Murero

The village noticeboard lists 104 residents. Below it, a laminated A4 sheet announces that the surrounding hills contain some of Europe's richest fossil beds. In Murero, population counts come with geological time scales attached.

At 700 metres above sea level, this scatter of stone houses sits where the Iberian System's limestone ridges soften into Aragon's central plateau. The altitude brings sharp mornings and star-filled nights, plus a climate that can flip from scorching August afternoons to snow-blocked roads in February. What it doesn't bring is crowds. Even during August's fiesta week, when former residents return from Zaragoza and Barcelona, the village square rarely holds more than thirty people.

The Church, the Square, and Everything Between

Murero's geography is refreshingly straightforward. Start at the church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, walk downhill past the stone houses with their wooden balconies, and you'll reach the agricultural warehouses in roughly four minutes. Turn left at the fountain and you'll hit the cemetery in another three. The entire urban area covers less ground than a London supermarket car park.

The church itself tells the village's story in architectural fragments. Its base walls date from the 16th century, built from locally quarried limestone that still bears tool marks. The baroque tower arrived two hundred years later, funded by wool profits when Murero's flocks grazed these hills by the thousand. Inside, the altarpiece survived the civil war by accident—Republican forces used the building as a stable and the priests had already removed anything valuable. The wooden pews show generations of carved initials, agricultural rather than romantic: JM 1894, PP 1921, marks left by shepherds who learned their letters here before heading south for the winter transhumance.

Around the square, three benches face the bar (open Thursday to Sunday, hours variable). The fourth bench points toward the old school, closed since 1987 when remaining pupils dropped below five. Behind it, the village's only public phone hangs disconnected, its cable severed during road works in 2003. Nobody's bothered removing it.

Walking Through Deep Time

The real action lies outside the village perimeter. Follow the dirt track past the last house and you'll reach the fossil beds within fifteen minutes. These aren't organised attractions with gift shops and audio guides. They're exposed limestone slopes where 450-million-year-old sea creatures lie embedded in what was once an ocean floor. Trilobites, brachiopods, and crinoids appear with such frequency that local children use them as skipping stones.

The strata here record the Iapetus Ocean's edge, when this landmass sat south of the equator. Amateur collectors work quietly—removing fossils requires regional government permission, rarely granted. Instead, visitors photograph specimens where they lie, or note GPS coordinates for the universities who conduct annual digs. The best time for fossil-spotting comes after heavy rain, when water washes away topsoil and reveals new specimens. February storms regularly deliver fresh trilobite segments to the surface, though you'll need wellingtons and patience.

Walking tracks radiate from the village in three directions. The route to Villarroya del Campo follows an old drove road used until the 1960s, its stone walls still standing despite decades of frost. The path to Fuentes de Jiloca crosses cereal fields where larks nest among wheat stubble. Neither walk exceeds eight kilometres, but water is essential—shade exists only where holm oaks cluster in dry gullies. Summer temperatures regularly hit 38°C, and mobile phone coverage disappears within two minutes of leaving the village.

What Passes for Food and Drink

Murero's culinary scene consists of Casa Joaquín, which opens when Joaquín's arthritis isn't playing up. When it does open, expect migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo—plus local lamb raised on the surrounding scrub. Price: €12 including wine. If closed (probability: 60%), drive twenty minutes to Calatayud for restaurants, cash machines, and petrol.

The village maintains its own bakery, remarkable for a settlement this size. María arrives at 5 am to bake thirty loaves in a wood-fired oven built in 1923. Bread costs €1.20, cash only, and usually sells out by 9 am. She also produces empanadas on Fridays, filled with tuna and tomato, though you'll need to order Thursday evening.

For self-catering, Zaragoza's Mercadona delivers online orders to the village petrol station (closed Tuesdays). Locals collect packages from Pilar, who runs the station and knows everyone's business. The nearest supermarket selling British products sits ninety minutes away in Zaragoza—bring teabags.

When the Village Comes Alive

August transforms Murero. The Assumption fiesta runs four days, culminating in a paella cooked for two hundred people in a pan requiring scaffolding to move. Former residents return with city children who've never seen stars. The village DJ (Joaquín's nephew) sets up speakers in the square, playing Spanish pop from the 1980s until 3 am. Temporarily, population exceeds three hundred.

September brings the fossil fair, when researchers display finds and children compete to identify species. Even the teenagers participate, having grown up knowing that their playground contains creatures extinct before dinosaurs existed. The local council lays on coach transport from Calatayud—one of only two buses that visit annually, the other coming for Christmas mass.

Winter hits hard. January temperatures drop to -8°C, and the access road ices over regularly. When snow blocks the pass, villagers stock up at the warehouse shop, designed for exactly this scenario. The bar stays open throughout—Spanish law requires villages to maintain social spaces, even if only three customers brave the weather.

Getting There, Staying There, Leaving

Ryanair flies Stansted to Zaragoza in two hours. Hire cars at the airport cost from €25 daily—essential, as no public transport reaches Murero. The drive takes seventy-five minutes via the A-2 and N-234, past wind farms and through Calatayud's red-rock gorge. Fill the tank in Calatayud; Murero's petrol station closes at 7 pm sharp.

Accommodation options cluster twenty minutes away. Monasterio de Piedra, a converted 12th-century monastery, offers rooms from €90 including access to its waterfall park. Hotel Cienbalcones in Calatayud occupies a restored townhouse with English-speaking staff and decent WiFi. Neither location provides evening entertainment beyond restaurant service—this is rural Aragon, not Marbella.

Murero won't suit everyone. Those seeking tapas trails, boutique shopping, or Instagram moments should head elsewhere. But for walkers interested in geological time, for birdwatchers tracking migration routes, for anyone wanting to watch Spanish rural life continue with minimal tourist interference, this village delivers something increasingly rare: authenticity without marketing departments. Just remember to bring water, cash, and realistic expectations. The trilobites aren't going anywhere—they've waited 450 million years already.