Somosierra

The A-1 lorry park looks like any other Spanish service station until you step beyond the petrol pumps. Suddenly the ground drops away, revealing a proper mountain pass—1,444 metres of granite and pine threaded by the old N-I that once hauled civil war convoys over the Sierra Norte. Most drivers fill up, grab a coffee and rejoin the motorway. Those who bother to climb the access road find Somosierra: 85 residents, one bar, a 17th-century church and air so thin it makes city lungs work for a living.

A village that forgot to grow

Stone houses huddle around the church of San Miguel as if sheltering from a wind that never quite stops. Roofs are slate, not terracotta, and chimneys spill the smell of oak smoke even in late spring. The streets—Calle Real, Calle de la Iglesia, Calle del Medio—take three minutes each to walk; together they form the entire street map. Vegetable plots edge right up to back walls, fenced with rusted bed frames and chicken wire. There is no souvenir shop, no boutique hotel, no artisan bakery. What you see is what the place is: a working mountain hamlet that happens to sit beside one of Spain’s busiest north-south arteries.

That proximity is both blessing and curse. Madrid lies 75 km south—close enough for day-trippers, far enough for phone signal to vanish. In summer the village doubles in size when grandchildren arrive to escape the capital’s heat. By November the pass often closes at dusk, the Guardia Real directing articulated lorries into single file while snowploughs clear the inside lane. When that happens Somosierra becomes an island, its only link to the outside world the orange glow of the Repsol station visible 200 metres below.

Walking above the traffic noise

The tarmac may hum with traffic, but ten minutes uphill the sound thins to nothing. A farm track signed simply “PR-M-12” climbs past abandoned threshing circles into a landscape of broom and wild lavender. Griffon vultures wheel overhead; their wingspan matches the height of a London bus. The path tops out at Puerto de la Fuenfría, an Roman-era crossing where snow lies in shadowed gullies until May. From here you can drop into Segovia province or loop back to the village in two hours. Walking boots are sensible—the soil is decomposed granite, slippery as ball bearings after rain—but the gradients are gentle enough for anyone who handles a Lake District stroll.

If that sounds too energetic, follow the dirt road behind the church for fifteen minutes to the mirador. The view opens north across the Jarama gorge towards the Meseta, a brown corrugated landscape that looks more Castilla than Madrid. Information boards show photographs of the 1936 battle when Republican militia held the heights against Franco’s African army; shell scars still pock the limestone. History here is not museumed and lit—it’s under your feet.

Calories and combustion

El Fogón de las Leyendas occupies a stone cottage opposite the church bell tower. Inside, tables are dressed with red-check cloths and the menu is a single laminated sheet. Order the cocido madrileño only if you skipped breakfast: a clay pot delivers chickpea, cabbage, two kinds of sausage, black pudding, beef shin and a marrow bone the size of a cricket bat. The waiter will demonstrate the proper ritual—strain the broth, eat the pulses, finish with meat—then leave you to it. A half-portion feeds two; a full portion could moor a hot-air balloon. Vegetarians get scrambled eggs with wild mushrooms, though the kitchen’s idea of “wild” may mean whatever the chef foraged that morning.

Coffee comes with a shot of orujo if the barman likes you. He also keeps a logbook for motor-bikers who stop on their way to the Picos; British licence plates outnumber Spanish ones at weekends. Sign the book and you join a roll-call that includes a Glasgow courier, a Norfolk vicar and someone who rode up on a 1958 BSA just to prove it could be done.

Seasons that bite back

May brings cowslips and temperature inversions—mornings start at 4 °C, afternoons hit 22 °C. June can be perfect, but the pass funnels wind; even in July you’ll want a fleece after six o’clock. September paints the oaks copper and empties the roads of holiday traffic. October is gambling month—blue skies or horizontal sleet, sometimes both before lunch.

Winter is serious. The first snow usually arrives overnight in mid-November, turning the petrol station into a glowing island surrounded by white. Chains become compulsory, yet every year someone in a hired Fiat 500 assumes “Madrid province” means mild. They spend the night in the village hall drinking soup brewed by the ayuntamiento, a story that will be retold in the bar for the next decade. If you must come between December and March, carry blankets, water and a full tank. The nearest hotel is 18 km away in Buitrago del Lozoya; Somosierra’s solitary hostal has four rooms and closes when the owner visits her sister.

The anti-itinerary

You will not fill an itinerary here. You can walk every lane, photograph every house and still have time for a second helping of chorizo before the lunch rush ends. That is the point. Somosierra works as a palate cleanser between Madrid’s galleries and the wine regions further north. Arrive mid-morning, stretch your legs on the Roman path, eat too much stew, buy a bottle of local honey from the counter by the door, then drop back down to the motorway. Total elapsed time: three hours. Effect on lungs and brain: disproportionately large.

Drive away slowly. In the mirror the village shrinks to a dark tooth on the ridge, then vanishes behind a bend. The road signs count down to Burgos, to Bilbao, to the ferry home. Somosierra has already retreated into its own weather, indifferent to whether you stayed five minutes or five hours.