Alborge

The queue starts at 12:45 on Sunday. By 13:10 the car park looks like a Zaragoza dealership: 4×4s from the capital double-parked beside irrigation pickups, boots cracked open to cool cases of wine brought from home. Everyone is here for the same reason—Florentza Casa de Sidras, the only cider house within 100 km of desert, and the single reason most travellers ever bother to leave the A-68.

A village that forgot to grow

Alborge sits 156 m above the Ebro, close enough to smell the river when the wind turns, yet it feels land-locked. Flat roofs of brick and stone angle into narrow lanes; no church tower tops 12 m. The place once housed 500 souls, now fewer than 100 live year-round. Empty houses outnumber occupied ones, their timber doors painted the same ox-blood shade that hides desert dust. Walk the grid in eight minutes: Calle Mayor, Cal del Río, Plaza de la Constitución—done. The only sound is the irrigation pump behind the vegetable co-op, kicking in every 90 seconds like a metronome.

The countryside, not the village, supplies the drama. South-east, the Ebro slides past a belt of poplars that flashes emerald in April and rust by late July. North-west, the land rises to the stone-roof badlands of Aragón’s Monegros, all thyme and chalk. In between lies a chessboard of fruit orchards and wheat, each square bordered by drainage ditches deep enough to swallow a wellie. Storks use the power pylons as apartment blocks; when they clatter overhead the noise drowns out the tractor.

One restaurant, three rules

Florentza opens Friday to Sunday in winter, every day during Easter and August. Booking is non-negotiable at weekends; coach companies from Zaragoza block-book tables three months ahead. Arrive without a reservation and you’ll be offered a stool at the bar—if you’re lucky. The menu fits on a wipe-clean board: chuletón for two (800 g rib-eye, €42), grilled artichokes with romesco, and cider poured the Asturian way—glass tilted to shin height, liquid shot in from 50 cm to knock the bubbles flat. Staff will demonstrate; they’ll also mop the floor afterwards.

Vegetarians aren’t an afterthought. A plate of escalivada—smoky aubergine and peppers—comes slick with Aragonese olive oil sharp enough to cut the cider’s acidity. Puddings arrive pre-packaged from a bakery in Caspe; order the coffee instead—cheap, bitter, exactly what you need before the drive back.

Walking without way-markers

There is no tourist office, no leaflets, no QR codes on lamp-posts. Walkers rely on the 1:50 000 CNIG map or, better, the free Wikiloc app downloaded before leaving home. A flat 10 km circuit heads south along the irrigation canal to the hamlet of Sástago, then returns on the old river towpath. You’ll share the track with the odd dog-walker and farmers on Honda quads who raise a hand without slowing. Spring brings bee-eaters and hoopoes; August brings 38 °C by 11 a.m.—start early or fry.

Serious hikers link Alborge to the GR-99, the long-distance path that shadows the Ebro from Cantabria to the Med. The nearest stamp-worthy section is 12 km away at the Monasterio de Rueda, a 12th-century Cistercian ruin turned parador. Rooms there cost €110–130, but you can bunk down for free if you’re happy to wild-camp among the reeds—legal, discreet, and the only place for miles where the river drowns out the pump.

Seasons of wind and flies

May and late September deliver 24 °C afternoons, 14 °C nights, and a sky wiped clean by the cierzo, the north-west wind that barrels down the Ebro valley at 50 km/h. In July the same wind feels like a hair-drier; locals shut the metal blinds and sleep through the afternoon. Winter is surprisingly sharp—frosts in January, the odd dusting of snow that melts before lunch. Whenever you come, bring a layer; the desert doesn’t do moderation.

Rain is scarce—300 mm a year, half London’s total—but when it falls the clay tracks turn to grease within minutes. A hire car with decent tyres is essential; leave the Fiat 500 in Zaragoza.

How to do it (without getting stuck)

Fly: Ryanair from Stansted or British Airways from London City to Zaragoza (2 hrs). Book the hire car at the same time—airport desks run out of automatics on Friday flights.

Drive: A-68 south-east towards Barcelona, exit 291 Fuentes de Ebro, then follow signs to Alborge. The last 14 km are single-carriageway; watch for tractors pulling water tankers at 20 km/h.

Sleep:

• Casa de los Diezmos—five-room manor house inside the village, €90 double including Esther’s almond cake breakfast.
• Monasterio de Rueda—modern rooms in the restored monastery, pool overlooking the river, 10 min drive.
  Most Brits day-trip from Zaragoza’s Palafox or NH Sport, but the rural drive after cider is best avoided.

Money: No cashpoint in Alborge. The nearest ATM is 5 km away in Sástago and it’s often empty—bring euros.

Fuel: Zero petrol stations. Fill up at the Repsol by Zaragoza airport or in Caspe before turning north.

The honest verdict

Alborge won’t keep you busy for a week. It might not even keep you busy for an afternoon without a car. What it offers is concentration: one excellent meal, a flat walk through irrigated desert, and the slightly surreal sight of Spaniards queuing for cider 300 km from the nearest apple orchard. Turn up on a Tuesday in February and you’ll wonder why you bothered; arrive on a Sunday in May, cider glass in hand, storks clacking overhead, and the place makes perfect, if fleeting, sense.