Alarba

The church bell strikes noon in Alarba and nothing happens. No café shutters slam shut, no traffic snarls, no mobile phones buzz. A single tractor putters along the main street, its driver raising two fingers from the steering wheel in greeting to nobody in particular. At 844 metres above sea level, in the rocky highlands south-west of Calatayud, silence is the default setting.

This is rural Aragón stripped of postcard clichés. The village houses—stone below, adobe above—cluster so tightly that neighbours can pass a bag of sugar through adjoining windows. Many sit empty. With 104 registered inhabitants, Alarba has roughly the population of a single London Underground carriage at rush hour, spread across a grid of lanes you can walk in twenty minutes. What the statistics don’t show is the rhythm: winter populations drop by half; summer swells with returning grandchildren and Madrid retirees who still call these houses “la de la abuela”.

Stone, Sun and Almonds

Limestone defines both landscape and architecture. The same grey-yellow rock that ribs the surrounding hills has been split, stacked and mortared into every wall, arch and windowsill. Look closely and you’ll spot masons’ marks—tiny crosses, arrows, initials—chiselled five centuries ago during the village’s brief Moorish frontier period. The stone absorbs heat all day and releases it after dusk, which explains why even July nights rarely stay above 18 °C. Locals still refuse to plant tender vegetables outdoors before the second week of May; at this altitude, a single frost can wipe out an entire tomato crop.

Around the houses, agriculture clings to any scrap of flat ground. Almond terraces glow white in March, then blush pink before leafing out into dusty green. Wheat and barley stripe the broader fields, rippling like watered silk whenever the cierzo—Aragón’s notorious north-west wind—sweeps down from the Moncayo massif. Between field and forest, scrubby rosemary, thyme and esparto grass hold the thin soil together, scenting the air every time a boot or hoof disturbs them.

One Church, Two Bars, No Supermarket

San Pedro Apóstol squats at the top of the rise, its bulky tower doubling as the village time-piece. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; the interior is pure 1500s austerity, no gold leaf, just plaster washed ochre and a single Baroque retablo gilded in 1732 after a plague-survival miracle that nobody can now describe in detail. Mass is sung once a week, on Sunday at 11:00, and the priest drives in from Calatayud. Arrive early and you’ll see women swapping house keys along with gossip—an informal child-minding rota that predates WhatsApp by about four hundred years.

Opposite the church, Bar Casa Ramón opens at 07:00 for field workers wanting a cortado and closes when the last customer leaves, usually before 22:00. A glass of house red costs €1.20; a bocadillo of local serrano ham €3.50. There is no menu. If Doña Ramona has stewed lentils with chorizo, that’s what you’ll eat. Credit cards are theoretical; bring cash. The second bar, newer and tiled in corporate orange, doubles as the village shop. Bread arrives from a Calatayud bakery at 09:00 and is usually sold out by 10:30. If you need paracetamol, nappies or a phone charger, the nearest proper supermarket is 22 km away in Maluenda.

Walking the Dry River Beds

Alarba sits on a minor watershed: rainfall drains either north towards the Jalón or south into the Jiloca, both tributaries of the Ebro. Centuries of erosion have cut shallow gullies, perfect for linear walks that don’t demand mountain fitness. From the last street lamp on the western edge, a farm track drops into the Barranco de las Goteras. Follow it for 45 minutes and you reach an abandoned stone mill, Molino de la Loma, where a trickle still turns a broken paddle wheel. Bring water; there is none en route, and summer shade is theoretical until the sun drops below the ridge at 18:30.

For something stiffer, continue another two hours up the same ravine, then zig-zag 250 m of scree to the ridge known as Cuchillar. The reward is a 360-degree platform: north to the snow-capped Pyrenees (visible on the clearest winter days), south across the stepped cereal plateau, east to the fortified silhouette of Calatayud. The path is way-marked by cairns and the occasional bootprint; GPS helps. In April and May you’ll share the slope with Alpine swifts and the last late crocuses; in July the stones vibrate with heat and the only sound is cicadas. Do not attempt the loop after heavy rain—clay soil clogs boots and makes descents treacherous.

Lamb, Lentils and Left-over Bread

Food here is calibrated to the farming calendar. Almonds appear in everything: toasted and strewn over migas (fried breadcrumbs with garlic and paprika), ground into ajo blanco (a cold summer soup), or caramelised into turrón at Christmas. Spring means milk-fed lamb, roasted long and slow until the knuckle meat shrinks back from the bone. Summer is for gazpacho aragonés—not the chilled tomato soup of Andalucía but a stew of salted cod, red pepper and egg, designed to use up yesterday’s bread. If you’re offered fréjoles, say yes: a local variety of white bean, smaller than the famous judión from nearby La Almunia, stewed with bay leaf, morcilla and a single pig’s trotter for body.

Wine comes from the Campo de Cariñena DOP, 40 minutes south. Order crianza and you’ll get something balanced and oak-aged for under €15 a bottle; joven is lighter, fruitier, better with lunch. Water is another matter. Tap water is safe but heavily mineralised—if you dislike the taste of limestone, buy bottled in Calatayud before you drive up.

When to Come, Where to Sleep

April and May deliver daytime highs of 18–22 °C, almond blossom against green wheat, and nights cold enough for a jumper. September repeats the trick, minus blossom, plus grape harvest haze. July and August are furnace-hot by midday; sightseeing is best finished by 11:00. Winter is bright but bitter—thermometers can read -8 °C at dawn—and occasional snow blocks the final approach road for a day or two.

There is no hotel. Tourism is incidental, not an industry. Instead, two villagers rent self-catering flats: Casa Chuan has two bedrooms, wood-burning stove and roof terrace overlooking the almond terraces (€70 per night, two-night minimum). The other option is Casa Forestal, a converted forestry lodge 3 km outside the village, reachable by graded track. It sleeps six, solar panels provide hot water, and the price (€90) includes bedding but not towels. Book via the municipal website—English is limited, so prepare short, polite Spanish phrases. Otherwise base yourself in Calatayud (25 minutes by car) and day-trip. The three-star Hotel Calatayud has doubles from €55 including garage parking; the spa next door charges €15 for a hydro-circuit if your legs ache from ridge walking.

Getting There, Getting Out

Alarba is not on the way to anywhere famous. Fly to Zaragoza from London-Stansted (Ryanair, seasonal, twice weekly) or year-round to Madrid, then hire a car. From Zaragoza airport take the A-2 west towards Madrid, exit at Calatayud, follow the N-IIa south for 12 km, then local road A-1212 for another 10 km. The tarmac narrows to a single lane with passing bays for the final climb; meet a tractor and someone must reverse. Petrol stations close at 20:00—fill up in Calatayud. There is no bus. Taxis from Calatayud cost €35 each way and must be booked a day ahead.

Leave time for the return journey. The landscape flattens abruptly beyond the Sierra Vicort; suddenly you’re on the central plateau doing 120 km/h with trucks bound for Barcelona. One hour later the skyline turns glassy and you remember why Alarba’s bell tower felt so tall: up there, it was the only thing breaking the horizon.