Guadalix de la Sierra

The 07:04 commuter train out of Madrid’s Chamartín station carries more walking poles than briefcases by the time it reaches Colmenar Viejo. Another fifteen minutes on the L-722 bus and the granite doorframes of Guadalix de la Sierra appear, proof that the city’s gravitational pull stops 832 metres above sea level. This is not a postcard village frozen in time; it is a place where farmers still drive sheep across the tarmac and the baker knows which customers have walked up from the reservoir before buying their breakfast.

Granite, Oak and a Church that Grew Like Topsy

Start in the compact centre. The parish church of San Sebastián squats on Plaza de la Constitución like a stone lesson in architectural patience: Romanesque footings, 16th-century nave, baroque tower finished only when someone found enough lead to re-roof it. Push the heavy door at 11 a.m. and the interior smells of candle wax and recently mopped stone. Look up and you will see a ceiling painted with zodiac symbols—an 1890 addition ordered by a priest who had taught himself astronomy while exiled in the Sierra Morena. No tickets, no audio guides, just a €1 coin in the box to keep the lights on for five minutes.

From the church door every street slopes away at a deliberate camber, built for rainwater rather than tourists. Houses alternate between ochre render and exposed granite blocks; balconies are slatted pine, just wide enough for a pot of geraniums and a hunting dog. Number 14 on Calle Real still has a brass letter slot engraved “Correos y Telégrafos 1923”; the current owner uses it as a bird feeder. Walk slowly and you will notice that the granite cornerstones are etched with brands—three circles, a split cross—marking quarry ownership before the Civil War. The brands are now the only remaining trace of the stone trade that once paid for the village water tower.

Reservoir, Ripples and Real Swimming

Three kilometres downhill, the Embalse de Guadalix opens like a fjord between low pines. Weekday mornings it belongs to retired madrileños who arrive with fold-up chairs and a portable radio. By Saturday the water is busy with paddle-boarders who have discovered that the dam blocks the wind better than the coast ever manages. The kayak hut beside the picnic area rents sit-on-tops for €12 an hour, accepts cash only and operates on the honour system: take a life-jacket, leave the money in the tobacco tin. The water is clean enough that the regional government stocks it with black-bass fry each spring; if you swim quietly along the eastern shore you will feel them flick past your shins.

Bring footwear that copes with pebbles. The shoreline shelves sharply and the granite sand gets hot enough to burn bare feet by early afternoon. Locals favour the tiny cove below the ruined customs house; it is a five-minute scramble but you gain shade from the first pine branches that dip into the water. On the return, stop at the roadside stall selling melons from Colmenar. The farmer keeps a machete hanging on a nail and will slice one in half so you can scoop the flesh with a plastic spoon while the bus back to town wheezes past.

Trails that Start at the Pavement Edge

Guadalix does not believe in buffer zones. Pass the last house on Calle del Calvario and you are already in the Dehesa de la Peñarrubia, holm oaks spaced wide enough for sheep, not tourists. The tourist office (open Tuesday and Thursday, 10–14:00 only) hands out a single A4 sheet with four loop walks. None is longer than 12 km; all begin at the stone water trough on the edge of town. Yellow dashes painted on bark replace signposts, a system that works until a forestry crew fells a marked trunk and the route briefly diverts through someone’s vegetable patch.

The easiest circuit, Sendero del Cerro del Telégrafo, climbs 250 metres to a concrete pillar that once carried Franco’s phone line to Burgos. From the top you can see the Cuenca Alta del Manzanares roll away like a rumpled brown quilt until it meets the vertical slate of the Guadarrama ridges. The round trip takes ninety minutes at British walking speed; add another thirty if you stop to watch booted eagles riding the thermals above the pines. In April the slope is covered with white rock-rose and the air smells of wet thyme after every footstep.

Mountain bikers use the same tracks but soon veer onto fire roads where the surface resembles a dried riverbed of fist-sized granite. A full-suspension bike is overkill; wider tyres and low pressure matter more. The classic descent starts at the Navacerrada pass, 18 km away on tarmac, then drops 700 metres back to the reservoir on a gravel serpentine. Arrange a lift up or catch the 09:15 bus from Guadalix to the pass—drivers will sling a bike in the luggage bay for an extra euro if the compartment is not already full of firewood.

Roast, Rusk and the Midday Lull

Spanish villages still shut in the afternoon, and Guadalix obeys the rule with conviction. Between 14:30 and 17:00 the only sound is the mechanical click of the traffic light on the main road cycling through amber for non-existent traffic. Plan lunch early or resign yourself to crisps from the vending machine at the petrol station.

For the punctual, Asador El Portón serves a chuletón for two that arrives on its own miniature grill. The rib-eye, thick as a railway sleeper, continues to sizzle while you pick at padron peppers that taste more of char than chilli. A half-litre of young rioja in a plain carafe costs €4; ask for “un roble corto” if you want the lighter, oaked version. Vegetarians get a roasted piquillo-pepper stuffed with goat’s cheese and drizzled with honey that the waiter’s mother brings down from her hive in Buitrago. Pudding is a choice between cuajada (curd topped with walnuts) or a slice of bizcocho de Rusa, a dry sponge invented during rationing and inexplicably still popular.

Coffee afterwards is taken standing at the bar: the tables are swept the moment the last fork hits the plate. Locals add a shot of anise to the cup; visitors usually decline once they see the bottle labelled 45% ABV.

Getting Stuck (and Getting Out)

The village makes few concessions to non-drivers. The L-722 bus links with Colmenar Viejo’s railway station Monday to Friday; on Saturdays a single departure returns at 19:10, and there is no service on Sunday or public holidays. A taxi from Colmenar costs €25 if you telephone ahead, €35 after 22:00. Car hire from Madrid airport adds €10 a day for a sat-nav that recognises the M-607 exit; without it you will circumnavigate the city twice before pointing north.

Winter brings sharper weather than the capital. At 832 metres snow is rare but frost is not; the reservoir can ice over at the edges and the granite footpaths turn into an ad-hoc skating rink. Bring micro-spikes if you plan to walk between December and February; the yellow paint dashes are invisible under a dusting of powder. Summer, on the other hand, is hot and windless. Start walks before nine, carry two litres of water, and do not trust the map’s estimated times—they were calculated by someone who grew up running these hills.

Last Orders at 22:00

Evening creeps in abruptly. The church bell strikes ten and the square empties as if a silent whistle has blown: parents carry sleeping children home, waiters flip chairs onto tables, the chemist’s metal shutter rattles down. A single bar stays open for the night bus crowd; they will serve a final caña provided you accept it in a plastic glass. Stand outside and you will hear the first tawny owl call from the pines above the town, followed by the scrape of a bicycle as the last commuter freewheels down to the estate on the flood-plain. By morning the same streets will fill with boots and walking sticks again, proof that Madrid keeps its weekday boots laced and waiting in Guadalix de la Sierra.