Cenicientos

The church bell in Cenicientos strikes eleven and the only other sound is a dog arguing with a delivery van. At 775 m above sea level, the air is already warm enough to make the granite walls sweat; by three o’clock the shade will be worth hard currency. This is the Sierra Oeste fringe, 80 km west of Madrid, where the Meseta tips into the Gredos foothills and the word pueblo still means a place that works for a living rather than one that poses for photos.

Stone, Slope and the Smell of Resin

Most visitors tumble out of the car, blink at the brightness and wonder where the centre went. There isn’t one, not in the British sense of a tidy high street. Houses spiral up a low ridge in no particular order; the tarmac narrows, then gives up altogether. Granite blocks the colour of week-old snow show the chisel marks of 1920s rebuilds and 1970s extensions side by side. Laundry flaps from wrought-iron balconies whose paint has thinned to a respectable rust.

Walk uphill for four minutes and the houses thin out. Suddenly you are in pinewoods that smell like a hardware shop: hot resin, crushed needles, a trace of woodsmoke from somebody’s fireplace. This is the Dehesa Boyal, communal grazing land shared since the 19th century. Cattle and pigs still exercise their right to wander, which explains the electric fences and the occasional cowpat in the middle of the footpath. Close the gate properly; the village takes a dim view of strangers who leave livestock loose among the picnic tables.

Walking That Forgives No One

The tourist office—one room behind the ayuntamiento—hands out a photocopied map titled Ruta de los Pinares. It looks gentle: 8 km, 250 m of ascent, two hours on the clock. What the map fails to mention is the surface: fist-sized granite chunks that roll like ball-bearings under city trainers. After rain the same rocks glaze with a film the colour of café con leche and twice as slippery. Proper boots are not showing off; they are basic insurance.

The reward is immediate shade and, every so often, a clearing where the view snaps open toward the Alberche valley. On hazy days Madrid’s four tallest towers glint on the horizon, 70 km away as the kite flies. Buzzards circle overhead; wild boar prints dent the mud. Locals insist the boar are more scared of you, then recount the morning a sow marched her eight piglets past the primary-school gate.

Come back via the Canchales sector, a jumble of house-sized boulders left by a glacier that never quite made it to the village. The rock is warm even in January; climbers from the capital appear at weekends with brushes and crash-pads, politely pretending not to notice the teenagers drinking cola-cao on the next block.

Food That Arrives in Bowls, Not Square Plates

Cenicientos keeps one proper restaurant, two bars and a bakery that sells out of pastries by 10:30. Menus are written in chalk because they hinge on whatever the supplier had that morning. Expect judías con chorizo thick enough to hold a spoon vertical, setas a la plancha when the picker arrives with a crate of níscalos, and game stews in November when the hunting syndicate returns with surplus wild boar. Vegetarians survive on patatas a lo pobre and the excellent local honey, spooned over fresh cheese that costs €3.50 for half a kilo.

Wine comes from neighbouring San Martín de Valdeiglesias; the house red arrives in a glass that would be described as “generous” in London and “mean” here. Pudding is usually arroz con leche eaten with a teaspoon so worn the silver plate has disappeared. Photograph it if you must, but the barman will laugh: “It’s rice, not the Mona Lisa.”

When the Weather Picks the Itinerary

Spring and autumn behave themselves: 18 °C at midday, cool enough at night for a jacket. These are also the seasons when the village looks its best—wild marjoram in the verges, or the oaks the colour of burnt sugar depending on the month. Summer is a different contract. By 14:00 thermometers flirt with 36 °C and the pine needles hiss. Sensible people walk at dawn, nap through the heat, then re-emerge at seven when the sun drops behind the ridge and the temperature falls ten degrees in half an hour.

Winter is underrated. January highs sit around 9 °C, frost whitens the roofs, and the air is so clear you can count the wind turbines on the next range. The only problem is access: the M-501 from Madrid can ice over at the pass above Robledo de Chavela, and Spanish gritters are sporadic at 07:00. Carry snow socks even if the forecast claims “light frost.”

Combining Cenicientos with the Sensible World

Public transport exists in theory—a bus leaves Madrid’s Príncipe Pío station at 14:15 on weekdays, returning at 06:50 the next morning. That timetable suits committed hikers with a tent, nobody else. A hire car remains the least painful option: 75 minutes on the A-5 to Navalcarnero, then smaller roads that twist through holm-oak fields. Petrol is usually 8–10 c cheaper per litre than in central Madrid; fill up in Navalcarnero if you’re running low.

Most walkers pair Cenicientos with the neighbouring villages of Robledo de Chavela (astronomical observatory, good menu del día) or Santa María de los Caballeros (smaller, stonier, even quieter). If you insist on a full weekend, base yourself in San Martín de Valdeiglesias where the hotels have central heating and the castle hosts summer concerts. Drive to Cenicientos early, park on the ring-road by the cemetery, and you can be on the pine-route before the first Spanish family has finished breakfast.

The Honest Verdict

Cenicientos will not change your life. It offers no souvenir shops, no Michelin stars, no epic tales of conquest. What it does offer is a dose of upland Spain that still belongs to the people who live there rather than the people who visit. Bring boots, a water bottle and a sense of proportion. Leave the drone at home; the locals value their Sunday siesta more than your Instagram grid. If that sounds like a fair trade, the pines are waiting.