestive biscuits weathers better than any modern render. Wander downhill from the church and you'll pass working stables, a communal bread oven still fired every Friday, and front doors left ajar because everyone knows everyone else's business.

Walking trails where your only company is vultures

The GR-109 long-distance path begins beside the village fountain, its waymarks painted in white and red like bloodied bandages. For day walkers, a five-kilometre circuit heads south along an old drovers' track to the abandoned Cortijo de la Higuera, returning via a ridge crest where griffon vultures circle at eye level. The going is gentle—this isn't the Lake District—but carry water; streams dry to cracked mud by June. Spring brings drifts of white cistus flowers and nights cold enough for gloves; October paints the holm oaks copper and fills pockets with sweet chestnuts for roasting.

Serious hikers can follow the GR east into the Villuercas range, crossing terrain so geologically twisted that UNESCO declared it a Global Geopark. Expect sudden limestone pavements, fossilised beaches 600 metres above sea level, and views across three provinces. The full route to Guadalupe takes two days; most Britons arrange a taxi back from Cañamero rather than double the distance.

What to eat when the kitchen's actually open

Forget internationalised tapas—here the cuisine is seasonal, pork-heavy and served on Spanish time. Lunch finishes at 16:00 sharp; arrive at 16:05 and you'll be offered crisps and disappointment. The bar's handwritten menu changes daily: carrillada ibérica (pork cheek braised in pimentón) falls apart like a slow-cooked British stew; patatas revolconas deliver smoky paprika mash topped with crispy jamón. Vegetarians get revuelto de setas—scrambled eggs with wild mushrooms—unless it's mushroom season, in which case the foragers have beaten you to them.

Local sheep's cheese is sold from a fridge that also stocks lemonade and fishing bait. It's milder than Manchego, crumbly rather than oily, and costs €8 for a wedge that lasts a week of picnics. The bakery opens at 07:00 but honey (un-labelled, floral, perfect on morning toast) appears only when the beekeeper's wife remembers to bring jars. Stock up before Sunday: the supermarket shutters stay closed until Monday 09:00, and even the pigs look hungry.

When to come (and when to stay away)

April and May deliver 22 °C afternoons, green meadows and nightingales that sing until dawn. September repeats the trick with added grape harvest; locals invite passing walkers to help stomp tempranillo in ancient stone lagares. Mid-summer is brutal—temperatures touch 38 °C by 11:00, turning forest tracks into dust bowls and sending every sensible resident indoors for siesta. Winter brings crystal skies, log-fire scent and the possibility of snow that melts by lunchtime but blocks the EX-390 for hours. The village guesthouses have no central heating; pack slippers and request extra blankets.

Bank holidays see Spanish families descend in 4x4s, quadrupling the population and filling the single restaurant. Book accommodation months ahead for the August fiesta, when the Virgen de la Asunción processes through streets strewn with rosemary and brass bands play until the church bells strike four. Outside these dates, you can hear bicycle tyres crunching on gravel.

The practical stuff that trip-advisors forget

Drive up from the A-5 motorway at Navalmoral de la Mata; the final 28 km twist through cork forest so dense that sat-nav loses signal. Petrol pumps in the village accept Spanish cards only after 18:00—fill up in Trujillo before you climb. Parking is free but chaotic: locals abandon cars at 45-degree angles and expect everyone else to manoeuvre round them. Bring €20 notes for casa rural hosts who prefer cash and have never heard of Contactless.

English is non-existent; menu Spanish ("¿Hay carrillada hoy?") gets you fed. Download offline maps before arrival—Google's blue dot likes to place you in neighbouring Portugal. The nearest 24-hour medical centre is 35 minutes away in Logrosán; pack antihistamines if you're allergic to pig hair or bee stings.

Leave the drone at home. Residents tolerate photographers but draw the line at buzzing machines over their allotments. And don't ask for a souvenir fridge magnet; the village shop sells nails, tinned tuna and religious candles—nothing that says "I survived the ATM queue."

Villar del Pedroso isn't trying to impress. It offers instead a calibration of scale: more pigs than people, more stars than streetlights, more silence than you remember existing. Come for two days, stay three, then leave before the tranquillity becomes addictive—and before the cash machine runs dry again.