Lumpiaque

The 11 a.m. bus from Zaragoza drops you at a junction where two wheat fields meet. No taxi rank, no tourist office, just a metal sign rattling in the cierzo – the north-west wind that Aragonese farmers blame for everything from snapped sunflowers to cracked lips. From here it’s a ten-minute walk into Lumpiaque, population 841, a village that measures altitude (310 m) more proudly than visitor numbers.

Stone houses the colour of dry earth line Calle Mayor. Their wooden doors are tall enough for a mule cart, though today a single Renault Clio is parked half on the pavement. Iron balconies hold geraniums in olive-oil tins; the flowers survive because someone remembers to water them, not because a stylist dropped by. Look up and you’ll spot a coat of arms carved above one doorway – a hint that, centuries ago, a handful of families owned most of the land stretching to the horizon. The wealth is gone; the masonry remains.

Church, bakery, bar – in that order

The tower of the Asunción church rises in warm brick, its pattern part-Romanesque, part-“we had to rebuild after the roof fell in”. Inside, the air smells of candle wax rather than incense; services are advertised on a chalkboard that still lists last week’s temperatures. Opening times follow the priest’s circuit: if the wooden door is shut, the key is with Señora Conchi in the house opposite, provided she isn’t out pruning vines.

Next to the church, Panadería San Roque sells crusty barras until 1 p.m. After that you’re on supermarket rations from Boquiñeni, 8 km away. One bar – Café Centro – opens before ten; order a cortado and you’ll get a free mini-magdalena still hot from the owner’s kitchen. Close at noon and reopen at six: siesta is non-negotiable here.

Lumpiaque has no souvenir shops, which saves everyone the embarrassment of fridge-magnet hunting. Instead, the village offers a short, self-guided crash course in estepa architecture: adobe walls thick enough to swallow summer heat, brick arches turned slightly wonky by centuries of cierzo, and roof terraces where laundry flaps like prayer flags. The whole circuit takes forty minutes unless you stop to photograph every carved lintel – and nobody will hurry you along.

Walking the grain line

Head south past the last houses and the tarmac surrenders to a farm track. Wheat stubble crackles underfoot; the horizon is so wide you can watch weather arrive a full hour before it hits. This is the Valdejalón plateau, a transition zone between the Ebro valley and the Iberian foothills. Vineyards, olives and almond groves alternate in a patchwork dictated more by water rights than aesthetics. Signs nailed to posts read “Coto privado – cacería controlada”, so stick to the marked sendero that links Lumpiaque with Almonacid de la Sierra, 6 km east.

The path is level, unsigned and blissfully empty. You’ll share it with partridges that sprint rather than fly, and the occasional farmer on a quad bike checking sprinkler pipes. Halfway, a stone hut with a corrugated roof offers shade; inside, someone has stacked empty Cariñena wine bottles as a rustic art installation. Spring brings poppies and the smell of fennel; October turns the vines bronze and the air sharp enough to make you walk faster. Summer midday hikes are for lizards only – carry two litres of water or turn back when the cicadas fall silent.

Wine that costs less than the glass at home

Back in the village, lunch options are limited to the asador opposite the school. Grilled lamb cutlets arrive sizzling on a clay dish; ask for a media ración of chuletón and you’ll get a slab of beef the size of a paperback, cooked rare unless you protest. House red from the cooperative in Cariñena is poured from a plastic jug – €2.50 for 200 ml, €6 if you want the whole bottle. It tastes like Rioja’s younger brother: less oak, more punch, perfect with paprika-roasted potatoes they jokingly call “patatas al estilo Lumpiaque” because no one can agree on whose grandmother invented them.

Vegetarians get the short straw: ensalada mixta or tortilla. Gluten-free bread is available if you phone the baker a day ahead – otherwise you’re eating lettuce. Payment is cash only; the card machine “only works when the wind isn’t blowing from the north,” the waiter shrugs. The ATM beside the town hall is equally temperamental, so bring notes from Zaragoza airport.

Festivals without the foam party

August 15 kicks off the fiestas patronales. By English standards it’s low-key: brass band, outdoor mass, paella for 200 cooked in a pan wider than most Zaragoza flats. Visitors are welcome but not announced; if you want to help peel potatoes you’ll be handed a knife. October’s vendimia programme changes yearly – one morning you might be invited to stomp grapes in a stone lagar, the next you’re tasting new must with anise chasers in the cooperative warehouse. Book accommodation early: returning émigrés fill the family houses first, and there are no hotels, only two village rentals listed online.

Semana Santa is surprisingly photogenic. Hooded penitents carry processional statues carved in the 1600s; the only sound is a drum and the scuff of feet on cobbles. Crowds number in the dozens, not thousands, so you can actually see the embroidery on the cloaks. Wrap up – night-time temperatures in April can drop to 5 °C once the cierzo gets going.

Getting stuck – or not

Public transport is the biggest gamble. ALSA runs three buses daily from Zaragoza’s Estación Central; the 17:30 is the last back, miss it and a cab costs €50–60. No services on Sunday. Driving is straightforward: A-23 south, exit 280, then follow the Z-329 for 12 km of straight road so empty you’ll wonder if sat-nav has lost its mind. Parking is free and unlimited – simply angle the car against the kerb and lock up.

Mobile signal? Patchy. Vodafone users get 4G on the upper streets; EE and Three drop to 3G in the dip by the wash-house. Wi-fi in rentals tends to be 30 Mb, enough to stream but not to brag. Power cuts happen during summer storms; the bakery owns the only backup generator in town.

When to cut your losses

Come in May for green wheat and almond blossom, or mid-October for harvest colour and comfortable 20 °C highs. July and August push 38 °C; sightseeing is limited to the hour after sunrise and the half-hour before sunset. Winter days are crisp, skies cobalt, but the cierzo can gust at 70 km/h – fine for photographers who like flying scarves, miserable for everyone else. If the wind tears the clouds to shreds, retreat to the bar and order a carajillo (coffee with a dash of brandy); locals insist it “cuts the cold”.

Leave the village when the church bell strikes ten and you’ll walk out under a sky thick with stars, no light pollution, no traffic hum – just the wind combing through the cereal stubble. Lumpiaque will not change your life, but it will recalibrate your sense of scale: one church, one bakery, one bar, and fields that roll on until the dark says stop. Bring cash, good shoes and a tolerance for silence; leave the souvenir expectations on the bus.