Collado Villalba

The 07:43 Cercanías from Chamartín rolls past golf courses and retail parks, then climbs. Mobile-phone reception falters, eucalyptus gives way to oak, and suddenly Madrid’s skyline is a smudge behind you. Forty minutes after leaving the capital you step out at 956 m above sea level in Collado Villalba, a place that feels more like a county town that forgot to move downhill than a weekend mountain retreat.

Granite is everywhere: in the station forecourt, in the split boulders that poke through roundabouts, in the muscular church tower of San Pedro Advíncula that has watched over the valley since the 1500s. The stone explains both the town’s fortune and its appearance. Quarries once fed Madrid’s building boom; now the same rock underpins hiking paths, cul-de-sacs and the municipal swimming-pool wall. The result is practical rather than pretty—rows of five-storey blocks thrown up during the 1980s commuter rush—yet the setting still makes Londoners blink. Within ten minutes you can trade the high street for pine scent and cowbells.

Between Factory and Forest

Collado Villalba never depended on postcards for income. Seat, Philips and half a dozen aeronautics suppliers built factories here, lured by cheap land and a rail link. The plants are quieter now, but the workforce stayed, which means the centre stays awake all year. Bakeries open before six, market stalls unload squid from Galicia and strawberries from Aranjuez, and elderly men in berets argue over the football results while younger commuters queue for coffee strong enough to wake the Sierra de Guadarrama.

That mountain range is the real landmark. The town sits on the southern lip of the Guadarrama basin; walk north along Avenida de Extremadura and asphalt surrenders to dirt at the Parque de la Jarosa. From here a lattice of footpaths and fire roads fans out. The classic hour-long circuit follows the Arroyo de la Jarosa past abandoned stone water troughs, then climbs through gorse to a viewpoint where you can spot the brick tower of Madrid’s Cuatro Torres business district on a clear day. Serious walkers keep going: another three hours puts you over the Puerto de Navacerrada and into the province of Segovia, where wild boar outnumber people.

Cyclists prefer the pine-flanked forest tracks that zig-zag up to Bola del Mundo, site of a Cold-War radar dome and infamous final climb of the Vuelta a España. In July the air is dry and the gradient merciless; in January leftover snow turns shaded corners into sheet ice. Hire bikes are scarce—bring your own or book through Bike’n’Ski on Calle de los Rosales, who will deliver a carbon gravel bike for €35 a day.

Altitude Eating

Height sharpens appetite. Local menus read like winter survival guides: cocido madrileño (chickpea, cabbage and two-kinds-of-pork stew), callos (tripe slow-cooked with chorizo fat), and chuletón, a rib-eye the width of a railway sleeper. House wine arrives in short, thick glasses and costs less than bottled water did back at Barajas. Portions are built for quarry workers; most bars will happily serve a media ración the size of a British main.

Try La Tahona de la Abuela on Plaza de Pablo Iglesias for proper cocido—ask for the “una tres” if you want just the soup, chickpeas and a single piggy course. For chuletón you need a ten-minute taxi to El Escorial and Asador de Cándido, where 1.2 kg steaks feed two and the waiters wear white coats like lab technicians. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and padrón peppers; vegans should shop at Mercadona and picnic in the park.

Sweet teeth get their reward in May, when rosquillas de San Isidro appear—light anise-scented doughnuts sold by the dozen from pop-up kiosks. Dunk them in thick hot chocolate and you will understand why no one here worries about the glycaemic index.

Getting Out and Getting Stuck

The town’s best use is as a launch pad. A €2.60 Cercanías ticket takes you to Cercedilla, start of the popular Los Cotos chairlift and half a dozen snow-shoe trails. A 20-minute drive (or the hourly 691 bus) reaches the royal monastery at San Lorenzo de El Escorial, where Felipe II kept his frowning Habsburg court at a similarly lung-clearing 1,000 m. Further afield, Segovia’s Roman aqueduct is 45 minutes down the A-6, and Madrid’s museums 40 minutes by train.

Yet staying put has merits. Hotel rates are half the capital’s: the modern Sercotel Los Lanceros charges about €70 for a double with mountain view and garage parking. Even in August you will find a table without booking, and on weeknights the loudest noise is the click of dominoes in the bar. British families use it as a base for language-immersion summer camps—teenagers get bussed in for morning lessons, then spend afternoons kayaking on the nearby reservoir.

The downside is that Collado Villalba closes early. By 23:00 most bars have stacked the chairs; if you want nightlife you ride the last train to Madrid at 23:45 and pray the night service is running. Monday is the dead day: the covered market shuts, many restaurants post “cerrado por descanso,” and the centre feels like a film set waiting for extras who never arrive.

Practical Granite

Altitude matters. Even in June the temperature can drop ten degrees between siesta and supper; pack a fleece if you plan to stay out past nine. Winter nights regularly dip below freezing—pleasant for sleeping, lethal for hire-car windscreens. Spanish school holidays (late July to early September) clog the mountain roads; set off before eight or after six to avoid crawling behind caravans of overheated hatchbacks.

Public transport is reliable but limited. Cercanías line C-8b runs every 15–20 minutes to Madrid; buy a ten-trip Bonotren for €54.20 if you will commute more than twice. Buses to villages such as Navacerrada or La Granja are sporadic—hire a car if you intend to explore. Sunday afternoon petrol stations close on rotation; fill up on Saturday morning or risk pushing your Seat back to the airport.

Mobile coverage is patchy once you leave the urban core; download offline maps before setting off on foot. And remember you are in a working town, not a theme park. Ask before photographing children at fiestas, keep your shirt on in the park, and do not expect everyone to speak English—yet a smile and a stab at Spanish will unlock directions, wine recommendations and probably a free chupito of orujo to finish the meal.

Collado Villalba will never make the glossy covers of Spain brochures. It has no almond-tree blossom, no Moorish palace, no sunset selfie pier. What it offers is something British travellers claim to want and rarely find: a plausible, lived-in version of Spain where the mountains begin at the bypass, lunch is still the main event, and the train home leaves on time.