Villanueva de Perales

The 595-metre line in the asphalt

Drive west on the A-5 until the crash-barrier rhythm falters, the lorries thin out and the GPS clock drops a minute. At kilometre 47 the motorway slips into the M-501; swing left at the next roundabout and the road climbs 200 m in tight switchbacks. Villanueva de Perales appears on a ridge like a punctuation mark: stone houses, a single church tower, and beyond them the dehesa rolling all the way to Extremadura. Madrid is 45 minutes behind, but the air is already thinner, cooler and smells of resin instead of diesel.

A grid you can draw on the back of a receipt

The village footprint is tiny. From the stone cross at the entrance to the last lamppost on Calle Real measures 650 m; walk it slowly and you have seen everything before the kettle could boil back home. Granite doorframes, hand-forged balcony rails, the occasional 1970s brick extension someone wishes they hadn’t added. House numbers stop in the low hundreds; the only traffic jam is when the delivery van blocks the bar’s doorway. British visitors often expect whitewash and geraniums—Castilla prefers earth tones and shutters the colour of rusted ploughs. It photographs less well, but the walls stay warm after sunset, which matters once the altitude knocks the mercury down ten degrees from the capital.

There is no dedicated tourist office. Orientation begins with the Iglesia de San Sebastián, whose bell strikes the quarter-hour whether anyone is listening or not. Step inside and the temperature falls another notch; the stone floor is uneven enough to make heels wobble. A laminated sheet taped to a pew gives the English translation: rebuilt 1743 after lightning, roof restored 1992 after bats. That is pretty much the full architectural saga. Outside again, the plaza measures 30 paces across; the metal seats have been painted so often they no longer fit the bolt holes, so they rock like small boats when you sit.

Paths that forget they are paths

Leave the last houses behind and the track turns to ochre grit. Holm oaks spread wide enough for two sheep to hide under; their trunks are charcoal-black where farmers have pruned for firewood. This is gentle walking country—no airy ridges, no Via Ferrata moments—just steady gradients that keep heart rate polite. The signed route from the church is called “Sendero de la Dehesa” on the faded panel; after 2 km the paint slashes stop and you are left with a cow path and a view. From here the altitude becomes useful: south-west you can pick out the granite bulk of the Sierra de Gredos still wearing last winter’s snow; north-east the A-5 is a grey thread you can’t hear at all.

Carry water. The nearest fountain is back in the square and the shade is patchy; in July the thermometer can still touch 36 °C even at this height. Conversely, January mornings start below freezing—Madrid’s micro-climate buffer disappears the moment you crest the ridge. Snow is rare but mud is not; after rain the clay grips boots like treacle and the farmers leave their 4×4 tyre tracks as reminders that tractors weigh twice as much as rental Fiats.

One bar, one restaurant, one cash machine that sulks

The economy runs on the honour system and small notes. Bar La Plaza opens at 07:00 for tostada con tomate—half a baguette, grated tomato, splash of olive oil, €2.50 including coffee. It closes when the owner feels like it, which can be 15:00 or 22:00 depending on card-school attendance. Next door, Mesón de la Vega is the only restaurant: four tables inside, six more on the terrace under a persimmon tree. The menu never met a grill it didn’t like—entrecôte, chorizo, half-chicken with hand-cut chips. Ask for “pollo asado sin especias” and the waiter nods without judgement; they have fed enough Brits on the Madrid–Lisbon haul to know what that means. A three-course lunch with house wine lands just under €20; cards accepted, but the machine still prints the carbon-copy slip you haven’t seen since 1998.

Opposite the church, the mini-market doubles as the village ATM. Weekends see a queue of three people and one dog; when the cash runs out the nearest alternative is a 12 km drive to Robledo de Chavela, so pocket notes while you can. Fuel is the same story—fill up before you leave the motorway or you will be explaining “reserva” to a bemused spouse at dusk.

Festivals without wristbands

January brings the fiestas de San Sebastián: midday mass, free churros, one firework that nobody admits to lighting. Temperatures hover around 8 °C; locals wear quilted jackets, visitors from Surrey think it’s T-shirt weather because the sun is out. Mid-August is the bigger deal—three nights of brass bands in the plaza, children still chasing footballs at 02:00. The village population swells to maybe 2 000 as madrilenos with grandparents here drive out for the weekend. Accommodation disappears first; if you haven’t booked Casa Rural La Pradera by Easter you are sleeping in Navalmoral.

Traditional pig slaughter still happens in back kitchens between New Year and Candlemas. You will smell the woodsmoke and see sides of pork curing under netting if you walk the lanes at the right time, but it is not staged for visitors; the family is feeding itself, not TripAdvisor.

Getting stranded on purpose

Bus 551 leaves Madrid’s Moncloa interchange at 30-minute intervals until 20:00; after that the service turns into a pumpkin and a taxi back costs €70. The ride takes 75 minutes and climbs the final 300 m in noisy low gear. Hire cars are easier—exit 47 off the A-5, follow signs for Robledo de Chavela, turn right at the stone pile shaped like a bread loaf. Parking is wherever the verge is wide enough; yellow lines haven’t reached the village yet.

Casa Rural La Pradera has three en-suite rooms and a pool that faces west into the sunset. Reviews on British forums repeat the same phrase: “perfectly fine for a night.” Guests who book a week usually reappear in Madrid by Wednesday, surprised at how quickly stillness can turn into boredom. The owners shrug and refund the difference; they have seen it before.

When to arrive, when to leave

April–May and late September–October give you 20 °C days, wild marjoram along the paths and enough birdsong to cover the distant motorway. Spring adds the risk of showers that turn the clay lethal; autumn trades rain for morning mist that fills the valley like steam in a coffee cup. Summer dawns are glorious if you are willing to walk at 07:00 and nap through the furnace hours; winter is crisp, empty and occasionally icy, but the bar keeps the coal stove lit and the coffee measures are Spanish-generous.

Stay longer than a single night only if the idea of reading an entire book before lunch sounds like success rather than failure. Villanueva de Perales does not reward bucket lists; it rewards lowering expectations until two storks circling the bell tower count as the day’s highlight. Book a room, bring cash, wear sensible shoes and leave the itinerary blank. Somewhere between the first tostada and the last glass of local red the village proves its point: Madrid’s mountains begin where the guidebooks end, and sometimes the best map is no map at all.