Canencia

The first thing you notice is the temperature. Even in July, when Madrid bakes at 38 °C, the car thermometer drops ten degrees as the M-611 corkscrews up through pines to Canencia. Windows open, jacket on, the city falls away behind.

At 1,150 m, this scatter of stone houses is the place madrileños themselves escape to when asphalt melts. The village sits squarely on the watershed: rain that lands on the southern slope runs to the capital; the northern side drains into the Lozoya valley and, eventually, the Atlantic. It is geography rather than marketing that keeps the air crisp.

Stone, Oak and Silence

There is no postcard square, no selfie-ready fountain. The centre is simply the point where three lanes meet beside the church of San Blas, a no-nonsense granite block whose bell still marks the hours for farmers. Walk any street and you will pass vegetable plots no bigger than a London garage, gates patched together from old pallets, and stone walls warm from the sun. Everything feels lived-in rather than curated.

The built-up bit is tiny—under five minutes from end to end—so visitors who arrive expecting a “historic quarter” are either disappointed or relieved, depending on temperament. What saves the day is the oak forest that starts at the last lamppost. The Robledal de Canencia is a 200-hectare reserve of Pyrenean oak, threaded by a 4-km loop that stays passable even after autumn storms. In October the canopy turns copper for roughly a fortnight; photographers bunch up at the wooden footbridge, then disperse when the first wind strips the leaves. Outside that window you get the place to yourself, plus the sound of water sliding over granite slabs.

Walking without the Crowds

Canencia works best as a base rather than a destination. From the top of the village, an old drove road climbs gently to the Puerto de Canencia (1,450 m), gateway to the Sierra Norte proper. The route is sign-posted, stone-pitched in places, and mercifully free of the mountain-bike traffic that plagues other valleys. Allow 90 minutes for the ascent; at the pass you can either drop down to El Cardoso and ring a taxi back, or continue east along the watershed for views across the granite massif of La Pedriza.

If that sounds too strenuous, follow the Ruta de las Pesquerías Reales, a half-day circuit that tracks the mediaeval irrigation channels built for the royal hunting lodges near Rascafría. The path is mostly level, but muddy after rain—proper boots, not city trainers, are expected. Halfway round you reach the Presillas, a string of natural pools deep enough for a swim in July. Signs warn of strong currents in May when snowmelt is high; ignore them and the Guardia Civil have been known to fine reckless bathers.

What, Where and When to Eat

Lunch is the main event. Asador Casa Juana, on the road into town, fires its chuletón over holm-oak logs until the fat edges turn black and crisp. A one-kilo rib steak (serves two, €38) arrives with nothing more than a plate of hand-cut chips and a lemon wedge; the house red, from the Madrid sub-zone of San Martín de Valdeiglesias, is light enough not to knock you out for the afternoon. Book at weekends—there are only four restaurants for the whole village, and locals like their roast too.

For something lighter, the bakery opposite the church sells crusty loaves and pressed sheep’s cheese wrapped in waxed paper. Add a jar of local honey (€6) and you have the makings of a picnic; the oak tables beside the Presillas are five minutes’ drive north.

Evening options shrink fast. The last coffee bar shuts by 22:00, after which the only activity is the stags rutting in the beech woods below the road. Bring a book, or a bottle, or both.

Seasons and their Quirks

Spring is the sweet spot. Daytime temperatures sit in the high teens, streams still carry snowmelt, and the first wild asparagus appears along the verges. Be aware that nights remain single-figure until June; pack a fleece even if Madrid forecast promises 25 °C.

Autumn colour peaks between the third week of October and the first of November—book accommodation early if that matters, otherwise you will find yourself staying 15 km away in Miraflores, where prices jump 30 %. After heavy rain the forest tracks become axle-deep mud; the council grades them within 48 hours, but hire cars have been towed out at owners’ expense.

Winter is quiet, beautiful and occasionally inaccessible. Snow usually arrives overnight in January, and the M-611 is the last stretch the gritters reach. From December onwards the Guardia set up a checkpoint at the junction with the A-1; carry chains or you will be waved back down the hill. On clear days the air is so sharp you can pick out the skyscrapers of Madrid 60 km to the south, tiny grey sticks on the horizon.

Summer, paradoxically, is when the village feels busiest. Madrilenian families rent weekend houses, children career around on bicycles, and the pools fill with inflatable unicorns. Yet compared with Mediterranean Spain the numbers are trivial—walk 20 minutes up any trail and you are alone again. Start hikes at 07:30 to be back before the sun hits hard; afternoon siestas are non-negotiable.

Getting There, Staying There

The simplest route from Britain is to fly into Madrid-Barajas, pick up a hire car at Terminal 1 and head north on the A-1. Take exit 80 at km 80, follow signs for Buitrago del Lozoya, then swing left onto the M-611. The climb begins immediately—change down, enjoy the view, and fill up in Rascafría if the fuel light flickers; it is the last reliable station before the pass. Total driving time from the airport is 75 minutes in light traffic, two hours on a Friday evening when half of Madrid decamps for the hills.

Public transport exists in theory: a twice-daily bus from Plaza de Castilla to Rascafría, then a pre-booked taxi for the final 20 km (€35). Miss the connection and you are spending the night beside the Lozoya river.

Accommodation is split between the village and scattered farmhouses. In the centre, Apartamento El Carrascal offers two bedrooms and a wood-burner for €90 a night; book through the owner’s WhatsApp—he answers faster than the platforms. The only hotel, La Cañada, has 12 balconied rooms overlooking pine woods; ask for number 8 if you want sunrise over the oak canopy. Several Airbnbs advertise “Canencia” yet sit 8 km down dirt tracks; check Google Street View before committing, especially in winter when a Ford Fiesta will not suffice.

The Honest Verdict

Canencia will not change your life. It offers no epiphany, no hidden chapel with baroque angels, no cocktail list. What it does provide is a straightforward antidote to urban Spain: clean air, marked trails, steak that tastes of oak smoke, and a night sky still dark enough to see Andromeda with the naked eye. Come expecting museums and you will be bored within an hour; come with walking boots and a cooler box and you will understand why madrileños have kept the place to themselves.