Colmenar Viejo

The plateau that isn't quite the Sierra

At 883 metres above sea level, Colmenar Viejo sits high enough to make your ears pop on the drive up from Madrid, yet low enough that snow settles only a handful of days each winter. The air here carries the dry snap of the Spanish interior—thinner than the capital's, scented with wild thyme and sun-baked stone rather than diesel. Locals claim you can see the Sierra de Guadarrama from the southern edge of town, but what dominates the horizon is the rolling dehesa: ancient holm-oak pasture stretching towards the mountains like a tawny carpet.

This is commuter country with a rural pulse. Forty kilometres north of Puerta del Sol, the town swells each morning with Madrid office workers who've traded city rents for mountain-cold bedrooms, then shrinks again as the evening train pulls in. Yet beneath the satellite dishes and new-build blocks, Colmenar Viejo keeps its market-day rhythms. On Saturday mornings the Plaza del Pueblo fills with canvas stalls selling Manchego cheese still bearing the imprint of its wicker mould, and strings of chorizo that leave orange oil spots on brown paper.

Stone, bulls and a Gothic tower that leans slightly west

The old centre clusters around the Basílica de la Asunción, whose fifteenth-century tower tilts a fraction off vertical—barely noticeable until you step back to photograph it and find yourself unconsciously straightening the frame. Inside, the air smells of beeswax and centuries of incense; baroque retablos glitter dimly beneath Gothic rib-vaulting. Few visitors linger long—English information is non-existent, and the caretaker locks up promptly at 1 pm for lunch—but that's part of the appeal. You get the place to yourself, save perhaps an elderly woman whispering her rosary in the side chapel.

Five minutes' walk north, the Iglesia de los Remedios sits in a quieter square where the only traffic is the occasional tractor heading out to the dehesa. Built a century later and heavier in style, it anchors the town's September fiestas when the statue of the Virgin is paraded through streets strewn with rosemary and paper flowers. Even in high summer you'll find the doors open, offering shade that smells of cool stone and extinguished candles.

Between the two churches, calles Real and de la Villa weave a tight grid of granite houses with wooden balconies painted the colour of ox-blood. Look up and you'll spot the family crests carved above doorways—evidence of Colmenar's past as a staging post for merchants driving cattle from the Guadalquivir valley to Madrid's markets. The arcaded town hall, completed in 1766, still hosts the occasional wedding on Saturday afternoons; if you hear applause drifting from the courtyard, it means the bride and groom have emerged beneath a shower of rice that will still crunch underfoot days later.

Walking country for people who forgot to bring boots

You don't need proper hiking gear to leave town. Follow Calle de los Huertos west for ten minutes and asphalt gives way to dirt track threading between stone walls where black-faced Manchega sheep graze. This is the dehesa de Navalvillar, part of the Parque Regional Cuenca Alta del Manzanares: 50,000 hectares of managed oak pasture that feels wilder than it is. Keep walking and you'll reach the Sendero del Manzanares, a gentle riverside path popular with weekend cyclists who whizz past in flashes of Lycra, calling "¡Buen camino!" without breaking cadence.

The altitude means temperatures drop fast after sunset, even in May. Bring a fleece if you plan to stay out beyond six o'clock; British visitors regularly underestimate the difference 300 metres can make. In July and August the town empties as locals flee to the coast, yet early risers are rewarded with dawn light so clear you can pick out individual oaks on the distant ridge. Winter walkers face the opposite problem—sharp easterlies that knife through Barbour jackets and make the 10 km loop to the ruined ermita de los Santos feel twice as far.

Blood on the sand (but not how you think)

Colmenar Viejo styles itself a ganadería town, home to half a dozen bull-breeding ranches whose white-washed walls and red-tiled gates sit just beyond the ring road. Unlike Andalucían versions, these farms welcome visitors—phone ahead and you can tour the pastures in an open-topped 4x4, learning how each fighting bull is identified by the angle of its horns like a fingerprint. Children love it; parents discover that the animals spend most of their lives dozing beneath oak trees, looking less gladiatorial than pastoral.

The town's own bullring, opened in 1891, hosts only four corridas a year. Tickets start at €15 and rarely sell out, making this one of the cheapest ways to witness Spain's most controversial tradition without the Seville mark-up. If you can't stomach the spectacle, arrive instead on the morning of the August fiestas when novice bulls are let loose in the streets. The animals are younger, horns padded, and the atmosphere closer to a rowdy village fête than Pamplona's crush—though you'll still need steady nerves when 500 kilos of beef thunders past the bakery.

What to eat when you've had enough of tapas

Spanish mountain cooking is built for altitude hunger. The fixed-price menú del día—usually €12–14 on weekdays—starts with cocido madrileño: a three-act opera of chickpea broth, followed by cabbage and noodles, then finally the meat itself. Staff at Mesón de Esquivas will strain the soup first for squeamish Brits who balk at floating fat; ask for "poco caldo" if you want to avoid the inevitable refill. Thursday remains the traditional cocido day, but most kitchens will oblige if you phone before noon.

Meat dominates. The local chuletón is a T-bone the size of a dinner plate, charcoal-grilled until the exterior blackens while the interior stays the colour of a good Beaujolais. One portion feeds two hungry walkers; order it "poco hecho, por favor" unless you enjoy chewing leather. Vegetarians survive on tortilla española and the seasonal vegetable stew called potaje, though choices shrink once you leave the pedestrianised centre.

For lighter grazing, La Antigua bar serves a mild goat's cheese drizzled with local honey—perfect with a glass of Albillo white, the Madrid region's underestimated grape. Finish with torrijas: thick slices of brioche soaked in wine and cinnamon, the Spanish answer to bread-and-butter pudding. They appear only in spring, so autumn visitors must make do with bartolillos—cream-filled pastries best eaten before the custard collapses.

Getting there (and away again)

The C-8 cercanías train from Chamartín reaches Colmenar Viejo in 25 minutes for €2.40—less than a London Zone 3 single. Services run every half-hour until 22:30; miss the last one and the night bus lumbers in at 23:45, depositing confused passengers beside the closed petrol station. Drivers take the M-607 Autopista del Norte: toll-free, but expect nose-to-tail traffic from 7 am as Madrid's bedroom communities empty. Free parking appears after 2 pm on Saturday along Calle Real; on other days use the underground car park beneath the Plaza de Toros—€1.50 for four hours, cheaper than the ticket you'll get for squeezing into a yellow-lined alley.

Overnight stays suit early flights best. A taxi to Barajas costs €35–40 if booked through your hotel—fixed fare, no metre—making Colmenar cheaper than a Madrid airport hotel once you factor in city supplements. Rooms are functional rather than memorable: expect parquet floors, double glazing and a breakfast of churros that arrive wrapped in paper to keep them warm. One night is plenty unless you're using the town as a base for Sierra walks; the mountains proper lie 20 km further north at Manzanares el Real.

Leave space in your suitcase for a wheel of goat's cheese if you're travelling hand-luggage only—security consider it a paste, so pack it with the toiletries and hope for a lenient officer. Better yet, eat it on the terrace with a final glass of country red while the sun drops behind the oaks and the plateau's vast sky fades from cobalt to bruise-purple. Then catch the evening train back to Madrid, lungs full of resin-scented air, ready to face the airport queues with the peculiar satisfaction of having slept on Spain's high plateau without really leaving the city behind.