Moros

The church bell strikes noon, and for a moment the only other sound is a tractor grinding through third gear somewhere below the ridge. At 780 metres above sea-level, Moros keeps its own clock. Mobile reception flickers in and out; the village’s 299 inhabitants set their day by the bells and by what the sky is doing over the dry cereal ridges of the Comunidad de Calatayud.

Stone, Adobe and the Weight of Winters

Approach from the C-202 after Calatayud and the first houses appear to climb each other’s shoulders. Walls are a patchwork: honey-coloured stone at the base, sun-bleached adobe higher up, capped with terracotta roofs that have shrugged off decades of hail. The streets twist because they were built for mules, not cars; anyone arriving in a hire Fiesta soon discovers that wing mirrors fold in for a reason. Park on the small plaza by the ayuntamiento—there are no metres, and no traffic wardens either—and continue on foot.

The parish church dominates the skyline but refuses to show off. Its tower is square, practical, added in stages between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries. Step inside when the wooden doors are propped open (mornings only, except when the sacristan is harvesting barley) and you’ll find a single nave, cool even in July, with a retablo whose gold leaf has thinned to pewter. No charge, no postcards, just a discreet box for coins that go towards roof tiles.

Walking the Dry Ridges

Moros sits on a saddle; every path eventually tilts either towards the Jalón valley or back into the empty plateau. Marked trails are non-existent, but the old mule tracks are still visible: look for twin ruts worn into limestone and the occasional stone cross propped in a wall niche. A thirty-minute circuit heads south to the abandoned threshing floors—wide stone circles where families once winnowed wheat by hand. From the edge the land drops away in ochre steps; on clear days you can pick out the white roofs of Calatayud 25 kilometres distant.

Serious walkers can link up with the GR-24, a long-distance path that swings past the village’s western fringe. The stretch north towards Torralba de Ribota is 12 kilometres of rolling grain fields, boot-wide sheep trails and one solitary bar whose terrace opens only at weekends. Carry water: the only fountain is in Moros itself, and summer temperatures sit in the low thirties well into September.

What Arrives on the Back of a Pick-up

There is no supermarket. The mini-mart in neighbouring Mesones de Isuela, six kilometres down the hill, stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and the local pink onions. Most Moros households still buy lamb by the half-carcass when the mobile slaughterman’s white van circles the square. Visitors can taste the result in the fortnightly comida de hermandad held in the social centre—slow-roast shoulder, chickpeas stewed with morcilla, and a thimble of Calatayud DO red that costs €1.20 a glass. Turn up at 14:30 sharp; food is served communally and when the tray is empty, that’s lunch finished.

Embutidos appear in November after the first frost. Look for chorizo de matanza tied with esparto grass above bar counters in Tarazona and Borja; many strings were stuffed in Moros kitchens. The flavour is heavy on sweet pimentón and garlic, less fiery than Andalusian versions, ideal fried with eggs for a calorie hit before a hill walk.

When the Village Swells to 800

The fiesta mayor begins on the first weekend of August. Returnees from Zaragoza and Barcelona park hatchbacks in every alley, string lights zig-zag across the single main street, and the plaza hosts a makeshift bar dispensing cañas for €1.50 until 04:00. Proceedings start with a procession behind the silver-topped Virgen del Rosario, brass band included, then segue into jotas danced on portable boards laid over the cobbles. Outsiders are welcome but not fussed over; buy a raffle ticket (€3) and you might win a ham or simply the right to pour the next round for the table.

Spring brings the romería to the ermita de San Juan, a ruined chapel two kilometres outside the village. The walk begins at dawn on the third Sunday of May; women carry rosemary sprigs, the priest recites a brief mass among nettles, and everyone treks back for chocolate con churros served from a copper vat in the schoolyard. If you’re expecting pageantry you’ll be disappointed; if you’re content with woodsmoke and gossip, you’ll fit right in.

Getting There, Staying Over, Leaving

From Zaragoza–Delicias bus station, catch the 09:15 Moncayo line to Calatayud (55 min, €6.40). A twice-daily regional service continues to Moros at 11:00 and 18:15, taking another 40 minutes on a road that narrows to a single lane in places. The last return bus is at 19:30; miss it and a taxi costs €45—book through the Bar Centro in Calatayud, the only place the driver will stop for a fare.

Accommodation within the village is limited to one three-room guesthouse, Casa Alodia, run by a retired English teacher who prefers emails in Spanish. Expect whitewashed walls, a shared bathroom and breakfast featuring her own plum jam; doubles €55, cash only. More choice lies 20 minutes away in Borja: Hotel Cienbalcones has smarter rooms from €75 and a restaurant that does credit-card transactions without blinking.

Winter access can be tricky. At 780 metres Moros catches snow that melts quickly on the plain but lingers on north-facing lanes. The council sprinkles grit, yet rental cars without winter tyres have been known to slide backwards towards the barranco. If forecasts mention cota 600, carry chains or wait for the midday thaw.

The Honest Aftertaste

Moros will not change your life. There are no boutique caves turned into spas, no Michelin aspirations, no souvenir stalls flogging fridge magnets. What you get is a village that continues to thresh wheat, butcher lambs and dance in the street because that is what has always happened here. Come for the quiet, the stone, the taste of chorizo that was hanging above a kitchen hearth two weeks ago. Leave before the bells stop ringing and you may find the place stays with you longer than you expect—less a destination, more a reminder that in parts of Aragón the week still ends when the priest pulls the bell rope, not when the phone buzzes.