Torrelodones

The 07:43 Cercanías to Madrid slips out of Torrelodones station with barely a whistle. By 08:10 the same commuters are stepping onto Sol platform, coffees already in hand. Thirty kilometres and 845 metres above sea level make all the difference: nights cool enough to leave windows open, mornings sharp enough to warrant a jacket even in July. The town isn’t pretending to be a timewarp; it’s a dormitory with granite under its fingernails.

Granite is everywhere. It pokes through the soil like half-buried cannonballs, forms dry-stone walls between villa plots, and gives the place its name—torre for the ruined tower, lodones for the local stone. The castle itself is less Disney, more OS map stump: a single crenellated tower and short stretch of wall on a scrubby knoll five minutes from the high street. Walk up at dusk and the reward is a 180-degree sweep: Madrid’s skyline a faint smudge eastwards, the Guadarrama ridge turning pink behind you. Bring a beer, not a guidebook.

Below the ruin the old centre fits into four streets. Church of la Asunción, rebuilt after fire in the 1940s, is handsome in the way post-war brick can be: sober, square, no frills. A couple of cafés set tables under plane trees; the bakery sells napolitanas that taste of butter rather than margarine—rural Spain’s small victory. By ten the place empties: school run, office run, motorway on-ramp. Torrelodones’ heart beats on the C-8.

Out of town boots

Ignore the golf course advertising “mountain views with every drive” and head instead for the Dehesa de Torrelodones, a public woodland threaded with way-marked loops. The shortest is 4 km, flat enough for pushchairs, shaded by holm oaks that predate Franco. Keep eyes on the ground: the granite weathered into whale-backed boulders and ankle-turning scree. After rain the path smells of damp bark and wild thyme; in July it crunches like broken crockery.

Longer routes link a chain of viewpoints—miradores—north-west of town. The full circuit is 12 km and gains only 350 m, making it a half-day rather than an expedition. On clear days you can pick out the four towers of CTBA, Madrid’s glass business district, thirty kilometres away. Mid-week you’ll meet dog-walkers from the adjoining estates; at weekends parking at the Área Recreativa El Cura fills by 10 a.m. Arrive early or take the 625 bus from the station—Sunday service, two-hour gap, plan accordingly.

Mountain bikers have the Vía Verde del Noroeste, a 20-km gravel rail-trail that starts behind the Mercadona supermarket and rolls gently to Collado Villalba. No traffic, no gradients, plenty of picnic tables fashioned from old rails. Hire bikes at BiciTrack on Calle Real (€20 four hours, passport as deposit). The same path is pleasant on foot if you prefer strolling without map-reading: straight, shaded by pines, and peppered with information boards explaining 19th-century steam engines—good child distraction.

Chips with your rabas

Eating is split between two zones. The old village does traditional: Casa Martín serves callos (tripe stew) on Thursdays, cocido on Saturdays, and will swap chips for beans if you ask nicely. Mains hover round €14, house wine €2.50 a glass, locals at the bar keep an eye on the fútbol. Up on the A-6 motorway slip road sits Parque de los Pinos, a retail park that looks like any British out-of-town: cinema, Dunnes-style fashion, and the town’s most foreigner-friendly restaurants. Puerto La Cruz grills Argentine steaks the width of side plates; Il Tempio does thin-base pizza and will happily leave the ham off your quattro stagioni. Between them is Lola café, open at 07:00, where you can get a toasted sandwich and a cafetière of coffee that doesn’t taste of ash—useful if you’re staying in an Airbnb with no breakfast supplied.

The other option is Casino Gran Madrid, five minutes by taxi (€8) or a 25-minute uphill walk if you feel penitential. The gaming floor is everything you expect—chrome, chandeliers, free soft drinks—but the attached buffet (€18 lunch, €25 dinner) is open to non-players. Show your passport, hand over cash, eat as much paella, roast beef and lemon tart as you like. On weekday afternoons it’s half empty; at 03:00 on Saturday the car park is full of Madrid’s night owls fuelling before roulette.

Seasonal sums

Spring and autumn are the comfortable maths: daytime 18–22 °C, nights 8–12 °C, light until 20:30. Wildflowers peak late April; mushrooms appear October if there’s been rain. Summer is a split shift—35 °C at 15:00, 18 °C by 23:00—so siesta culture makes sense. In August the town empties to the coast; bars shorten menus, estate pools close for cleaning. Winter is crisp rather than snowy—frost common, sledging rare—but when the norte wind blows the wind-chill can catch you out. Trains still run, roads stay open, but after dark the streets are quiet and restaurants shut by 22:30.

Practical residue

Getting here: Cercanías lines C-8 and C-10 leave Chamartín every 15–30 min; the ride is 25 min on the fast, 35 on the slow. A ten-journey Bonotren costs €16.20 and works for the airport connection via Chamartín.Drivers take the A-6 to exit 18; the first roundabout has the Repsol garage—cheapest fuel between Madrid and the mountains.

Staying: No boutique hotels. Options are either commuter Airbnb (two-bed flats €70–90 week-nights, €110 weekends) or the three-star Hotel Osuna at the edge of town—clean, pool, free parking, €85 double B&B if you haggle by phone. If you’re rail-reliant, stay near Torrelodones-Las Rozas station; the old village is uphill and buses thin after 21:00.

Shopping: Mercadona (Mon–Sat 09:00–21:30) stocks everything from lentejas to Lurpak. On Sunday only the Chinese bazar and one bakery open—plan ahead. The Thursday morning market in Plaza del Pueblo sells socks, cheap courgettes and one stall of queso de camerano that accepts small change.

What it isn’t: Whitewashed arcades, donkeys, flamenco tabs. Torrelodones is suburbia with altitude, a place where Spanish families move for bigger gardens and British visitors base themselves for cheaper Sierra access. Come for walking without airport-scale queues, for cool air when Madrid bakes, for a glimpse of how madrileños actually live once the metro ends. Leave before you start comparing council-tax bands.