Chapinería

At 680 m above sea-level the air thins just enough to make the church bells sound sharper. Chapinería sits on the first serious ridge of the Sierra Oeste, 47 km west of Madrid’s Puerta del Sol, and the temperature can be five degrees cooler than the capital by mid-afternoon. That alone makes it a refuge in July, when the Meseta starts to feel like a clay oven.

The village is small—2,606 permanent neighbours, plus weekenders who keep keys under flowerpots—and stretches barely a kilometre from the last stone house to the first holm oak of the dehesa. A single paved road, Calle Real, handles both traffic and gossip; if you park on it after 11 a.m. on Sunday you will be mentioned in the bar by name, number-plate and presumed appetite.

Stone, Oak and Livestock

Start in the Plaza Mayor, a rectangle of ochre plaster and granite corners that has never needed a traffic light. The ayuntamiento flies a flag that looks too large, the fountain dribbles politely, and the terraza of Bar Central manages eight tables without blocking the 16th-century arch that once led to stables. Order a caña (€1.40, correctly poured with a two-finger head) and you receive a dish of olives that were sealed in brine locally—sharp, still dusty, impossible to finish.

The Iglesia de la Natividad de Nuestra Señora closes more often than it opens; Mass times are Saturday 19:30, Sunday 11:00, and “whenever the priest can get up the hill from Navalcarnero.” If the wooden doors are ajar, duck inside. The nave is a palimpsest: Visigothic stones at the base, Mudéjar brick in the arches, nineteenth-century stucco trying to hold it all together. The altarpiece was gilded with New World silver in 1642; the left aisle still smells of candle wax and floor polish mixed with something faintly animal—proof that the church shares a wall with a goat paddock.

Leave by the north gate and the town dissolves into pasture within three minutes. The dehesa here is not the manicured parkland of tourist brochures but a working landscape: cork oaks grazed to sheep-shoulder height, black Iberian pigs dozing under acorns, and cowbells clanking like defective church bells. A circular track, the Senda del Encinar, threads 5 km through the grass without climbing more than 80 m—more of a long dog-walk than a hike, but enough to earn an appetite.

What You’ll Actually Eat

Chapinería does not do tasting menus. Lunch is a binary choice between Asador de Chapi and Mesón El Cazador, both on the same street and both run by cousins who no longer speak. At the Asador the house speciality is lechazo—milk-fed lamb roasted in a wood-fired brick oven until the skin crackles like thin toffee. A quarter portion (they will oblige if you ask) costs €14 and arrives with nothing more than a lemon wedge and a dish of rock salt. Order patatas fritas for the table if you must, but they will be hand-cut and arrive last, because the chef refuses to let anything stand between you and the meat.

El Cazador answers with cochinillo and a house red that began life in Valdepeñas and travels the 90 km in a 1,000-litre plastic cube. The suckling pig is portioned with the edge of a plate rather than a knife—an old Castilian trick that impresses first-timers until they realise the meat has been resting for twenty minutes and would yield to a stern glance. Both restaurants close on Monday; if you arrive then, the only alternative is Bar Central’s bocadillo de calamares (€3.50) and a bag of crisps.

Getting Up and Getting Back

Public transport almost exists, but almost is the operative word. The C-5 Cercanías train reaches Navalcarnero, 15 km south, in 42 minutes from Madrid’s Príncipe Pío station. From Monday to Friday a single yellow bus branded “L-2” leaves Navalcarnero plaza at 07:20 and 14:30; it returns at 13:45 and 19:15. Miss the last departure and a taxi costs a flat €35—more if the driver has to come out after 22:00. Hire cars make more sense: take the A-5 towards Badajoz, peel off at exit 24 onto the M-501, and follow signs for Chapinería. The final 8 km twist through granite outcrops and sudden vistas of the Alberche valley; in winter the road can ice over in patches that the sun never reaches.

Seasons and Sensibilities

Spring is the sweet spot. By mid-March the dehesa is lime-green and night temperatures stay above 5 °C, so you can leave the bedroom window open and listen to owls trading insults. Autumn runs a close second: October brings fungus hunts and the local quince turns soft yellow, smelling like sweet cider. Summer is tolerable before 11:00 and after 17:00; at midday the only shade belongs to the church tower, and even the dogs know enough to lie on the north side. Winter is bright, wind-sharpened and often empty—perfect if you want the trails to yourself, less perfect if you forgot that central heating in old houses can be a single plug-in radiator and a blanket.

The Things That Go Wrong (and How to Anticipate Them)

The castle on the hill is not a castle but the ruined Ermita de San Blas, and the path to it turns to clay soup after the slightest rain. Wear shoes with grip and do not trust Google’s estimated walking time—Spanish maps assume you are part mountain goat. The village cash machine is inside the pharmacy; it dispenses a maximum of €150 and refuses all non-Spanish cards every third Saturday. Bring euros or be prepared to wash dishes—Bar Central’s owner has done it at least once for a stranded cyclist.

Weekends fill up with madrileños who arrive at 11:30, claim every outdoor table by 12:00, and leave engines running while they order coffee. If you want silence, book a weekday. If you want company, arrive Saturday at 13:00 and accept that service will be slow, because the waitress is also the butcher’s daughter and she has to deliver kidneys to her father across the road between courses.

Staying the Night (or Not)

Chapinería has no hotel. The nearest bed is the Exe Gran Hotel Almenar, ten minutes down the motorway in a business park that smells of pine mulch and diesel. Rooms are €65 mid-week, spotless, and staffed by receptionists who will print boarding passes without being asked. Closer to the village, Airbnb lists three cottages: “Casa Rural El Canto” has a pool, English-speaking owners and a barbecue big enough for a small deer; they email a three-page Madrid city guide before you arrive. The alternative is to fold Chapinería into a day trip that includes the Roman bridge at Aldea del Fresno and the chocolate museum in Colmenar de Orejo—both within 25 minutes’ drive.

Leaving Without the Gift-Shop Bag

There is nothing to buy. No one sells key-rings shaped like pigs or fridge magnets of the church. The bakery will vacuum-seal a ring of mantecados if you ask the night before, but that is the extent of retail adventure. What you take away is lighter: the smell of oak smoke on a jumper, the realisation that Spain still contains places where the waiter remembers your name after one coffee, and the echo of those sharper bells against granite. Five kilometres out, where the M-501 straightens and Madrid’s skyline reappears, you will already be planning the return—ideally on a Tuesday, when the lamb is fresh and the plaza is yours.