San Agustín del Guadalix

The 721 green bus drops you beside a petrol station that doubles as the bus stop. From here it's a three-minute walk to the Plaza de la Villa, past houses whose ground floors have been converted into dentist surgeries and estate agencies. Then the 17th-century tower of San Agustín church appears, working perfectly as a navigational aid for anyone who grew up orientating themselves by cathedral spires rather than mobile maps.

At 684 metres above sea level, San Agustín del Guadalix sits high enough above the Madrid plain to escape the capital's thermal blanket, but not high enough to qualify as mountain territory. The air feels thinner than London's, though barometric pressure isn't usually the first thing on visitors' minds. More noticeable is the wind: it channels down the Jarama valley and whips across the cereal fields, making even May afternoons feel cooler than the thermometer suggests.

What passes for a centre

The historic core measures roughly four streets by four. House prices here have doubled since 2019 as Madrilenians trade city flats for village houses with proper stairs and no lift fees. British buyers have yet to discover the place, which explains why estate agent windows still quote prices in euros rather than pounds and why nobody has started serving Sunday roasts.

The church interior mixes baroque excess with practical village touches: a side chapel contains the municipal nativity scene, stored in plastic boxes marked "Reyes Magos" for eleven months of the year. Weekday mass at 19:30 brings a burst of activity; otherwise the building functions as a glorified timekeeper, its bells chiming the quarters with mechanical precision that makes Big Ben seem positively sloppy.

Around the plaza, the bar terraces occupy the same spots they've used since the 1950s, though the furniture has upgraded from wicker to aluminium. Casa Ricardo opens at 06:00 for workers driving to Madrid; by 10:00 the clientele switches to retired men reading Marca over coffee. Their croquetas arrive five at a time, golden oblongs of ham béchamel that cool just enough to eat without burning tongues—perfect training wheels for tapas novices.

Walking without wilting

The ayuntamiento has waymarked three circular routes, though the paint fades faster than they can refresh it. The yellow route heads south along the Guadalix stream, really a modest ditch lined with poplars and the occasional dumped fridge. Still, the water attracts nightingales in April and provides shade during what Spaniards call "las horas bravas"—the brutal midday stretch from 13:00 to 17:00.

Summer temperatures regularly hit 38°C, turning the surrounding cereal fields into a shimmering beige carpet. Walking at noon feels like trekking inside a hairdryer; early mornings offer compensation in the form of dew-soaked spider webs and the chance to watch tractors rolling out like clockwork at 07:00 sharp. Winter swaps heat for wind: January days peak at 10°C but the wind-chill knocks off another five, making a Barbour jacket feel positively sensible rather than fashion statement.

The landscape won't feature in National Geographic anytime soon. This is working Castilian countryside—olive groves trained into perfect rows, wheat stubble after harvest, the occasional stone barn converted into a weekend retreat. What it lacks in drama it compensates for in accessibility: paths are flat, stiles non-existent, and the only livestock you'll encounter are sheep safely behind electric fences. Navigation is refreshingly simple: keep the church tower behind you on the outward leg, aim for it on the return.

Tuesday is market day

The weekly market transforms the concrete plaza beside the health centre into a maze of tarpaulin stalls. Fruit and veg cost roughly half Madrid prices; a kilo of misshapen tomatoes sets you back €1.20. The cheese van sells Manchego at €14 per kilo—bring cash because the vendor's card reader "only works when it feels like it". British visitors invariably head for the doughnut stall; the rosquillas taste like ring-shaped Madeira cake, less sweet than Krispy Kreme and infinitely better with coffee.

Market day also means the bakery on Calle Real sells out of pan de pueblo by 11:00. Locals queue for the village loaf, crusty enough to require genuine jaw exercise, interior airy enough to mop up olive oil without collapsing. Buy one, plus a half-jamón for €2.50, and you've got lunch sorted for less than a London latte.

Eating without the hard sell

San Agustín hasn't succumbed to the tasting-menu trend. Most restaurants stick to Castilian classics executed with varying degrees of competence. Asador El Lagar serves chuletón—a T-bone the size of a railway sleeper—at €28 per kilo, meant for sharing between two hungry adults or one Basque truck driver. Chips arrive in a separate dish, properly fried in olive oil rather than the frozen variety, a detail British visitors notice immediately.

Vegetarians face limited options: judiones (giant butter beans stewed with chorizo) can be ordered without the chorizo, leaving… giant butter beans. Pescatarians fare better with bacalao al ajoarriero, salt cod shredded into tomato and pepper stew, though it's worth asking whether today's version contains morcilla—blood sausage has a habit of sneaking into otherwise innocent dishes.

Table reservations become essential on Saturday evenings when Madrid families drive up the A-1 for weekend lunch. They arrive around 15:00, eat for two hours, then head home before darkness falls. Turn up without booking and you'll be offered a stool at the bar, perfectly acceptable for huevos rotos—fried eggs broken over chipped potatoes upgraded with serrano ham, comfort food that requires zero explanation.

Getting here, getting back

No railway line reaches the village; the nearest station is 12 kilometres away in Colmenar Viejo, itself a 30-minute Cercanías ride from Madrid. The 721 bus provides public-transport purists with an authentic experience: plastic seats, no air-conditioning, and a driver who doubles as ticket inspector. The service departs Plaza de Castilla at 35-minute intervals until 22:15; miss the last one and a taxi to Madrid costs a flat €60.

Driving remains the sensible option for anyone collecting a hire car at Barajas. Take the A-1 north, exit 52, and follow signs for the village centre. Parking is free on streets where white lines indicate resident bays (ignore them—enforcement is theoretical) and blue lines mean pay-and-display (€1 per hour, coins only). The journey takes 25 minutes on a quiet Tuesday; Friday evening tailbacks can stretch it to an hour as Madrilenians flee for their weekend cottages.

The honest verdict

San Agustín del Guadalix works as a half-day detour rather than a destination in itself. Combine a morning wander with lunch and you'll be back in Madrid for siesta time, village church bells replaced by city traffic hum. Come expecting cobblestone perfection and you'll leave disappointed; arrive prepared for a lived-in place where old and new coexist without apology and you'll find exactly what the guidebooks claim to offer elsewhere—just don't expect anyone to call it "authentic".