Uncastillo

The first thing you notice is the echo. Not the postcard view, not the castle on its ridge, but the way your footsteps ricochet between sandstone walls in streets so narrow they feel like tunnels. Uncastillo, population 628, keeps its medieval acoustics intact. A single pair of trainers on polished cobble can sound like a procession.

Perched 601 metres above the Ríguel river flats, the village squats on the old frontier between Aragón and Navarre. That border vanished centuries ago, yet the place still behaves like a garrison town on alert. Gates close at dusk, churches stay locked unless the guide is in the mood, and the dry river-bed doubles as a free car park under the shade of poplars. It is practical, slightly eccentric, and utterly Spanish.

Stone, and More Stone

Three Romanesque churches share less than half a square kilometre of hilltop. Santa María’s west portal, carved around 1170, is a stone comic strip—Daniel among lions, vines that twist into dragons, a cheeky squirrel stealing a grape. The door is usually shut; turn up at the Turismo office inside San Martín five minutes before the hour and a guide will let you in for €4. Tours run on Spanish time: they start when enough people gather, rarely before. San Martín itself is simpler, a farmer’s church with a semi-circular apse warmed by afternoon light. San Felices, tucked behind Renaissance mansions, still smells of wax from last August’s fiesta.

Between them, alleyways climb and drop like a drunk compass. Houses grow out of the bedrock; their coats of arms—wolves, stars, a single tower—are worn smooth by wind that sweeps the plateau nine months a year. The castle at the summit is mostly air and vertigo. What remains are chunks of curtain wall, a rebuilt guardroom housing an interpretive centre, and a 360-degree view of cereal fields that shimmer gold by mid-June. The climb takes ten minutes if you’re fit, fifteen if you stop to wonder how anyone dragged masonry up here in 1070.

Lunch at Ground Level

By 14:00 the village has given up on gradients. Life shifts to Plaza del Mercado, a pocket square with three bars, four plane trees and a medieval arcade. Mesón La Villa serves ternasco de Aragón—milk-fed lamb roasted until the skin cracks like thin toffee. A quarter-kilo portion costs €14 and arrives with proper chips, not the anaemic Spanish excuse. Vegetarians get a thick asparagus stew sharpened by serrano ham; ask for it “sin jamón” and the kitchen simply looks confused. House red from Cariñena arrives in a plain bottle, fruity enough to fool you into ordering a second before the bus back.

No one takes cards. There is no cash machine; the nearest one lives eight kilometres away in Sádaba. Bring notes, preferably small, and hoard change for coffee. A single espresso is €1.20, served in a glass that burns your fingers—an acceptable price for a front-row seat on village theatre: delivery vans wedging themselves under 800-year-old arches, grandmothers shouting grocery orders from first-floor windows, dogs that have memorised the tour timetable.

Wind, Walls and Walking

Afternoons are for sobering up on history and altitude. A signed loop heads south-east past almond terraces to the abandoned village of Novales, three kilometres away. Stone terraces collapse into scrub; the only sound is boots on flint. In April the slope is pink with thrift, by July it resembles the surface of Mars. Allow ninety minutes round-trip, more if you photograph every ruined barn.

Serious walkers can link to the GR-1 long-distance trail, which dips into the Ríguel gorge then climbs to 1,000 metres on a Roman road still paved with original slabs. The route is way-marked but shadeless; carry more water than you think sensible. Summer temperatures touch 38 °C; in winter the same path turns to ice and the wind could sand the skin off an olive.

When the Town Turns Out

Quiet is the default, but Uncastillo does possess a volume switch. During the last week of August the fiesta de San Felices fills the streets with processions, brass bands and a makeshift bull-ring constructed from timber lorries. Accommodation within the walls does not exist; the nearest hotel beds are in Sos del Rey Católico, twelve minutes by car. Book early or resign yourself to a late-night drive back to Zaragoza.

Holy Week is gentler. On Good Friday the crucifixion procession starts at the castle, descends the cobbles by candlelight, then struggles uphill again—penitents in hooded robes, drums muffled by the narrowness. Spectators lean from balconies; the whole thing feels less like theatre and more like a communal obligation. Arrive an hour early to claim a step outside Bar Alhóndiga; bring a cushion, the stone is cold.

Getting There, Getting Out

Zaragoza airport, served by Ryanair and easyJet from London Stansted, lies 95 kilometres east. A hire car is simplest: take the A-68 to Tudela, then the N-122 through the Moncayo foothills. The final approach is a single-lane road that corkscrews upward; meet a tractor and someone has to reverse. Buses exist but require monkish patience—one morning service from Zaragoza, one return, both liable to evaporate on public holidays. Sunday travellers should check the timetable twice; missing the 17:30 back leaves you stranded until Tuesday.

Allow a full day. Uncastillo is not a two-hour tick-box; it rewards the traveller who can sit still. Buy a bocadillo of cured goat’s cheese in the bakery, carry it to the castle parapet, watch the sun flatten across the plains until the stone glows the colour of burnt cream. Then walk down the hill, count your remaining cash, and decide whether to risk one more coffee before the long road home.