Pedrezuela

The 18th-century Zegrí aqueduct appears first as a distant stone question mark against the wheat. Forty minutes later, after a dusty track that skirts allotments and a scattering of weekend villas, the brick arches loom overhead tall enough to swallow a double-decker. Most visitors turn back here; the reservoir lies five minutes further and the village itself is another three kilometres beyond that. Pedrezuela begins where the selfie-takers give up.

A Plateau That Never Quite Became a Resort

At 860 m above sea level the air is thinner than in Madrid and noticeably cooler after dusk. The plateau collects summer breezes that ripple through barley fields and whistle around the stone houses of the old centre. Winters, by contrast, are sharp: night frost is common and the single main road can glaze over in January, something the local bus drivers treat with resigned shrugs rather than salt trucks.

The village’s modern story is commuter belt, not rural idyll. Half the working population still travels daily to the capital, a 45-minute hop down the A-1 when traffic behaves. The result is a place that wakes late on Saturdays and closes early on Sundays, its economy balanced between agricultural pensions, weekend gastro-seekers and Madrid families who want a villa plot big enough for a trampoline.

What You Actually See When You Arrive

Start in Plaza Mayor, a rectangle of granite slabs flanked by two cafés, a pharmacy and the inevitable 1970s bank whose mirrored windows reflect the church tower. Santa María Magdalena is part Romanesque, part patched-up after the Civil War, its nave dim and fragrant with candle wax if you find it open (mass times are posted on the door; outside those hours the caretaker may appear for a small donation). Step inside and you’ll notice the choir stalls are carved with bunches of grapes, a reminder that vines covered these slopes until phylloxera arrived in the 1890s.

Behind the church a lattice of lanes leads to the barrio de las bodegas: hand-hewn caves, their entrances bricked into gentle arches, once used to store wine at 14 °C year-round. Most are locked, a few converted into damp garden sheds. Peer through the iron grills and you can still make out the pressed-earth floors and soot-blackened ceilings where lamp flames once flickered during bottling season.

From the cave quarter a paved farm lane heads north towards the reservoir. Wheat gives way to olive saplings and, suddenly, the ground drops away to reveal the Embalse de Pedrezuela, a cobalt wedge held back by a concrete dam. There is no sand, just fist-sized pebbles and a roped-off swimming area that fills with lilos and labradors every July weekend. No lifeguards, no hire kayaks, no ice-cream van—bring water shoes and a parasol or you’ll fry.

Food at Tractor Pace

Lunch is the main event. Casa Ricardo grills beef from Ávila over holm-oak embers; chips arrive floppy and golden, the way the Spanish like them and many Britons don’t. Ask for salad instead and you’ll get a bowl of iceberg dressed with olive oil sharp enough to make your tongue tingle. A 250 g entrecôte, chips and a small beer costs €19; they’ll split one between two plates without fuss if children are involved.

Mesón de Pedrezuela, two doors down, trades in clay pots and long spoons. Try the judiones, butter beans the size of marrows stewed with chorizo and morcilla; the flavour is gentle, more smoky than spicy, and the portion defeats most appetites. Their set lunch menu runs to €14 during the week and includes house wine that started life in Castilla-La Mancha but won’t give you a headache if you stop at one glass.

Vegetarians survive on tortilla, cheese and the reliable tomato salads. Vegans should shop first: the small supermarket on Calle Real stocks hummus, oat milk and other exile foods, but it shuts for siesta between 14:00 and 17:00.

Walking Without the Sierra Crowds

The council has printed a sketchy map showing three circular routes. The easiest (6 km, 1 h 45 min) loops through farmland to a stone cross on the ridge west of town; you’ll share the path only with the occasional mountain biker and, in spring, a chorus of skylarks. The aqueduct walk mentioned in every brochure is slightly rougher: park at Urbanización Montenebro, follow the red dots, and save energy for the final scramble round the reservoir inlet where the path narrows to a goat track above the water.

Serious hikers link up with the Camino del Cid or drive 15 minutes to the pine-dark slopes of the Sierra de Guadarrama. Snow appears above 1,500 m from December onwards; if you fancy a two-centre break, Pedrezuela works as a lower-cost, milder-night base while Navacerrada ski resort is 35 minutes up the motorway.

Getting There and Away

By car: leave the A-1 at exit 50, Venturada–Pedrezuela. The slip road spits you onto the M-626; follow signs for the village centre and ignore the sat-nav if it tries to send you down a tractor lane. Free parking sits just beyond the ayuntamiento—handy, because the old streets are single-track and residents park by ear.

Public transport: bus 725 runs from Madrid’s Plaza de Castilla (bay 6) every 60–90 minutes on weekdays, less often at weekends. Journey time is 55 minutes; the last return service leaves at 21:30. Miss it and a taxi from Tres Cantos metro will lighten your wallet by €30.

When It Goes Wrong

August is flat and furnace-hot; the reservoir shrinks, the wheat is stubble and even the swallows look bored. Monday and Tuesday outside July many bars close—turn up on those days and you’ll eat crisps for lunch. Winter weekends can be magical if the aqueduct is outlined with snow, but rural Spain rolls up early: restaurants stop kitchens at 16:30 and you’ll need a hire car because buses thin out to near-nothing.

Book accommodation carefully. Online photographs show infinity pools and olive groves, yet some “rustic cottages” sit on 1990s housing estates where dogs bark at bin lorries. Read the map, check Street View, and confirm the fireplace really works if you’re after log-fire cosiness; many are ornamental only and nights drop to 2 °C.

Worth the Detour?

Pedrezuela delivers half a day of slow Spanish rhythm plus a decent lunch. Use it as a breathing space between Madrid’s museums and the mountain trails further north, or as a soft introduction to rural Castile if you’ve never ventured beyond the capital’s M-30 ring road. Just don’t expect a timewarp: the commuter blocks are still going up, the 08:15 traffic jam to Madrid is real, and the souvenir shop doesn’t exist. Arrive with modest hopes, sturdy shoes and an appetite for beans, and the plateau will reward you with silence loud enough to hear your own pulse.