Navarredonda y San Mamés

The thermometer on the car dashboard drops six degrees in the last ten kilometres. Madrid’s August furnace is suddenly a memory; up here the air smells of pine resin and sun-warmed granite. At 1,200 m, Navarredonda y San Mamés is the capital’s nearest mountain refuge, yet most Britons racing north to Segovia never notice the turn-off.

Two hamlets share one council, one bar and fewer than 150 permanent residents. Stone walls the colour of burnt cream divide vegetable plots from oak forest; every gate seems to have a horse leaning over it. There is no ornamental flower-basket tourism office, no artisan ice-cream parlour. Instead you get silence that actually registers in your ears once the engine stops, and nights cold enough to make a jumper feel virtuous.

Granite, oak and the long view

The built heritage is modest but honest. In Navarredonda the church of San Andrés keeps its original wooden bell frame—hand-winched since 1642—and the porch stones are worn into shallow bowls by centuries of boot grit. Walk the 400 m along the lane to San Mamés and you pass a working forge that still repairs farm tools; smoke drifts out even on Sundays. Between the settlements a meadow dotted with boulders serves as an informal village green; local children race ponies here while grandparents sit on folding chairs facing the pine ridge, as if the mountain were television.

The surrounding Sierra Norte is Madrid’s least populated comarca. Footpaths strike out immediately from the last house, no car required. A 45-minute loop eastwards climbs through sweet-chestnut coppice to the Mirador del Pedrón, a granite slab that acts as a natural balcony over the Lozoya valley. On clear days you can pick out the blue-glass skyline of Madrid—forty-five kilometres away but looking like a foreign country.

Longer routes continue to the 2,100 m summit of La Najarra, a full-day hike that requires map, water and a windproof even in June. The reward is a cirque of abandoned sheep corrals and, in May, wild irises flowering between the frost-shattered rocks.

When to come and what to expect

Spring arrives late. Snow can fall as early as late October and hang around until mid-April; the road from Buitrago is salted but not rapidly. April brings luminous green meadows and night temperatures of 4 °C. May and June are the sweet months: daylight until 21:30, visible butterflies, and the bar terrace warm enough to sit outside after seven. September repeats the trick with added mushrooms; locals guard their chanterelle spots as fiercely as Yorkshiremen guard fishing beats.

July and August are dry but rarely stifling. Daytime peaks of 28 °C feel cooler in the shade, yet the sun at this altitude burns fast—factor 30 is sensible. Afternoon storms can bubble up without warning; hikers should be below the ridge by 15:00. Winter has its own followers: the village turns into a launch point for snow-shoe circuits when a decent dump arrives, though you may need to dig the car out first.

Eating and sleeping, mountain-style

There is one restaurant, Casa Herminia, open weekends year-round and most evenings in summer. The menu never strays far from cuchara cooking: judiones the size of conkers stewed with scraps of jamón, and chuletón for two that arrives sizzling on a terracotta tile. Vegetarians get roasted piquillo peppers and a tomato salad that tastes of actual soil. Expect €18–22 for a main; booking before Friday is wise if Madrileño families are in residence.

The village shop closed in 2018, so self-caterers should load up in Buitrago’s Mercadona ten kilometres back. Rental houses are scattered through both hamlets: Stayz listing 498685 gives a three-bedroom stone cottage with roof terrace and working fireplace (from €110 nightly, minimum two nights). La Casa del Tío Juan is smaller, English-owned, and supplies hot-water bottles for winter guests. Neither offers daily housekeeping; this is stay-among-locals territory, not boutique Spain.

Getting here without the headache

Public transport stops at Cercedilla, 25 km away on the Madrid commuter line. From there a Monday-to-Friday bus reaches El Berrueco at 14:30, still 8 km short. The honest method is to fly into Madrid-Barajas, collect a hire car and drive the A-1 north for 65 minutes. Leave the motorway at km 77, follow signs for Buitrago, then swing right onto the M-137. The final approach is a single-track road; reverse into passing bays when you meet a tractor stacked with hay bales.

Petrol gauges matter: the village has no filling station and night-time temperatures can freeze a near-empty tank. A spare fleece lives in the boot all year; even in July the thermometer can dip to 9 °C after midnight.

What can (and does) go wrong

Mobile coverage is patchy inside granite houses—step outside to make calls. ATMs are extinct; the bar card machine failed for three days last Christmas when the router froze. Parking in the village centre blocks farmers’ access to feed stores; use the rough ground by the cemetery and walk back in three minutes. Finally, Navarredonda y San Mamés is not photogenic in the chocolate-box sense: roofs sag, dogs bark, machinery rusts picturesquely. If you need cobbled perfection, drive on to Pedraza. This place trades in oxygen, quiet and the smell of woodsmoke, not in prettiness.

The village will not entertain you. It will, however, let you switch off the phone, walk straight into proper hills, and remember what 21 °C feels like when southern England is melting. Pack a map, bring cash, and arrive before the sun drops behind the pines—after that, the only thing moving is the smoke from the forge.