El Atazar

At 945 metres, the air thins and the reservoir glints like polished pewter. Madrid lies only 75 minutes behind you, yet the capital’s roar has vanished, replaced by the soft clink of goat bells and the occasional April gust that smells of thyme and cold stone. This is El Atazar, a village so small that the postcode covers more water than houses.

The water in question is Madrid’s largest single reserve, the Embalse de El Atazar, held back by a 134-metre curved dam finished in 1972. Britons who know the Lake District’s wooded shores will find something altogether starker here: granite ridges drop straight to the water, the trees are sparse, and the horizon is punctuated by vultures rather than speedboats. Access to the shoreline is banned—no swimming, no kayaks, no wild camping—so the reservoir keeps a military hush, broken only when a sudden easterly whips white horses across the surface.

A Village that Fits Inside One Cotswold Parish

Seventy-odd permanent residents, two bars, one church, no cash machine. The houses cluster along a single ridge like stones tipped out of a pocket. Park on the M-133 where the asphalt widens—ignore the instinct to nose downhill towards the red-tiled roofs. A discreet camera guards the 200-metre access lane and issues €100 fines faster than you can say “sat-nav”. Five minutes on foot brings you to the plaza, a triangle of crumbling concrete shaded by a single walnut tree. Swallows nest under the eaves of the ayuntamiento; the loudest noise is the church bell striking the quarter.

Iglesia de San Bartolomé is 16th-century, squared-off and sober, its tower patched after lightning in 1983. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and granite dust; a side chapel displays a miniature dam built from sugar cubes by local schoolchildren in 1992, now yellowing under glass. It is the only overt nod to the structure that keeps the village alive and, paradoxically, keeps visitors out of the water.

Walking the Old Mule Tracks

Paths radiate like hairline cracks. The easiest is the PR-M 12, a 7-kilometre loop that contours above the reservoir before cutting back through stone terraces abandoned in the 1950s. Markers appear every kilometre—then vanish for three. Download the free IGN sheet before you leave the A-1; phone signal dies at the first bend. Spring brings purple hedge-nettle and the distant clatter of storks; October smells of damp chestnut leaf and woodsmoke. Wear proper boots—rain turns the schist to slick china—and carry a litre of water per person; the only fountain is in the village square.

For something stiffer, follow the drove road south-east towards El Berrueco. The climb to Puerto de la Puebla (1,250 m) gains 300 metres in 4 km, then drops to the almond terraces above the Rio Lozoya. Allow five hours return; the bar in El Berrueco does a restorative judiones stew big enough for two hungry walkers at €14 a plate.

Food That Understands Hunger

El Atazar’s two bars face each other across the lane like shy relatives. Both open only at Spanish mealtimes—no all-day latte culture here. At Bar Elathazar (the village name run together, a spelling mistake that stuck) the chalkboard offers half-raciones if you ask: a saucer of migas—breadcrumbs fried with chorizo and grapes—costs €4 and undoes the chill of a January wind. The house red comes from Valle del Tiétar and tastes of sour cherries; it is light enough for lunch and costs €2.20 a glass. Cards are smiled at and refused—bring cash or wash up.

Weekend specials revolve around the chuletón, a 1.2 kg beef rib-eye cooked over vine shoots until the fat blisters. Two people can just finish it, along with the plate of roasted piquillo peppers that arrive first. Price fluctuates with the Madrid market: expect €32–38 per kilo. If that feels excessive, order the sopa castellana: garlic, paprika and scraps of yesterday’s bread, an honest winter warmer for €6.

When the Reservoir Becomes a Mirror

Photographers congregate at the Mirador del Cancho de la Cabeza, a lay-by 600 metres north of the village reached by a stony track safe from traffic fines. Dawn in November paints the dam wall a pale terracotta; by 9 a.m. low cloud pools in the gorge like milk in a saucer. The reverse view—looking south from the M-134 above El Atazar—works best at last light when the water turns anthracite and the village roofs glow briefly pink. Bring a long lens: griffon vultures cruise at eye level, wingspans two metres plus, riding the thermals that rise off the cliff.

Seasons, Silence and the Catch

In April the night temperature can dip to 3 °C even when Madrid swelters at 24 °C; pack a fleece. July and August bring relief from the capital’s furnace—expect 28 °C at midday, but shade is scarce and the sun ricochets off pale stone. Bars stay open later, yet the village never feels busy; most day-trippers stick to the miradors and leave before the 3 p.m. lunch bell.

Winter is when El Atazar remembers it is a working village. January is slaughter month: family pig killings take place in back-garden sheds, the air sharp with woodsmoke and scalded pork fat. Outsiders are rarely invited, but the bars serve morcilla and fresh chorizo for weeks afterwards. Snow is uncommon; when it arrives the M-133 closes at the first hairpin and the reservoir road becomes a silent white balcony.

Getting There Without the Fines

From Madrid-Barajas take the A-1 towards Burgos, exit 50 at km 78, then follow the M-127 through Patones. The final 19 km are narrow but paved; allow 40 minutes for the twisty climb. Buses run twice daily from Plaza de Castilla to El Atazar—line 191—but the 08:15 outbound and 17:30 return leave little time for walking. Car hire is cheaper if you are two or more; fuel for the round trip is under €20.

Fill the tank at Torrelaguna, the last reliable petrol before the hills. There is no pharmacist, no shop, no Sunday bakery. If the wind is up, the village water tastes of peat—pleasant enough, but carry a filter if you are fussy.

Leave before dark if you dislike driving on single-track roads with 200-metre drops. Otherwise stay for the night sky: at 945 metres the Milky Way spills across the reservoir like sugar on slate, and the only sound is the dam’s overflow pipe sighing in the dark.