Isuerre

The cereal fields roll right up to the stone doorsteps of Isuerre, 661 metres above sea-level on a wind-scoured ridge in northern Zaragoza province. At dawn the wheat stubble glows like bronze wire; by noon it turns parchment-pale under a sky so wide it makes the handful of terracotta roofs seem even smaller. Thirty-three residents, one church bell, two streets and a bar—this is the arithmetic of a village that refuses to shrink any further.

Stone, Sun and Silence

Houses are built from whatever the plough has thrown up: ochre limestone mortared with river sand, roof tiles the colour of dried blood. Iron balconies sag under geraniums that somehow survive the desiccating cierzo wind. Nothing is “restored” in the glossy magazine sense; walls bulge, timber lintels split, and that honesty is what photographers come for. The eye adjusts quickly to the absence of signage, litter or traffic. What you hear instead is the low hum of bees in the almond trees and, every half-hour, the metallic scrape of a tractor starting somewhere below the ridge.

The fifteenth-century iglesia de San Esteban stands at the highest point, its squat tower more barn than spire. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; the air smells of wax and extinguished candles. There is no ticket desk, no audio guide. If the oak door is locked, wander thirty metres down to Bar Balcón d’Onsella, order a cortado, and ask Conchi for the key—she keeps it under the coffee machine. Inside, faded banners from the Civil War hang above the altar like forgotten stage curtains, a reminder that even here history has bled.

Walking the Dry Ridge

Isuerre is less a destination than a launch pad for understanding the Cinco Villas landscape. A farm track leaves the village past the last street lamp and immediately drops into an ocean of wheat. After twenty minutes the path climbs again to the ruins of Castillo de Onsella, a Moorish outpost reduced to knee-high walls and one stubborn arch. From the rubble you can trace the entire comarca: sixteen villages, each a tight clot of roofs surrounded by its own circle of fields, the Ebro valley a silver thread on the far southern horizon. Take water—shade is as rare as a queue.

Spring brings poppies and wild asparagus; autumn smells of wet earth and burning vine cuttings. Summer is honest-to-goodness hot: 35 °C by 14:00 is normal, and the sun reflects off the limestone like a mirror. Plan walks for dawn or the long twilight; night-time temperatures drop to 16 °C, so a fleece is welcome even in July.

Food Without the Fuss

The village bar doubles as the social centre, post-office gossip shop and tapas counter. There is no printed menu; Conchi tells you what she has. Start with setas a la plancha—wild oyster mushrooms gathered on the Sierra de Santo Domingo, grilled with garlic and olive oil that tastes of green apples. Follow with ternasco de Aragón, milk-fed lamb slow-roasted until the skin shatters like toffee. Chips arrive unbidden, a reassuring nod to British expectations. House red from Cariñena costs €2.50 a glass and behaves more like Beaujolais than Rioja—light, gluggable, no tantrums. Pudding is homemade flan, wobbly as a jellyfish, with a slick of burnt sugar that could pass for crème-caramel at any Surrey dinner party.

If you are self-catering—and most visitors are—stock up in Sos del Rey Católico, fifteen winding kilometres away. Isuerre’s only shop closed in 2009; the nearest petrol pump followed suit. The two rural houses (Casa Chaminé and Casa la Plaza) have proper ovens, so you can recreate a roast dinner with local lamb and potatoes that taste of soil rather of supermarket plastic.

When the Village Swells

For fifty-one weeks of the year the silence is total, but during the third weekend of August the population quadruples. The fiestas patronales honour San Esteban with a programme that fits on one sheet of A4: Saturday evening mass followed by a procession where the statue is carried aloft through wheat stubble; midnight fireworks launched from a pig field; Sunday lunchtime paella cooked in a pan the size of a satellite dish. Visitors are handed a plate and a fork—no tickets, no wristbands. Book accommodation early; the two rural houses and the three rooms above the bar fill by May. If you miss the date, you will still hear the rockets echoing off the ridge from villages ten kilometres away.

Getting There, Staying Sane

There is no public transport. Fly into Zaragoza (London-Stansted, 2 h 10 min with Ryanair), pick up a hire car, and head northwest on the A-127 towards Tauste. After 55 km turn right at Sos del Rey Católico and follow the CV-610 for another 12 km of tightening bends. The final approach is single-track; if you meet a combine harvester, reverse fifty metres to the nearest passing place and wave—drivers expect courtesy and return it. Phone signal dies two kilometres out; download offline maps before you leave the main road.

Spring and autumn deliver 22 °C afternoons and crisp dawns; October light is made for photographers. Winter is underrated—daytime 10 °C, diamond-bright skies, and the occasional dusting of snow that melts by lunchtime—but check your tyres; the ridge ices first. Summer is for sun-worshippers only; if you wouldn’t holiday in Seville, don’t come in July.

Leave the drone at home. Isuerre is too small to absorb aerial buzzing, and the neighbours will politely ask you to stop. Bring binoculars instead—kestrels, hoopoes and the occasional Egyptian vulture ride the thermals above the cereal sea. And carry cash; the card machine in the bar works when it feels like it, which is rarely.

Drive out at dusk, headlights off for thirty seconds, and the Milky Way spills across the windscreen like spilt sugar. That alone is worth the petrol money.