Villalba de Perejiles

The church bell strikes noon and no one quickens their pace. A tractor idles outside the only bar, its driver chatting through the window while the engine ticks. At 633 metres above sea level, Villalba de Perejiles keeps time by shadows and seasons rather than timetables—something British visitors notice within minutes of arriving.

Sixty-nine souls call this stone scatter home, though the number swells when grandchildren visit from Zaragoza or Madrid. The village perches on a limestone ridge forty minutes beyond Calatayud, where the A-2 motorway abandons vineyards for wheat and the landscape flattens into Aragon's high steppe. Satellite dishes pepper the rooftops like modern barnacles, yet WhatsApp hasn't managed to hurry conversations that still unfold over half an hour and a second coffee.

What the Houses Remember

Adobe walls, thick enough to absorb August heat and January frost, explain why families have lived here since at least 1248. Look closely and you'll spot Roman tiles pressed into later repairs—evidence of builders who valued practicality over purity. The parish church of La Asunción squats at the village's highest point, its modest tower more watchful than triumphant. Inside, nineteenth-century frescoes peel like sunburnt skin, revealing older plaster beneath. There's no ticket office, no audio guide; push the heavy door and you're trusted not to steal the candle stubs.

Wander downhill and lanes narrow until neighbours can shake hands across the gap. Wooden balconies sag under geraniums that survive on rainfall alone—hosepipes would bankrupt the municipal water budget. Here and there a house stands roofless, its beams removed for firewood during harder decades. Rather than tart these up for tourists, locals let them breathe, creating accidental courtyards where swallows nest between the stones.

Walking Without a Brand Name

Serious hiking boots look self-important here. The countryside rolls gently, stitched together by farm tracks that peter out among wheat or almond groves depending on the month. A thirty-minute stroll south brings you to the ruins of corrals where shepherds once overnighted flocks bound for Teruel's winter pastures. The stone circles still smell faintly of lanolin and woodsmoke when the wind shifts.

Spring arrives abruptly: one week brown earth, the next a haze of green that thickens daily. By late May the fields glow almost neon, contrasting with the grey-green of native rosemary and thyme that claws the uncultivated margins. Autumn works in reverse—ochre, rust, then stubble burned black—while summer strips everything to parchment. Only the vineyards buck the trend; their leaves flame red long before the calendar admits October.

Paths aren't waymarked because everyone knows everyone else's dog. Print an OS-style map before leaving Britain: Google assumes these tracks don't exist and phone signal vanishes with the first ridge. Carry water; the continental climate means thirty-degree heat in May and frost in October. If the sky clouds over, head back—storms here arrive like slammed doors and dry riverbeds become torrents within minutes.

The Calendar That Matters

Visit during the August fiestas and you'll share the plaza with three hundred people who remember when the school had thirty pupils rather than three. Brass bands rehearse at unsociable hours; elderly women in embroidered aprons dance the jota with teenage great-nieces wearing Primark trainers. The village bakery reopens for three days, selling doughnuts fried in olive oil that costs more than the selling price. By the 17th the rubbish lorry has hauled away the last paper streamer and silence re-settles like dust.

October brings the vendimia—not the photo-op harvest of Rioja, but neighbours pooling grapes to fill a single hydraulic press. Anyone who turns up at 9 am gets handed secateurs and, more importantly, an invitation to lunch. The resulting wine is rough, purple, and tastes better in December when north-easterly winds make the 633-metre altitude feel like Scotland.

Winter empties the streets entirely. Pensioners migrate to ground-floor flats; upstairs rooms stay shut until March to save heating oil. On clear nights the Milky River arches overhead with a clarity impossible in southern England. Temperatures drop to minus ten, but daytimes usually recover to ten degrees—perfect walking weather if you can stomach the eight-hour dusk.

Eating Without a Menu

Forget tapas trails. The only bar serves whatever Ana cooked that morning—perhaps migas (fried breadcrumbs with garlic and grapes) or a bowl of caldo that costs three euros and arrives with half a loaf. Vegetarians negotiate on the spot; vegans go hungry. Close at three or you'll be offered dinner at ten, Spanish time, with no taxi home.

Serious eating happens in Calatayud, twenty-five kilometres away. There, Restaurante Magalón dishes out roast suckling lamb worth the detour, while Bodegas Langa pairs local garnacha with food that doesn't treat the wine as an afterthought. Allow a designated driver; Spanish police breathalyse at lunchtimes and rural roads have no lighting whatsoever.

If you're self-catering, stock up before arrival. The village shop closed in 2008; the nearest supermarket sits fourteen kilometres west in Ateca. Buy the local olive oil—fruity, peppery, half the price of Waitrose's own brand—and the honey sold from a porch on the main road. Both taste of rosemary, the dominant hillside herb.

Beds for the Curious

Accommodation totals three rental houses, booked through Spanish sites that translate hilariously. Casa Román sleeps six around a fireplace big enough to barbecue a goat; bring slippers because stone floors suck heat even in May. Hot water arrives via solar panels—glorious at 7 pm, tepid by nine. The owners, who live in Zaragoza, leave the key under a flowerpot and trust you to wire the balance before leaving the country.

Hotel options mean driving. Hotel Marivella in Calatayud offers bland reliability and underground parking for £65 a night; the parador up the road charges double for cloisters and churros. Camping is tolerated, not encouraged—farmers worry about fire risk and rightly so.

Getting Here, Getting Away

From London, fly to Zaragoza (two hours, Ryanair, Tuesdays and Saturdays only) or Madrid (more flights, three-hour drive). Hire a car: public transport involves a train to Calatayud then a taxi at Spanish prices. The last stretch twists through limestone gorges where eagles circle overhead; meet a lorry and someone's reversing fifty metres of blind bend.

Fill the tank before leaving the motorway. Petrol stations close at weekends and village pumps still measure in pesetas converted badly. If you break down, ring the owner of Casa Román—everyone knows his cousin owns the only tow-truck within forty kilometres.

The Honest Verdict

Villalba de Perejiles will not change your life. You will not tick off a Unesco site or brag about a Michelin meal. What you might do—if you arrive with time to spare and expectations switched to mute—is remember how Europe felt before gift shops and stag weekends. One afternoon you'll find yourself sitting on the church steps, watching shadows creep across wheat stubble, realising the village has done the same thing every day for eight centuries. Whether that's comforting or depressing depends on you. Either way, the bell will still strike the hour, the tractor will still idle, and Spain will continue forgetting to check its watch.