Becerril de la Sierra

The pine smell hits before you've properly parked. At 1,075 metres, Becerril de la Sierra is only 50 kilometres north-west of Madrid's Puerta del Sol, yet the air thins and cools noticeably as the M-625 climbs into the Guadarrama range. Locals call it subir a la sierra—heading up to the mountains—as if the capital below were some overheated engine room that periodically needs venting.

A Village That Works for Its Living

This isn't a museum piece kept alive by weekenders' croissants. Stone houses with terracotta roofs line streets steep enough to make calf muscles object, but satellite dishes still sprout from balconies and elderly residents carry shopping past estate agents' windows advertising pisos for Madrid commuters. The population hovers around 5,000, doubling on Saturday lunchtime when the 691 bus from Moncloa unloads day-trippers in walking boots.

The centre is navigable in fifteen minutes if you don't stop, but the point is to pause. Plaza de la Constitución catches morning sun long enough for a coffee; by noon the action drifts to Calle Real where taperías set out plastic chairs. Architecture is functional rather than fairy-tale: the twelfth-century church of San Pedro Apóstol was rebuilt so often that only the bell-tower silhouette remains medieval. Inside, the cool darkness smells of wax and floor polish—more parish cupboard than cathedral.

Where the Streets Turn to Earth

Tracks begin at the top end of town like an afterthought. One minute you're passing garage doors; the next you're between stone pines with needles muffling footfalls. Waymarking is sporadic—look for the occasional yellow splash or the free Rutas 2010 leaflet available in the tiny tourist office (open Tuesday to Friday, closed for siesta). A thirty-minute loop threads to the Mirador de la Peñota for views south across Madrid's meseta; on clear winter days the Cuatro Torres business district glints like upturned glassware.

Serious walkers use Becerril as a launch pad for 2,000-metre ridges. The GR-10 long-distance footpath passes within 4 km; an early start puts you on the summit of Bola del Mundo and back for lunch. Mountain bikers share forestry tracks, so keep dogs close. Summer heat is fierce until 5 pm—even at altitude—so carry more water than you think necessary; springs marked on maps often run dry by July.

Snow and Mud Seasons

When Navacerrada ski station opens—usually December to March—the village becomes a dormitory. Chalets that stand empty all week fill with Madrid families who breakfast at 7 am and return after dark, skis clattering on roof racks. Parking near the church becomes a slow-motion Rubik's cube; the municipal lot by the polideportivo charges €1.50 a day and still overflows. Accommodation prices edge up, though still comfortably below ski-resort rates.

Mud is the spring bonus. Melting snow turns footpaths into chocolate porridge; trainers disappear with each step. Locals switch to wellingtons and regard the slop philosophically—by June the ground bakes hard again.

What Arrives on the Table

Menus are written for appetites earned outdoors. Cocido madrileño arrives in a terracotta bowl: chickpeas, cabbage and a hunk of pork belly that collapses at the touch of a fork. Half portions (media ración) are perfectly acceptable and still defeat most visitors. Chuletón—a beef rib the size of a shoe—serves two, arrives rare, and is sliced tableside with theatrical flair. Vegetarians get judías—local white beans stewed with saffron—though you should specify sin chorizo unless you fancy surprise pork.

Weekend lunch starts at 2.30 pm and runs until the last postre spoon is licked. Booking matters; try Asador El Portón for roast meats or La Chimenea if you want a quieter back room with a log fire. Monday closes half the bars—plan supermarket supplies accordingly.

When to Drop In

Spring and early autumn deliver the best compromise: 20 °C afternoons, cool nights, and pine pollen instead of people. Late May brings fiesta de la primavera—a modest fair with doughnut stalls and a brass band that rehearses enthusiastically outside your window at 9 am. The patronal fiestas around 29 June fill the streets with paper bunting and teenage brass bands; expect fireworks at midnight and free sangria dispensed from a municipal tent.

August is hot, but less suffocating than Madrid. The catch is volume: the 691 bus turns into a standing-room-only sauna, and the municipal swimming pool sells out of tickets by 11 am. If summer is your only slot, arrive Friday evening or Saturday at dawn; leave Sunday before 6 pm to avoid the motorway crawl back to the capital.

Getting There, Staying Over

Public transport means the hourly ALSA 691 from Madrid Moncloa—€4.50 each way, 70 minutes, luggage rack too small for skis. A hire car from Barajas airport is simpler: A-1 north, exit at M-607 towards Colmenar Viejo, then M-625 straight into the village. Petrol stations are scarce once you leave the motorway; fill up at Colmenar.

Accommodation divides into two camps. Hotel Los Robles has a pool, fenced parking and staff who understand requests for "proper breakfast tea". Stone-built casas rurales such as El Hortalín sleep six around a wood-burner; useful when Navacerrada's forecast threatens minus ten. Mid-week rates drop sharply November to March—except when fresh snow is predicted.

The Honest Verdict

Becerril de la Sierra offers breathing space rather than picture-postcard thrills. The old quarter is tiny; you can see it between coffee and beer. What justifies the trip is the immediate access to pine shade, ridge trails and winter snow without resort prices. Come prepared to walk, cycle or ski, then eat accordingly. Treat the village as a base camp rather than a destination in itself and it delivers exactly what Madrid's overheated residents have sought for centuries: cooler air, quieter nights, and the smell of resin on your clothes when you pack to leave.