Bordon

The church bell strikes eleven and nobody stirs. Not the two men sharing a newspaper outside the only open bar, nor the woman beating rugs over her stone balcony. At 828 metres above sea-level, Bordón moves to a rhythm set by sheep bells and the long shadows of the Maestrazgo, not by coach timetables.

A Village That Refuses to Pose

Most travellers reach Bordón because they took a wrong turning after Sarrión, lured off the A-23 by a brown sign that promises “Pueblos del Maestrazgo”. What follows is 23 kilometres of switchbacks where stone pines cling to copper-coloured cliffs and the road narrows to a single courteous lane. The first glimpse of the village is not theatrical: stone houses grip a south-facing slope like barnacles, some freshly pointed, others gap-toothed and empty. No flowerpots line the lanes. The only colour comes from a defiant red SEAT 600 parked permanently outside the closed panadería.

This is not a place that has tidied itself for visitors. Corrals still smell of last night’s sheep, and wheat is threshed on concrete terraces outside front doors. The ayuntamiento has glued ceramic plaques to half the houses—“1664”, “Casa de los Mora”, “Aqui vivió Dolores”—but the effect is more medical chart than heritage trail. The appeal lies in watching a settlement carry on with the business of December firewood or July tomato sauce as if TripAdvisor had never been invented.

Stone, Wind and the Smell of Thyme

Start at the top where San Miguel Arcángel keeps watch. The church is locked most days; ring the number taped to the south door and Don Vicente will shuffle up with a key the size of a courgette. Inside, the nave is a palimpsest: Romanesque bones, Gothic ribs, a Baroque skin flaking politely away. Climb the tower if offered—seventy-odd steps, no handrail, hatch door that scrapes your shoulders—and the whole Maestrazgo tilts below like a rumpled eiderdown. To the east the Sierra de Gúdar bruises the horizon; westwards the land drops into Castellón in a series of dried-up river beds that glint like mica after rain.

Wander downhill along Calle de la Serna and the village reveals its grammar. Doorways are barely five foot six—Aragonese mountain folk grew sideways, not upwards. Haylofts are punched randomly into upper floors, reached by stone steps that end in mid-air, legacy of a time when mules rather than 4x4s did the heavy lifting. Every corner carries a whiff of wild thyme and woodsmoke; the two scents compete, then mingle, then surrender to the cold wind that always finds the gap in your fleece.

Walking Without Waymarks

Serious hiking maps show a spider web of paths radiating from Bordón, but on the ground the paint blisters off faster than the council can renew it. The safest tactic is to download the free Maestrazgo GPX files (4G is surprisingly reliable on these ridge tops) and follow the old drove roads—caminos reales wide enough for a hundred head of sheep. One easy loop drops to the abandoned hamlet of Las Parras, 4 km south-east through rosemary and white scrub. Stone terraces there still grow almonds no one harvests; in late August the nuts split open with a crack audible above the cicadas.

Longer routes link to Villarroya de los Pinares or the horseshoe cliffs of Peña de la Juliana, but carry more water than you think necessary—springs marked on 1950s maps have a habit of drying up the moment someone posts them on Instagram. Griffon vultures wheel overhead all year; if you hear a clap like a wet sheet snapping, that is a lammergeier showing off.

What to Eat When Nobody Sells Food

There is no restaurant in Bordón. The bar opens at seven for coffee, closes at nine for the owner’s siesta, and may or may not reappear at sundown with a tray of migas—fried breadcrumbs with scraps of chorizo—if a hunting party has been successful. Plan accordingly. The Saturday market in nearby Puertomingalvo (25 min drive) sells local lamb, grey-skinned truffles in season, and a soft cheese wrapped in sycamore leaves that tastes like mushrooms and goat in equal measure. Most self-catering cottages come with wood-fired ovens; use them. A leg of ternasco roasted with mountain honey and a glass of Calatayud Garnacha drunk on a roof terrace while the temperature drops fifteen degrees in as many minutes is one of Spain’s great under-reported pleasures.

August fiestas stretch the village to its social limits. The population quintuples for three days; British number plates outnumber Spanish ones in the tiny car park below the school. Brass bands play until three, then silence returns so absolute you can hear the solar hot-water systems cooling on the roofs. If you prefer your Aragon without amplifiers, come in late April when the almond blossom is out and the only soundtrack is the clang of goat bells echoing round the gorge.

Getting Here, Staying Warm

Valencia airport is the sensible gateway—two hours on the A-23 via Teruel, car-hire desks open until the last flight. Zaragoza is marginally closer in miles but the mountain section after Teruel is slower and more prone to fog. Winter drivers should pack snow chains even if the forecast yawns “clear”; the road twists through 1,100 m passes that collect weather while no one is looking. Fuel up in Sarrión—village pumps close for lunch, sometimes for days.

Accommodation is scattered: four village houses restored by ex-pat Londoners who discovered Bordón while walking the GR-8, plus four more owned by Valencian families who disappear at Easter. Expect stone floors, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that arrives via a microwave link on the church tower—fast enough for iPlayer, slow enough to make you remember why you came. Nightly rates hover around €90 for two bedrooms, minimum three nights in winter when the owners would rather be in Alicante. Bring slippers; those beautiful flagstones suck heat out of socked feet faster than a Yorkshire cellar.

When to Admit Defeat

Bordón will not entertain you. If the mist settles in the valley for three days you will stare at the same damp wall, listen to the same dog barking, and wonder why you didn’t book Lanzarote. The village rewards patience, not bucket lists. On the fourth morning the cloud lifts, the vultures rise, and the stone turns honey-gold in a sun so sharp it feels edited. You realise the silence is not absence but presence compressed into a smaller, tougher form. Either that or you start the car and crawl back to the coast—Bordón won’t mind. It has seen Romans, Moors, Carlists and civil war; one more hurried goodbye makes no odds.