La Hiruela

The road climbs past Buitrago del Lozoya and the temperature gauge drops five degrees. Oak gives way to beech, the tarmac narrows, and suddenly every stone wall carries a slate plaque: "1.257 m". La Hiruela sits higher than Ben Nevis's base camp, yet only ninety minutes from Madrid's crowded plazas. At this altitude the Sierra Norte hasn't read the central-Spain script of dust and brown hills; instead it offers meadows still green in July and stone houses whose roofs disappear into mist by dusk.

The Village That Outlawed Concrete

Fifty-five inhabitants, one bakery open Saturdays, zero traffic lights. Planning laws here are fierce enough to make British conservationists weep with joy: new builds must use local slate, timber painted only in chestnut-brown or ochre, and roof pitches copied from 16th-century grain stores. The result feels less like a living museum than a place that simply refused the 20th century. Walk the single main street at 09:00 and the loudest sound is the clack of the bakery's wooden shutters. By 10:30 weekend visitors begin the twenty-minute shuffle from car park to village centre – compulsory on Saturdays and Sundays when a chain across the access lane keeps engines out. Locals call it "el filtro"; it works.

Stone corridors barely two metres wide angle between houses, opening suddenly into pocket-sized squares where chickens still scratch. The church of San Miguel is locked most days, but its rough-hewn bell-tower serves as a useful landmark when the footpaths branch. Half-timbered balconies sag under geraniums; look closer and the timber is railway sleeper, recycled when the mine railway closed in 1963. Nothing here is quaint for tourists' sake – there simply wasn't money to replace things.

Water, Wheat and Why People Stayed

Follow the lane downhill (everything here is either uphill or downhill) and the Molino Harinero appears beside the Hiruela stream. The water-driven flour mill reopened as a micro-museum after a €60,000 restoration paid for by an EU grant and Sunday-morning coin donations. Inside, millstones the height of a twelve-year-old still grind demonstrations on the first and third Sunday of each month. Guides are volunteers from the village; if the door is shut, ring the bell – someone usually appears within five minutes, wiping flour from their hands. Entry is free, though the honesty box funds roof slates at €4 a piece.

The short Senda Molino–Colmenar loop starts here, way-marked with yellow paint slashes. It's 3.8 km, takes ninety minutes, and crosses the stream twice on stone slabs that become entertainingly slippery after rain. Interpretation boards explain charcoal pits, lime kilns and how rye once thrived at altitudes where wheat failed. Spring walkers find wild narcissus under the ash trees; in October the same path glows with saffron milk-caps, edible if you fancy carrying frying pan and butter.

Above the Wall of Cloud

For something stiffer, continue past the apiary (buy 500 g of pale mountain honey for €8 from the box on the gate) and climb to the Alto del Hornillo at 1.530 m. The track zigzags through holm oak and emerging views: first the village roofs, then the whole Lozoya valley, and finally, on clear days, the glass towers of Madrid shimmering like a heat mirage 70 km south. The ascent takes seventy minutes; descent thirty. In March the hillside is lavender with Viola deliciosa – no, the name isn't marketing, it's what the botanist said when he first tasted it.

Winter brings proper mountain weather. Snow can fall from November to April; the council grades the access road up to Category B, meaning gritting starts only after five centimetres have settled. Chains become compulsory, and the Guardia Civil turn cars back at the junction with M-137. On the other hand, January weekday visitors get the village to themselves, fireplaces in the two rental cottages burn sweet-smelling oak, and the bar serves potaje de garbanzos thick enough to stand a spoon in.

Where to Eat, Sleep and Find Wi-Fi

The only year-round bar is Casa Cándido, open 09:00–21:00 except Monday and Tuesday. Expect rough wooden tables, a single hand-pulled tap of Mahou and a menu that hasn't changed since 1998: chickpea stew, grilled lamb cutlets, queasy-good slices of potato omelette. Main courses run €9–14; they take cards but the machine fails whenever the temperature drops below zero, so bring cash. The attached shop stocks tinned tuna, UHT milk and not much else – stock up in Buitrago if you're self-catering.

Accommodation is limited to three cottages sleeping four, booked solid at weekends until 2025 unless you fancy February. All cluster around the 16th-century washing trough; expect beams, wood-burners and surprisingly fast fibre-optic – EU money again. Nightlife is the Milky Way overhead and, on Saturdays, the distant thud of bass from a youth camp across the valley. Silence curfew is self-imposed: by 23:00 even the dogs have given up.

The Honest Verdict

La Hiruela delivers exactly what it promises: old stone, cold air, footpaths that don't consult a focus group. What it doesn't do is linger. A morning potters around streets, mill and two-loop stroll; add lunch and the afternoon ridge walk and you're finished by tea-time. Many visitors combine it with neighbouring Puebla de la Sierra or the beech forest of Hayedo de Montejo, twenty minutes east, whose autumn colours shame New England postcards. Others arrive expecting a Secret Spain hideaway and collide with fifty Madrid families queuing for the loo. The trick is timing: come mid-week outside school holidays, or embrace the crowds and treat the place as a living picnic site with medieval backdrop.

Leave space in the boot for honey and maybe a bottle of Bernuy tempranillo sold from the garage of a man called Félix (honesty box again). Just remember to check the weather before the final climb – at 1.257 m the Sierra Norte has its own micro-climate, and the clouds that look decorative from Madrid can translate to zero visibility plus sleet. Pack layers, download an offline map and accept that mobile signal dies two kilometres after the last petrol station. Do this, and Madrid's whispering village will speak clearly enough.