Mara

The church bell strikes eleven, and the only other sound is gravel shifting under your feet. Most Spanish villages have surrendered their silence to souvenir shops and coach tours, but Mara, population 168, remains gloriously indifferent to the twenty-first century's pace. Here, halfway between Zaragoza and Madrid, the Meseta keeps its own clock.

Stone, Adobe and Tractor Grease

Mara's main street takes eight minutes to walk end-to-end, assuming you pause to read the date chiselled above a lintel: 1786, the year one house was raised, brick by brick, from the surrounding cereal fields. The mortar has crumbled in places, yet the structure stands, joined by neighbours in ochre adobe, rose-coloured stone, and the occasional 1970s extension that nobody bothered to hide. This is architecture without architects, a row of working homes that happen to be old rather than a museum polished for visitors.

Look down the side alleys and you will spot a different kind of traffic jam: a single tractor blocking the lane while its driver chats through the window with the woman feeding chickens behind her gate. Both will finish the conversation when they are ready. Time is measured in seasons, not seconds; the wheat around the village turns from emerald to gold without anyone needing to check an app.

Walk past the church and you may find the door ajar. Inside, the nave is cool even at midday in July, the air thick with incense and the faint sweetness of candle wax. There are no explanatory panels, no audio guides, just a retablo that has watched over baptisms, weddings and funerals since the 1600s. Drop a coin in the box if you wish; the funds go towards re-pointing the tower, a job done by the same family of masons for three generations.

Countryside You Can Borrow

Leave the last houses behind and the world widens abruptly. Wheat, barley and the occasional stripe of vines roll out towards a low ridge three kilometres away. These are not wilderness trails; they are farm tracks used daily, their edges trimmed by thistles and poppies that escape the sprayer. Public access is tolerated rather than advertised, so tread the centre of the path, close gates, and nod if you meet the man on the red quad bike—he knows exactly why you are here.

A gentle circuit of four kilometres brings you to a derelict stone hut overlooking the village. From the doorway you can pick out individual roofs, the church tower, and the silver glint of a water trough where sheep gather at dusk. The hut once stored tools for cutting esparto grass; now it stores silence. Sit on the warm stone and the only soundtrack is a lark ascending over stubble field.

Serious walkers can stitch together longer loops that link Mara with its bigger neighbour, Calatayud, nine kilometres west. These paths follow the GR-90 long-distance footpath for short stretches, then dive back into farm lanes where swallows skim irrigation ditches. Waymarking is sporadic—carry the IGN 1:50,000 sheet or download the offline map before leaving the tarmac.

What Arrives on the Back of a Lorry

Forget tasting menus and truffle foam. Mara eats what the surrounding fields and trucks deliver: potatoes, onions, lamb, and the occasional hare hung for two days behind the bar. The village's single restaurant, Casa Ramón, opens when Ramón feels like it, usually Friday to Sunday lunchtimes. Order the ternasco—milk-fed lamb roasted until the skin shatters—and you will be asked how many kilos you want, not which cut. A plate of peppers the size of a child's fist arrives first, their skins blistered on a wood-fired plancha. Wine comes in a glass that cost less than the bottle of water you bought in Zaragoza.

If Ramón's shutters are down, drive ten minutes to Castejón de Alarba, where Mesón de la Villa serves migas—fried breadcrumbs studded with chorizo—at a long wooden counter. They open every day, but still close by nine, so plan an early supper or be prepared to make do with what you packed.

Shopping for supplies requires similar realism. A tiny grocery in Mara sells tins, milk and locally made cheese, but fresh fish arrives only on Tuesdays in the back of a refrigerated van that toots its horn in the square for twenty minutes. Miss it and you will be cooking vegetarian that night.

Saints, Tractors and Firecrackers

The village explodes into life for three days around the third weekend of August. The population quadruples as grandchildren return from Zaragoza, Madrid and, increasingly, Manchester. Brass bands march at the pace of someone carrying a saint on their shoulders; children dart between cymbals clutching inflatable hammers; and at two in the morning the square becomes an open-air ballroom where pensioners dance pasodobles in immaculate white trainers.

The high point is Sunday's "tertulia taurina"—not a bullfight but a spirited discussion held under the plane trees about whether bullfighting should survive at all. Opinions fly faster than the swallows overhead, yet everyone still sits together for the communal paella that follows. Visitors are welcome to join the queue; bring your own bowl and spoon, and expect to be hugged by someone who remembers your face from last year even if you have never been here before.

Outside fiesta week, the calendar thins. On 1 November families picnic among the graves in the cemetery, sharing roasted chestnuts and stories about the departed. There is no programme, no brochure; you either know someone or you watch quietly from the path and leave before dusk.

Getting Here, Staying Sane

Mara sits 110 km south-west of Zaragoza, a drive of 75 minutes if you resist the temptation to stop for photographs of the Monasterio de Piedra. From the UK, fly into Zaragoza with Ryanair from London-Stansted on Tuesdays and Saturdays, or hire a car in Madrid after the cheaper BA morning flight and reach the village in two hours along the A-2. A rail-plus-bus combo is possible—RENFE to Calatayud then Alosa coach service—but departure times rarely line up, so you will spend an hour admiring Calatayud's Moorish towers whether you planned to or not.

Accommodation is limited to three self-catering cottages renovated by families who moved back during the pandemic. Expect stone walls 60 cm thick, Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind is in the north, and a welcome pack of olive oil pressed from the owner's trees. Prices hover around €90 per night for two, minimum stay two nights. Book by WhatsApp and pay the deposit by bank transfer; they trust you to turn up.

Bring cash—euros, not sterling—and fill the tank in Calatayud because Mara's solitary pump closed in 2021. In summer the plateau radiates heat; carry two litres of water if you plan to walk further than the stone hut. In winter, night temperatures drop below freezing; the cottages have wood-burners and the first basket of logs is free, the second costs five euros left on the kitchen table.

Leave Before You Ruin It

Mara does not need saving, marketing or, heaven forbid, "discovering." It needs visitors who can appreciate a place that functions perfectly well without them, who will close a gate, say buenos días first, and understand that closing hours are not negotiable. Come with that attitude and you will leave lighter than you arrived, pockets full of country silence that works better than any meditation app on the flight home. Just remember to keep your voice down when the bell stops ringing—someone might be having a siesta behind the green shutters.