Anento

The village appears suddenly after a bend in the road, a cluster of stone houses balanced on a ridge like books left open to dry. From the lay-by below, Anento looks almost too neat: terracotta roofs aligned, church tower dead-centre, no satellite dishes spoiling the line. Closer up, the perfection dissolves into lived-in detail—chipped plaster the colour of English mustard, timber doors patched with tin, a cat asleep on a windowsill warmed by morning sun.

A hundred neighbours and one good echo

Inside the walls the population drops to double figures. Locals will tell you ninety-seven on a good day, fewer when the sheep fairs are on in Daroca. That hush is the first thing British visitors notice after the clang of the hire-car door. No café playlist, no scooter buzz, just your own footsteps ricocheting off stone and the occasional tractor grinding uphill towards the cereal fields. The lanes are barely shoulder-wide; if you meet someone, stepping aside feels like a small ceremony. Expect a “buenos días” and a frank once-over—English walkers are still novel enough to merit appraisal.

The architecture is sober, almost defiantly plain. Farmers built what they needed: thick masonry to blunt the winter tramontana, tiny windows to keep June heat out, timber balconies just deep enough for a geranium pot. Ironwork is painted the same oxide green you see all over Aragón, a colour that photographs lilac in low light—ideal soon after dawn when the stone turns butter-yellow and shadows are still navy.

Up to the castle, down to the water

Two way-marked walks save the village from “lovely-but-what-now?” status. The shorter climbs five minutes to the ruined castle; the grade is gentle but the path rubble-strewn—trainers suffice, but open sandals will earn dusty toes. From the battlements the cereal plain ripples westwards like a beige ocean, and the only verticals are electricity pylons receding towards Calatayud. Bring binoculars in March and September: storks and honey-buzzards ride thermals straight past at eye level.

Drop back through the gate, skirt the church and follow the yellow arrows downhill to the Aguallueve, a spring that earns its poetic name—literally “water-rain”—by dripping from moss-covered tuff. The stream has carved a micro-gorge only twelve metres deep yet lush enough to feel conspiratorial. Ivy smells sharp, almost gin-like, after the dry upland air. The loop takes twenty-five minutes; add another ten if you stop to photograph the refection of the poplars. In July the ravine is the coolest place for miles, but mind the midges—Spanish ones, mercifully, ignore DEET far less than their Scottish cousins.

Those with sturdier footwear can extend the walk along sheep tracks south-east towards the ruined Ermita de San Juan, a bare chapel whose bell still hangs, clapper-less, like a metal question mark. The round trip is 7 km over thyme-scented hills; allow two hours and carry water because shade is theoretical rather than actual.

Bread, lamb and the tyranny of Monday

Food options fit neatly onto one hand. El Horno de Anento, on the tiny Plaza Mayor, opens at 10:00 for coffee and keeps serving until the last diner leaves. Roast milk-fed lamb arrives sizzling on a terracotta tile; even travellers who “don’t really do lamb” concede the meat tastes more of rosemary and wood-smoke than anything barnyard. A half-ration is generous for one, £14 in 2024 prices, and includes a slab of roast potato. Vegetarians can fall back on tortilla española—always available, always warm—or a tomato salad that tastes of actual tomatoes rather than chilled water. House red from neighbouring Cariñena is £2.20 a glass; bring cash because the card machine sulks when the temperature drops below 5 °C.

The bakery counter sells serviceable churros on Saturday and Sunday only. Arrive after 11:00 and you’ll queue behind day-trippers from Zaragoza; arrive earlier and you’ll share the counter with old men arguing over sheep prices. Monday travellers should know the bar shuts entirely—pack sandwiches or drive 20 km to Calatayud where modernity, and tapas, resume.

Practicalities that matter

Getting there: Fly Stansted to Zaragoza (Ryanair, 2 h 15 m). Hire cars live in the multi-storey opposite arrivals. Follow the A-23 towards Teruel, exit at Villarreal de Huerva, then take the A-1506 through sedate wheat fields. The last 12 km twist enough to keep speed down; in winter patches of ice linger in the shade until noon.

Parking: A signed gravel square at the entrance takes twenty cars. Ignore the inviting lane ahead—bollards appeared after a delivery van blocked the priest’s doorway and local patience evaporated.

Money: No ATM, no bank, no shop selling postcards. The nearest cash machine is beside Calatayud’s main church, 25 minutes by car. Cards are accepted nowhere in the village except the rural cottage rental, and even there only if the Wi-Fi reaches the router.

Accommodation: Most visitors treat Anento as a lunch stop en route to the Monasterio de Piedra, 12 km south. If silence appeals, book Casa Rural Aire de Anento, three bedrooms centred on a wood-burner and roof terrace wide enough for evening G&Ts while swifts wheel overhead. Rates hover round £90 per night for the whole house, cheaper mid-week. The Monasterio hotel offers spa access but you trade the hush for coach parties; choose according to tolerance for strangers in dressing gowns.

When to come: April–May turns the surrounding steppe green and sets the almond blossom alight. Late October pairs crimson oaks with crisp air that makes the castle stones feel warm to touch. Mid-summer is feasible if you walk before 11:00; by 13:00 the only shade is the church portico and even lizards look sleepy. January brings proper continental cold—daytime 4 °C, nights –6 °C—and the possibility of postcard snow, but paths ice over and the bar closes early.

Parting shot

Anento will not keep you busy. It offers instead a concise lesson in proportion: a hundred houses, two decent walks, one fine meal, total quiet. Stay for the afternoon, linger for the sunset blush on the stone, then drive away before the night sky makes you consider property websites. If that sounds like enough, arrive early and bring cash; if not, continue south—there are plenty of monasteries with gift shops to fill the gaps.