Villalbilla

The 07:43 Cercanías pulls in and a dozen laptops-in-backpack types swing down onto the platform. Within five minutes they’ve vanished into the low-rise grid of Villalbilla, leaving the station alone with a handful of larks and the smell of toast from the bar that opens at dawn. Forty kilometres east of central Madrid, this is commuterland – but the skyline is still grain silos rather than glass towers, and the loudest noise at 9 a.m. is usually a tractor heading out to cereal fields.

A Plateau That Breathes

Altitude 747 m gives the air a clarity that Madrid lost decades ago. In April the surrounding meseta is green velvet; by late July it turns the colour of digestive biscuits and crackles underfoot. There is no dramatic sierra on the horizon, only long, rolling swells that look like a calm sea frozen mid-oil-painting. Cyclists use them as interval-training country: head south on the CM-1004 and you’ll meet club riders from Torrejón de Ardoz doing 40-km loops before office hours. Walkers prefer the unpaved agricultural tracks that fan out from Calle del Carril – firm enough for trainers in dry weather, ankle-deep in clay after September storms. Take water; the only bar between here and the next village is a vending machine in a petrol station.

The historic kernel is small: one plaza, one church tower you can spot from almost anywhere, and a rectangle of streets where brick-and-stone houses still have wooden doorways painted the colour of Sangría. The 16th-century Iglesia de San Pedro Apóstol has been stretched, patched and re-roofed so many times that its walls read like an archaeological flip-book – late-Gothic base, Baroque tower, 1980s render. Step inside during morning mass and you’ll catch a drift of incense and coffee from the bar opposite; step outside and the bells compete with the beep of a reversing delivery lorry. Villalbilla refuses to be a museum.

Suburban Reality, Village Pace

What surprises first-time visitors is the sheer sprawl. The original nucleus holds maybe 800 houses; the rest – red-roofed estates with names like “Las Retamas” and “El Cigarral” – spreads south and east until it bumps against the A-2 motorway. Pavements stop abruptly, then restart two hundred metres later; pedestrian crossings lead to earth tracks. A car (or at least a bike) is almost obligatory if your Airbnb turns out to be in one of the farther urbanizaciones. Bus Line 251 connects to Madrid’s Avenida de América every 30 minutes at peak times, but the last return service leaves at 22:10 – miss it and a taxi is €45.

That scatter explains the cuisine. There is no ancient tapas quarter, just a handful of neighbourhood bars doing plates that could be served in any Castilian town: roast lamb, judiones (buttery white beans), quartered chicken with chips. Mesón de Paco on Calle Real will hold the garlic butter if you ask; they’re used to Brits from the nearby Airbus factory. For pizza-and-chips relief, Pizzería Roma keeps thin-crust ovens going until midnight and has English menus stacked by the door. Weekend lunch is the big meal – arrive after 3 p.m. and you’ll be the only table left, everyone else having decamped for a siesta that lasts until the pool re-opens at 4.

Water, Wheels and Wind

The municipal outdoor pool (€3 adults, €2 kids) is open July to September and fills with paddling British toddlers whose parents have discovered it costs a fifth of Aquopolis in nearby Alcalá. There’s no inflatable dolphin in sight, just a 25-m lane, a grass strip for picnics and a kiosk selling chilled lager for €2.50. Shade is scarce; bring a parasol or queue for one of the six plane trees.

Two wheels work better than two feet if you want to leave town. A signed greenway, the Vía Verde del Henares, starts 5 km away in Azuqueca and runs 38 km to Guadalajara along a disused railway – flat, tarmacked, perfect for children on tag-alongs. Road cyclists can loop west to Torrejón and back before the heat builds; Strava shows 60 m of elevation gain in 34 km, which is as close to Dutch as central Spain gets. Mountain bikers head for the agricultural tracks: after rain these turn into clay Velcro that will add 2 kg to each wheel – hose-down taps are behind the sports pavilion on Calle Deportivo.

When to Come, When to Leave

April–May and mid-September to October are the sweet spots: daytime 22 °C, night-time 8 °C, skies washed by Atlantic fronts that rarely reach Madrid. In August the thermometer kisses 38 °C by noon; the fields shimmer and even the larks sound hoarse. Walking is restricted to 7–9 a.m. or 7–9 p.m. Winter is bright but brisk: 10 °C at midday, –2 °C at dawn, and a wind that barrels across the meseta with nothing to stop it except you. Snow is rare; icy puddles are not – pack soles with grip.

Crowds are never a problem because Villalbilla is not on the way to anywhere. The only congestion happens during the fiestas of San Pedro (last weekend in June) when the plaza hosts a travelling funfair and half of Alcalá descends for the Saturday night concert. Book early if you must stay; otherwise come the weekend before and you’ll have the pool to yourself.

The Honest Itinerary

Two-hour pit-stop: Park by the plaza, coffee at Cafetería California, quick circuit of the church and the old streets, buy a doughnut-like rosquilla at Panadería Reyes, photograph the stork nesting on the bell tower, leave.

Half-day: Add a 6-km circular walk south past the threshing circles to the Ermita del Cristo (locked, but the bench outside faces an ocean of wheat). Back in time for lunch at Mesón de Paco – order the cordero asado for two even if there are three of you; portions are huge.

Full day: Morning train to Alcalá de Henares (12 min, €2.40), roam the Cervantes quarter and university, return after lunch for a pool session or bike ride, then tapas crawl: squid roll at Bar Chimo, vermouth on ice at Taberna del Pájaro, ice-cream from Heladería Miro on the walk home.

The Catch

Villalbilla will not sweep anyone off their feet. It offers breathing space, reliable Wi-Fi and a cheap bed, not Moorish arches or Michelin stars. If you arrive expecting Ronda-style drama you’ll be back on the train within an hour. Treat it as Madrid’s back garden – a place to rinse city dust from your throat, cycle until the horizon blurs, or simply sit in a plaza where the louest noise is still a lark – and it does exactly what it says on the tin.