Patones

The first clue that Patones is different comes from the colour scheme. Approaching from the A-1, the sierra folds open to reveal a cluster of charcoal-grey roofs glinting like sharkskin against the ochre hills. This is Spain, yes – but not the whitewashed Andalucía of postcards. At 832 m above sea level, barely 55 km north of Madrid, the village trades sun-bleached terracotta for sheets of black slate stacked into walls, chimneys and even the tiny parish church of San José. The effect is closer to a Welsh mining hamlet that has been teleported into Castilian scrubland.

Patones is two settlements in one. Patones de Abajo, strung along the valley road, is where the 566 inhabitants actually live: modern breeze-block houses, a petrol pump, the only cash machine for 15 km. Patones de Arriba – the uphill bit that fills Instagram feeds – was abandoned during the 1950s rural exodus and later resurrected as a weekend curiosity. Park where the tarmac ends (arrive before 11:00 or you’ll join a snake of cars performing 17-point turns). From here an ecological path climbs 120 m in 15 minutes; stone steps, loose gravel, the scent of thyme crushed underfoot. Trainers are non-negotiable – town shoes skate on the schist slithers, especially after one of the sudden summer storms that drum against the slate.

Up top, the lanes are barely shoulder-wide. House façades are stitched together without mortar; gaps filled with quartz that sparkles when the low afternoon light hits. Most dwellings now serve as pintxo bars, craft shops or second homes for Madrileños. The result is half film set, half functioning village. On a Tuesday morning you’ll hear only swifts and the squeak of a rusty weather vane. Visit on Saturday and you shuffle in single file behind a guided group from Guadalajara, their guide waving a little flag and reciting the legend that Patones was once an independent kingdom ruled by a farmer-king who paid no tribute to the crown. Historians roll their eyes, but the story is printed on every menu.

What you’ll actually do

Start by circling the upper nucleus: twenty minutes if you march, forty if you photograph every cat and geranium. The church of San José is usually locked; peer through the iron grille and you’ll see a single nave no larger than a parish hall in the Cotswolds. Better views lie beyond the last houses where a chestnut tree shades a stone bench. From here the valley drops away towards the Atazar reservoir, a silver thread glinting 600 m below. Buzzards ride the thermals; the air smells of pine sap and distant charcoal grills.

If the crowds feel oppressive, duck onto the signed Ruta de las Carboneras, a 5 km loop that follows the old charcoal-makers’ path. The trail contours round the hillside, passing ruined lime kilns and a cave where shepherds once sheltered. Spring brings rockrose and orchids; autumn colours the maples copper. Allow two hours, carry water – there is no fountain once you leave the village, and the only café on the route opens at whim.

Serious walkers can link to the Senda de las Trochas, a 14 km ridge walk that drops into the neighbouring valley of El Atazar. The bus back leaves at 19:15; miss it and the next day’s service is a 07:30 commuter special. Check ALSA’s timetable the night before – mobile reception vanishes in the barrancos.

Where to eat (and where not to)

Weekend tables are gold dust; book even for lunch at 16:00. Menus revolve around cordero lechal – milk-fed lamb roasted in a wood oven until the knuckle bones protrude like handles. The meat is mild, closer to English spring lamb than the muttony versions found farther north. A half-kilo portion serves two, costs €28 and arrives with nothing more than a dish of roast potatoes and a lemon wedge. Vegetarians get spinach-and-raisin croquettes: sweet, nutty, surprisingly moreish. Pudding is usually cuajada (fresh curd) drizzled with local honey, or a shot of patxaran poured over custard – think alcoholic Ribena and you’re halfway there.

El Rey de Patones dominates the main square with terrace views straight down the gorge. The view is stellar; service can be surly since the 2022 boom. For a quieter meal walk five minutes to La Taberna de Patones, where the owner still chalks the bill on the bar and will apologise for her “poco inglés” while pouring a thimble of complimentary liqueur. Either way, bring cash – card machines refuse bills under €20 and the nearest ATM is back down the hill.

Seasons and mood swings

Patones sits high enough to escape Madrid’s furnace in July, but the stone walls radiate heat until dusk. Arrive before 10:00 or after 17:00; midday in August feels like standing inside a pizza oven. Winter is a different proposition: slate roofs wear a frosting of snow, the population shrinks to locals plus a handful of hikers in Nordic boots. Café fires burn pine cones that crackle like chestnuts. Roads are gritted, but the final 4 km from Torrelaguna twists enough to make snow chains wise after a cold front.

Spring and autumn remain the sweet spots. April brings wild peonies along the path edges; October smells of fermenting grapes from small plots hacked into the terraces. Weekday mornings you may share the streets only with the village baker delivering bread from a plastic crate strapped to a moped.

The downsides, honestly told

Patones is tiny. Allow more than four hours and you’ll find yourself circling the same three streets, re-reading menus in the hope they’ve changed. Coach parties disgorge at 11:30 and leave at 16:00; between those hours the upper village can feel like a rural theme park. Parking wardens in hi-vis jackets appear the moment a tyre touches a yellow line – fines start at €80 and the tow truck lives in the next valley. Mobile signal is patchy, toilets lock at 18:00, and the tourist office keeps Spanish hours: open 10:00-14:00, closed exactly for lunch.

And yet. Stand on the escarpment at sunset when the day-trippers have rolled back to the capital and the only sound is a goat bell somewhere below. Madrid’s neon glow stains the southern horizon, but here the air is cold enough to make you zip your jacket. Patones isn’t undiscovered – Instagram saw to that – but for a few minutes at dusk it still feels like a place that kept its own kings, made its own rules, and never quite agreed to join the twenty-first century. Just remember to set off downhill before the last bus leaves.