Cadalso de los Vidrios

Eight hundred metres above Madrid's heat

The A-5 motorway drops away behind you as the M-501 climbs through wheat fields that gradually give way to holm oak and pine. By the time Cadalso's stone bell tower appears on the ridge, the steering wheel is cool beneath your palms and the thermometer has shed five degrees. At 800 metres, this granite village serves as Madrid's natural air-conditioning unit – a fact not lost on weekenders fleeing the capital's July furnace.

The altitude does more than moderate temperature. It shapes the entire rhythm of village life. Morning mist pools in the valleys below until nine o'clock. Winter frosts arrive six weeks earlier than Madrid, turning the surrounding dehesas silver and forcing locals to harvest olives in October rather than November. Even the architecture responds: window frames sit deeper in walls, roofs pitch steeper, and chimneys grow thicker to handle the 600-millimetre annual rainfall that makes this pocket of Madrid province surprisingly green.

Stone, wine and the writer who never owned either

Cadalso's name confuses every first-time visitor. José de Cadalso, the Enlightenment soldier-poet, never lived here – he spent childhood summers with an aunt whose family adopted the village surname. The literary connection ends there, yet his ghost haunts every souvenir shop selling editions of Cartas Marruecas. More honest is the village's second surname: vidrios refers not to windows but to the glass-blowing workshop that operated from 1723 until 1936, whose pink-tinged glassware still turns up in Madrid antiques markets.

The real heritage lies underfoot. Granite cobbles worn smooth by three centuries of ox-carts lead past houses built from the same stone quarried three kilometres away. Notice how doorways angle slightly inward – a practical response to carts brushing walls on narrow turns. The 16th-century Palacio de Villena dominates the main square with carved escutcheons celebrating the Álvarez de Toledo family's grip on local wine taxes. EU citizens enter free with passport; others pay €3 for rooms largely empty save for temporary art exhibitions. The exterior tells the story anyway: ground-floor windows small enough to keep out tax protesters, first-floor balconies large enough to address them.

Walking tracks that taste of Malvar

Three marked trails radiate from the village like spokes, each offering different perspectives on this transitional landscape between Spain's central plateau and the Sierra de Guadarrama. The green-route vineyard circuit passes Bodegas Peral, where you can push open an unmarked door at 11am and find the owner's grandmother pouring young Malvar wine into tasting glasses last washed in 1998. The white wine's crisp apple notes owe everything to altitude – grapes here ripen three weeks later than neighbouring Valdepeñas, maintaining acidity that makes this €3 bottle surprisingly food-friendly.

Serious walkers should tackle the 12-kilometre red route that climbs to Puerto de la Fuenfría at 1,200 metres. The path follows an 18th-century drove road where bronze-age granite waymarks still guide hikers through holm oak pastures. Spring brings wild asparagus thrusting through last year's leaf litter; autumn delivers chestnuts and the unmistakable scent of Lactarius deliciosus mushrooms. Take a stick – locals use them to ward off the village's increasingly bold wild boar population, now so comfortable they saunter past the primary school at dusk.

Lunch at two or starve until nine

Spanish time works differently at altitude. The sun rises later, sets earlier, and meal times shift accordingly. Everything except the pharmacy shuts at 2pm. Arrive at 2:15pm and you'll find metal shutters down, elderly men playing cards in bar doorways, and nowhere serving food until 9pm. Plan accordingly. Mesón de la Plaza offers judiones – butter beans the size of pound coins stewed with ham bone – in portions large enough to fuel afternoon walks. The half-portion option, rare in rural Spain, acknowledges British appetites without condescension.

Sunday morning's market occupies precisely one side of the main square. Three stalls: honey from Colmenar de Oreja, sheep cheese from a cooperative in Chapinería, and seasonal vegetables from a poly tunnel in Pelayos. Bring cash – the cheese seller's card machine "only works when it's not foggy". The honey-drizzled cheese tastes of thyme and rosemary from surrounding dehesas; buy 200 grams for €4 and they'll wrap it in waxed paper that survives the flight home better than any Duty Free bag.

When granite turns to ice

Winter transforms Cadalso from weekend escape to proper mountain village. January temperatures drop to -8°C, turning the granite church tower into a refrigerator that keeps the priest's wine perfectly chilled. The M-501 occasionally ices over; carry chains between December and March even if the forecast promises sun. Those who brave it discover a different place: bars light proper wood fires, churros appear only on Sundays when the travelling fryer visits, and the glass-blowing workshop runs weekend courses where you can make your own vidrio rose for €25.

Summer weekends bring the opposite problem. Madrid's heat refugees arrive in such numbers that parking becomes a competitive sport by 11am. The village's 3,300 permanent residents swell to 8,000, queues form at the single cash machine, and the week's rubbish piles overflow despite municipal efforts. Visit Tuesday through Thursday in July and you'll share the palace courtyard with three retired schoolteachers from Navalcarnero. Come Saturday and you'll photograph it through a sea of selfie sticks.

The bus that isn't and the car that must be

Public transport exists but tests patience. Bus 551 leaves Madrid's Estación Sur at 9:15am, arriving 80 minutes later after stopping at every roundabout between here and the capital. The return journey departs Cadalso at 6:30pm – fine for lunch but useless for photographers wanting golden-hour shots. Car rental remains essential for exploring the surrounding wine roads, each bodega spaced precisely three kilometres apart, apparently by 18th-century decree.

Driving brings its own challenges. The final six kilometres from the M-501 involve enough hairpin bends to test even British country-lane veterans. Meet a tractor on one of these corners and someone must reverse 200 metres – usually the hire car. But the reward comes at sunset, when the granite walls glow amber and the valley below fills with purple shadow. You'll understand why locals claim Cadalso has two climates: Madrid's heat down there, and something approaching Segovia's mountain air up here. They're not wrong – pack layers even in August.