Villa del Prado

The Saturday morning market starts at eight. By half past, locals have already claimed the best tomatoes, still warm from the fields that surround Villa del Prado. This is when the village reveals its true purpose: feeding Madrid. Those crates of peppers, aubergines and courgettes stacked between the church and the pharmacy aren't for show—they'll be on plates in the capital by teatime.

A Working Village That Happens to Be Pretty

Five thousand people live here, enough for three butchers, two bakeries and a proper high street that doesn't roll up its shutters at the first hint of autumn. The altitude—509 metres—keeps summers bearable and winters sharp. Morning mist pools in the Alberche valley below, burning off by ten to reveal a landscape that looks cultivated rather than conserved. This is rural Spain without the theme-park polish.

The centre folds around Plaza Mayor, a rectangle of granite benches and plane trees where teenagers circle on scooters while their grandparents occupy the shade. Santiago Apóstol church rises from one side, its late-Gothic tower visible for miles across the vegetable plots. Inside, the contrast hits: plain limestone outside, baroque explosions of gold within. The carving of Santiago Matamoros—St James the Moor-slayer—still gets paraded through the streets every July, though these days the only battles are for picnic tables along the river.

Following the Water

The Alberche dictates the village rhythm. Three minutes' walk from the square, the medieval bridge throws reflections onto water that's too shallow for kayaking but perfect for dangling feet.Upstream, the river spreads into sotos—riverside groves of poplar and willow where madrileños pitch weekend barbecues. The noise isn't traffic; it's kingfishers and the clack of bicycle wheels on the dirt track that shadows the bank.

This is the Ruta del Alberche, a seven-kilometre stroll that passes ruined watermills and the remains of an irrigation system the Romans would recognise. In summer, families claim gravel beaches where the water runs waist-deep. The swimming is unofficial—no lifeguards, no flags, just local knowledge about which bends stay cool and where the current picks up after rain. Bring sandals; the riverbed's stony and the cows upstream aren't particular about water quality.

What You're Actually Eating

The menu hasn't changed much since the 1950s. Cordero lechal—milk-fed lamb—roasts in wood-fired ovens until the skin shatters like sugar glass. Trout from the Alberche appears simply grilled with a wedge of lemon, though increasingly it's farmed cousins from the Sierra. The real stars are vegetables: pisto (Spanish ratatouille) tastes of sunshine because the ingredients were picked that morning.

Try the tortilla at Bar Victoria, opposite the town hall. It arrives thick as a doorstep, the potatoes sliced not diced, still soft in the centre. Order a caña of San Martín wine—light, fruity reds from vineyards twenty minutes west that rarely make it onto London lists. Lunch runs until four; arrive at three-thirty and you'll eat with the staff, watching them ferry plates to regulars who've booked the same table every Thursday since 1987.

The Practical Bits That Matter

You need wheels. Villa del Prado sits 55 kilometres west of Madrid, a straightforward hour on the A-5 past industrial estates and oak savannah. Public transport exists—a bus from Príncipe Pío station—but there are only four departures daily and the last one back leaves at seven. Hire a car at Barajas; the roads are empty once you clear the M-40 ring road.

Accommodation clusters in two flavours: stone townhouses with Juliet balconies, or detached villas down dirt tracks among the artichoke fields. The latter come with pools, essential in July when temperatures touch 36°C and the village pool charges eight euros for a sun-lounger. Self-catering works best—shops shut 2-5 pm and restaurant kitchens close abruptly if trade's slow. Stock up at the Mercadona in neighbouring San Martín de Valdeiglesias; Villa del Prado's own supermarkets are small and the butcher closes Tuesdays.

When to Come (and When Not To)

May and October deliver 24-degree days and almond-blossom skies without the coach parties. Spring brings wild asparagus along the riverbanks—locals carry knives for foraging walks. September is grape-harvest season; the air smells of fermentation and tractors block the lanes.

August is trickier. Madrid empties into the countryside; the river beaches resemble Brighton on a bank holiday and parking near the bridge requires patience. Weekend lunch queues snake out of every restaurant. If summer's your only option, arrive Friday night, do your exploring by nine Saturday morning, then retreat to a villa pool before the day-trippers claim the river.

Winter strips the landscape to ochre and olive green. Days stay bright—Madrid's light pollution is 60 kilometres east—but nights drop to freezing. Many rural villas close November-March; those that stay open offer proper fireplaces and walks where you'll meet more shepherd than tourist.

The Honest Truth

Villa del Prado won't keep you busy for a week. A morning covers the sights: church, Renaissance palace with its chain-motif façade, the lagoon that's more puddle than beauty spot. What it does offer is a functioning Spanish village that hasn't remodelled itself for visitors. The market smells of soil, not potpourri. The bars serve workers, not influencers.

Come for three days: one to shop and cook like a local, one to cycle the river path to the ruined monastery at Pelayos de la Presa, one to drink wine on your terrace while the sun sets over vegetable plots that feed a capital city. Then drive back to Madrid airport past fields that supplied your dinner, wondering why more people don't skip the city break and head straight for the source.