Chequilla

The rock arena arrives before the village does. From the CM-2105, a series of honey-coloured sandstone blocks rise like broken teeth, their flat tops scarred by centuries of hooves. This is Chequilla's bullring—not a purpose-built plaza but a natural amphitheatre where locals have staged their August fiestas since anyone can remember. Park beside it (there's space; yours will probably be the only car) and the hamlet reveals itself below: sixteen stone houses, a church the size of a London bus garage, and a population that fits comfortably inside a single-decker.

At 1,355 m, Chequilla sits a full 300 m higher than Ben Nevis's snow line. The air thins noticeably, carrying the scent of sabina—dwarf juniper that grows sideways here, sculpted by wind rather than gravity. Winter arrives early; the first snow can dust the rooftops in October and still be lying in April. Summer nights drop to 12 °C even in July, so pack a fleece whatever the calendar says. The village's altitude is its defence against mass tourism: coach parties don't fancy serpentine mountain roads where ice lingers in the shadows until midday.

Walk downhill past the closed bar (metal shutter, no opening hours posted) and the place starts to feel like a film set waiting for actors who never turn up. Houses are roofed with curved Arab tiles, their walls the same ochre as the surrounding cliffs. Garages have been carved straight into the rock; one still contains a rusting Seat 600, licence plate from the Franco era. The church door is unlocked—step inside and the temperature falls another five degrees. A single bulb illuminates a Christ figure whose painted blood looks almost fresh against the whitewash. There's no donation box, just a handwritten note: "Si enciende la luz, apáguela después" (If you switch the light on, switch it off after).

Beyond the last cottage the path disintegrates into a shepherd's track that threads between boulders the size of garden sheds. This is where Chequilla earns its keep for visitors. The Camino de la Sabina, unsigned but traceable on Wikiloc, loops 7 km across the paramera, dropping into the Cabrillas gorge and climbing back via an abandoned grain threshing floor. Griffon vultures patrol the thermals; their wingspan matches the height of a tall adult. Download the route offline—there's no signal after the first kilometre, and the landscape repeats itself like a misprinted map: juniper, rock, sky, repeat.

August breaks the spell. For three days around Santo Cristo de la Fortaleza, the population swells from fourteen to roughly two hundred. Returning emigrants pitch tents in family gardens, someone unlocks the bar, and the natural arena hosts novice bull-running that costs nothing to watch. Spectators sit on the rocks with supermarket beer and tupperwares of tortilla; health-and-safety paperwork is conspicuously absent. If you want to witness it, book accommodation early—but not in Chequilla itself. The village has zero hotels; the nearest beds are 30 minutes away in Molina de Aragón, where the Parador occupies a 9th-century fortress and will serve you a seven-course tasting menu for €45 if you can't face another plate of migas.

Come outside festival time and the experience is more honest. Stock up in Molina first: the village shop closed in 2003, and the only vending machine accepts peseta-era coins as souvenirs rather than currency. Bring picnic ingredients, water (fountain on the plaza works, but tastes heavily of calcium) and boots with ankle support. The sandstone can be deceptively smooth after centuries of sheep traffic; a slip near the gorge edge will deposit you 80 m lower with no mobile reception to call for help.

Weather changes fast. A blue morning can collapse into a hailstorm by lunchtime; clouds get snagged on the Ibérico peaks and empty themselves without warning. In May the paramera turns lime-green with fresh thyme; by late June the colour has drained to silver-grey and the risk of wildfire means no cigarettes outside the car. October is the sweet spot—warm days, cold nights, and the junipers laden with powder-blue berries that smell of gin when crushed between fingers.

Drive out at dusk and the village rearranges itself in the rear-view mirror. Houses shrink until only the church bell tower protrudes, looking like a stone finger planted to remind passing traffic that people once chose to live here, and still do, just. Turn the heating on—night temperatures will have fallen ten degrees since you left the plateau. Back on the CM-2105, signposts to Zaragoza and Madrid point in opposite directions; both feel further away than their respective two-and-a-half-hour drives. That's Chequilla's real attraction: not what it offers, but what it withholds. Come prepared, expect nothing, and the empty streets start to feel less like abandonment, more like breathing space.