Cercedilla

The 06:48 Cercanías train from Atocha is already half-full when it slips out of Madrid's morning heat. By the time it climbs past the last apartment blocks, the carriage smells of coffee and pine resin from rucksacks stowed overhead. Forty minutes later, at 1,188 metres, Cercedilla's stone station appears between granite outcrops and the temperature has dropped six degrees. The capital's commuters are still jostling on the Metro; up here, boots are being laced for Roman roads older than the Camino.

Stone, Snow and a Working Village

Granite defines Cercedilla more than any tourism slogan ever could. The sixteenth-century church of San Sebastián is built from it, the houses sit on plinths of it, even the drinking fountains are carved out of the same grey stuff that sheep scrape their hooves against. Walk uphill from the station and the streets narrow into a pattern of wooden balconies and slate roofs that has survived since the railway arrived in 1888. On a Tuesday in March the place feels half-asleep: elderly men argue over cards in the covered arcade of Plaza Mayor while the baker sweeps yesterday's breadcrumbs into the gutter. Return on a Saturday in July and the same square vibrates with prams, hiking poles and Madrid teenagers arguing over whose turn it is to queue for ice-cream.

The village numbers barely 5,000 permanent residents, yet it functions year-round. Doctors, teachers and plumbers live here because the mountains are home, not a weekend backdrop. That means visitors get proper shops rather than souvenir barns, and bars where ordering a cortado earns a nod of recognition rather than a photocopied menu. It also means parking near the trail-heads is brutal after 09:30 on sunny days; locals leave their cars in the narrower streets, forcing walkers to start earlier or accept a longer warm-up on tarmac.

Walking on Two Millennia of Engineering

Five minutes beyond the last cul-de-sac, the Calzada Romana begins its 2,000-year-old traverse across the Fuenfría valley. The flagstones are rutted where Iron-Age cartwheels cut grooves later deepened by Roman supply wagons heading for the garrison at Segovia. Snow-melt streams run alongside; in May they're banked with blue stars of wild garlic. The engineering is unmistakably Roman: a camber that still drains water, retaining walls that haven't shifted, gradients gentle enough for laden mules. Spanish schoolchildren march the first kilometre in fluorescent bibs, then peel off for lunch, leaving the high section empty apart from circling kites and the occasional German backpacker trying to photograph his own incredulity.

Serious boots can keep going to the Puerto de Fuenfría, 1,790 m, where the plain of Segovia drops away on one side and Madrid's skyline glints on the other. The climb gains 600 m in 7 km, enough to make lungs work but not enough to require carb-loading. The reward is a ridge walk along the GR-10 where the wind rips through fleece and suddenly the Mediterranean feels very far away. Turn around at any point: trains back to the capital run until 22:20, so even a late start allows for an eight-hour circuit with time to spare for beer.

When the Snow Arrives

Winter transforms Cercedilla into something closer to a Pyrenean town. The same tracks that echoed with hiking boots become white corridors for cross-country skiers. The Navacerrada pass, fifteen minutes up the road, funnels Atlantic storms that dump 60 cm overnight; by 08:00 the queue for chairlifts snakes along the tarmac and every second car is fitted with chains still clinking on bare patches. Weekenders who didn't book weeks ahead circle the car parks like vultures, then retreat to the village in search of hot chocolate and vindaloo-coloured ski trousers.

Snow brings complications. The Roman road turns into a bobsleigh run of packed ice; gaiters are handy but micro-crampons are better. Temperature inversions can plunge the valley to –8 °C while Madrid stays at 12 °C above, so layers matter. The upside is silence: fir branches heavy with frosting absorb every footstep, and animal tracks scribble stories across the path—red deer, wild boar, the occasional wolf print that makes you count the distance back to the streetlights.

What to Eat After All That

Hiking here is a calorific business; fortunately the village specialises in precisely the sort of food no dietician would endorse. Start with sopa de ajo—garlic broth thickened with bread and paprika, topped with a poached egg that breaks into smoky threads. Follow with cocido madrileño served in the traditional three acts: first the noodles simmered in the broth, then the chickpeas and vegetables, finally the meat—morcilla, chorizo, pancetta—presented on a separate platter large enough to intimidate a vegetarian. Portions assume you've just spent five hours above 1,500 m; if you haven't, consider sharing.

Game appears in autumn—wild-boar stew slow-cooked with cloves and bay until the meat shreds under its own gravity. Setas, the local mushrooms, arrive with the first September rains: saffron milk-caps sautéed in olive oil and parsley, their nutty flavour more delicate than the usual supermarket buttons. Restaurants around Plaza Mayor charge €18–22 for a main, slightly less mid-week when the clientele is mostly neighbours rather than day-trippers. The bar beside the station does a bocadillo de calamares for €4.50 if you miss the 15:00 lunch window and need something to eat on the train home.

Getting it Right, Getting it Wrong

Cercedilla is forgiving, but it still punishes the casual. Arrive at 11:30 on a Sunday without checking the weather and you'll share the Calzada with 200 chattering teenagers, the ridge with a biblical wind, and the return train with passengers who smell of wet dog. Turn up at the same spot at 08:00 on a Wednesday and you might meet one retired couple from Guadalajara and a shepherd on a quad bike.

Check the Cercanías app the night before—engineering works love to pop up without warning. Bring a hat even in June; Atlantic clouds sweep in faster than you can say "hypothermia". Don't trust Google Maps timing for the walk back to the station: it's 35 minutes uphill on a stomach full of cocido, longer if you've lingered over dessert wine. And remember the last ATM is in the village centre; mountain bars operate on cash only, no exceptions for foreigners with contactless cards and pleading expressions.

The Return Journey

Evening trains descend through the pine belt as the sun catches the granite domes. Mobile phones ping back into signal range; Madrid's heat rises from the platform at Atocha like a hair-dryer. Within an hour you're choosing between late-night tapas or an early bed, shoulders pleasantly sore, boots still carrying a dusting of high-altitude Spain. Somewhere behind the skyline you've left behind stone roads the Romans engineered, forests that smell of resin and snow, and a village that keeps its back turned on the capital's neon, confident the mountains will always draw the city's breath back uphill.