Ablanque

The road to Ablanque climbs through parched thyme scrub until mobile signal drops to one bar. At 1,130 metres, the wind hits the hire car sideways and the temperature gauge falls three degrees in as many minutes. Below, a scatter of stone roofs clings to a ridge like broken teeth. This is where Castilla-La Mancha stops pretending to be vineyards and windmills and becomes something older: the Sistema Ibérico, Spain's forgotten spine.

Sixty-three people live here. On weekdays the headcount includes two pensioners on the bench outside the church and a farmer fixing dry-stone walls with wire that once held EU subsidy signs. The village has no shop, no bar, no petrol pump. What it does have is altitude that sharpens the light and a silence so complete you can hear your own pulse while walking the single paved lane.

The Village that Outlived its Purpose

Ablanque's stone houses weren't built for visitors. Thick walls, tiny windows and internal courtyards evolved for winters where mercury can touch -15°C. Adobe patches show where families once kept goats beneath the same roof as grandparents. Now most dwellings stand empty; their wooden doors painted the same municipal green as the 1950s, locks rusted orange. The church bell still tolls at noon, though the priest drives in from Molina de Aragón only on Sundays.

Walk clockwise around the settlement and the pattern becomes clear: habitation on the south-facing slope, abandoned grain stores (horreos) crumbling into the north-side ravine. The design kept food cool before refrigerators arrived. It also meant villagers could monitor approaching strangers from kilometres away – a habit that dies hard. Stop to photograph a doorway and expect curtains to twitch. Say "buenos días" and you'll get directions to the mirador, plus a concise history of every family that left for Madrid in the 1960s.

Walking the Skyline without Waymarks

Maps show a spiderweb of goat tracks fanning into the paramo. None are signposted, which keeps casual hikers away. Follow the dirt track past the last house and you reach a limestone plateau after twenty minutes. The reward is a 270-degree sweep: ochre mesas to the south, the snow-dusted Moncayo massif on the horizon, and below, the Guadalajara canyon system that feeds the River Tajo. Griffon vultures ride thermals at eye level; their wingspan wider than a British picnic table.

Serious walkers can link a six-kilometre loop east to the abandoned hamlet of Valdelavilla – roofs intact, wells dry, silence absolute. The path is obvious in May when wild thyme flowers create a purple runway. After October rain it turns to slick clay; boots with ankle support recommended. There is no phone coverage for most of the route. Tell someone where you're going, or better, leave a note under the windscreen wiper of the only car in the plaza.

Winter Rules Everything

Between December and March Ablanque becomes a different country. The access road (GU-208) gains 400 metres in eight kilometres; shaded corners hold black ice until midday. Locals fit chains to front-wheel-drive Seat Ibizas and think nothing of it. Visitors in UK-registered rental cars discover that ABS brakes are decorative on packed snow. If the white stuff is falling, park at the bottom near the cattle grid and walk the final kilometre. The village turns monochrome: stone, sky and the occasional blood-spot of a winter jacket hung out to air.

On clear nights temperatures drop to -10°C. The single holiday cottage – La Casa Blanca – has underfloor heating fuelled by a biomass boiler. It's the only building here insulated to 21st-century standards. Step outside and the Milky War looks like someone spilled sugar across black marble. Light pollution registers zero on the Bortle scale; amateur astronomers bring tripods and swear the Andromeda Galaxy appears naked-eye.

What to Eat When There's Nobody Cooking

Forget tapas trails. Ablanque's last grocery shut in 2008. Self-catering is mandatory, which means a supermarket sweep in Molina de Aragón (25 km) before you arrive. The Mercadona on the outskirts stocks everything except decent cheddar. For a meal out, drive fifteen minutes to Corduente where Bar La Vega does a plate of roast suckling lamb (cordero lechal) big enough for two, chips included, €18. Vegetarians get a tortilla Española and sympathetic shrug.

Sunday lunch requires forward planning. Asador Casa Cándido in Molina serves chuletón – a T-bone the size of a laptop – cooked over holm-oak embers. Arrive before 2 p.m. or the only table left is next to the loos. Order house red; it's from Valdepeñas and tastes like Rioja on a budget. The waiter will ask where you're staying. Say "Ablanque" and the reply is always the same: "Tranquilo, eh?" It's not a question.

The Economics of Near-Emptiness

Staying here costs less than a Travelodge. La Casa Blanca sleeps fifteen, so a group of six pays under £30 per night each outside August. The pool is fed by mountain spring water – swimmable from June to September if you don't mind 19°C. There's fibre broadband, but the router is in the cellar; Zoom calls work from the kitchen table, not the terrace. The owner, a Madrid architect who inherited his grandmother's house, lists it on Spain-Holiday and answers WhatsApp queries in perfect English. He'll also warn you when the access road is blocked by migrating sheep.

The village survives on EU rural funding and honey. Ablanque's remaining beekeeper, Julián, produces thirty jars a year from rosemary scrub. He sells to weekenders for €8 a jar, cash only. Ask at number 14 (blue door, satellite dish). If he's out you'll find the honey on the windowsill with an honesty box fashioned from a olive-oil tin.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

Most visitors stay one night, photograph the stone archway at dawn, then head to Sigüenza for the cathedral tour. That's sensible. Ablanque offers no souvenirs, no postcard rack, no branded ashtrays. What it does provide is a calibration point for modern life: a place where darkness still exists, where bread is baked once a week, and where the loudest sound at 3 p.m. is a distant tractor grinding through first gear.

Drive away at sunset and the village shrinks in the rear-view mirror until only the church tower is visible, a square silhouette against the sierra. By the time you reach the main road, phone signal returns with a ping of missed messages. The altitude readout drops below 800 metres. Air thickens. Traffic noise resumes. Ablanque has already forgotten you, which is exactly why some people go.