Pozuelo del Rey

At 809 metres above sea level, Pozuelo del Rey sits high enough for the air to thin and the horizon to widen. From the village’s northern edge, you can watch weather fronts roll across the Castilian plain long before they reach Madrid, 45 kilometres away. It’s a place where mobile signal drops to 3G on the wrong side of the hill, and where the loudest morning sound is the bakery’s roller shutter—open only on Saturdays, so locals queue for crusty barra before it sells out.

A Working Village, Not a Film Set

Forget the postcard Spain of whitewashed alleys and geranium pots. Pozuelo’s houses are ochre brick and weathered stone, patched with concrete where winter frosts have nibbled the mortar. Tractors park beside the fountain in Plaza Mayor; farmers greet the postman by name. The 1,254 residents still outnumber weekend visitors, which means you’ll get a nod rather than a sales pitch when you pause to read the 18th-century church noticeboard.

Santa María Magdalena stands at the top of the square, its bell tower repaired so often the brickwork resembles a patchwork quilt. Inside, the retable is painted in faded blues and terracotta—colours you’ll later see echoed in the surrounding wheat fields. If the wooden door is locked (common on weekday mornings), wander the perimeter: swifts nest under the eaves and the stone blocks still bear masons’ marks from 1734.

Walking Without Waymarks

There are no glossy trailhead panels here. Instead, agricultural lanes fan out between cereal plots, their edges dotted with poppies in late April. Head north on the camino that passes the old threshing floor; within twenty minutes the village shrinks to a smudge and the only elevation is a ruined stone hut used for storing grain. Keep walking and you’ll reach the balsa—a rain-fed pool where shepherds once watered sheep—now frequented by wagtails and the occasional birder with binoculars.

An hour’s loop is enough to understand the rhythm: sow in November, pray for rain in March, harvest before the July fiestas. The soil is thin and stony; you’ll feel it crunch underfoot. In June the wheat turns honey-gold and the wind carries a dry biscuit scent. Come back in February and the same landscape is monochrome, the wind sharpened by altitude. Dress accordingly: at 800 m, temperatures sit 4–5 °C below Madrid on clear nights.

When the Church Bells Ring

Mid-July means Santa María Magdalena’s feast, a three-day affair that triples the village population. A covered terrace appears overnight in the square; the peña clubs cook tiznao, a salt-cod and potato stew that tastes of woodsmoke and paprika. Portions are generous—order media ración unless you’re starving. Sunday lunchtime brings the vaquilla, a playful heifer chase through barricaded streets that horrifies some visitors and delights most locals. If you’d rather watch than run, claim a balcony seat at Bar La Plaza early; they’ll serve cañas while the action passes underneath.

September is gentler. The fiesta de la trashumancia celebrates the return of sheep from summer pastures; a dozen merino ewes clop through town accompanied by two pastores in traditional cloaks. Children are given wool bracelets; tourists are rare enough to get one too.

Eating and Drinking Like You Mean It

With no hotel, Pozuelo survives on day-trippers and the occasional self-catering let. The bakery’s Saturday pop-up sells mantecados still warm from the oven—buy extra, they freeze well. Bar La Plaza opens daily from 07:00 for café con leche and churros; by 11:00 the counter is lined with empty caña glasses and the television mutters the previous night’s football scores. Menu-del-día appears at weekends only: expect roast lamb, judiones beans and a half-bottle of local wine for €14. Vegetarians can swap meat for pisto, but request sin aceitunas unless you enjoy surprise olives.

Evening options are limited. After 21:00 the square quietens; shutters close and dogs curl up under benches. Plan accordingly: buy cheese and wine in Torrejón de Ardoz on the way in, then picnic on the church steps while the sky fades from gold to bruised purple.

Getting Here, Getting Out

From Madrid-Barajas, hire a car and join the A-2 towards Zaragoza. Exit 28 is signposted “Pozuelo del Rey/Camarma”; the slip-road narrows to a single-track bridge where tractors have right of way. Total driving time: 35 minutes, unless a lorry of artichokes trundles ahead at 40 km/h.

Without wheels, take the airport Express bus to Avenida de América, then C-2 Cercanías to Torrejón de Ardoz. Phone Taxi Muñoz (+34 916 76 52 34) the day before; they charge a fixed €18 for the final 12 kilometres. Buses do exist—Line 274 leaves Madrid (Conde de Casal) at 14:45 and returns at 06:55 next morning—but the timetable favours commuters, not sightseers.

Leave time for the return journey. Sunday evening taxis are scarce; the hourly village bus stops at the fountain at :25 past, often with standing room only.

The Honest Verdict

Pozuelo del Rey will not keep you busy for a week. A morning’s stroll, lunch under the plane trees and a lazy hour watching cloud shadows chase across the fields is enough. That, though, is precisely the appeal. Madrid’s suburbs sprawl ever closer—new developments creep along the horizon like advancing armies—yet inside the village the 21st century feels negotiable rather than inevitable. Come for the silence, the space and the smell of newly baked pan de pueblo. Just remember to bring cash: the only ATM charges €2 a pop, and the bakery definitely doesn’t take cards.