Molina de Aragón

The floodlights switch on at nine sharp. Suddenly the castle that loomed in darkness above Molina's rooftops becomes a block of brilliant sandstone, its square keep etched against the Sierra de Caldereros. Phones appear on balconies; someone down in the plaza whistles approval. It's the village's nightly free show, and only the neighbours seem to know about it.

At 1,065 m above sea level, Molina de Aragón feels closer to the stars than to the nearest city. Guadalajara lies 95 km west, Teruel 110 km east; between them spreads a high, wind-scoured plateau where the air smells of thyme and snow is still news in April. The place isn't remote by Spanish standards—Madrid airport is two hours on the A-2—but once you leave the motorway the land folds into empty valleys and the only traffic is a lorry full of lambs.

A frontier that forgot to modernise

This was once the capital of a miniature Christian kingdom wedged between Castile and Aragón. The castle, started by the Moors and finished by every subsequent owner, still guards the only sensible crossing of the river Gallo. From its battlements you can see why borders shifted so often: miles of cereal fields southwards, jagged limestone northwards, and nothing much to stop an ambitious knight with a spare afternoon.

Inside the walls, the street plan hasn't budged since the 1400s. Calle Mayor narrows to the width of a cart, then widens unexpectedly into a tiny square where the 12th-century church of Santa María squats like a bunker. The portal is pure Romanesque—round arch, chunky columns, carved capitals showing lions eating other lions—but the tower was rebuilt after lightning in 1845 and looks it. The door is usually locked; ring the tourist office (weekday mornings only) and they'll send a caretaker with a key the size of a trowel.

Round the corner, the old Jewish quarter is simply a steep lane called Rua de la Sinagoga. No plaques, no souvenir menorahs, just washing lines and a ginger cat that hisses at strangers. Halfway up, a medieval doorway has been bricked in to make a garage. Authenticity, here, means nobody has tidied it up for Instagram.

Walks that finish at the bar

Molina's best route is the signed "Ruta de los Miradores", a 4 km loop that sneaks out of the upper town, skirts the castle rock and drops back along the river. Allow ninety minutes if you keep stopping to photograph vultures. The path passes the ruined convent of San Francisco—roofless, pigeon-haunted—and the Roman bridge that still takes local traffic. A farmer in a Fiat Panda will probably overtake you on it.

Beyond the houses the valley opens into the Alto Tajo Natural Park, a wrinkled landscape of red gorges and stone pine. Three way-marked trails start within 15 km of the village; the easiest is the Hoz de Priego, a flat 7 km saunter to a waterfall that actually flows in spring. Serious walkers can tackle the Cañón de Mesa, a 16 km circuit with 600 m of ascent and views that make the knees wobble worse than the cliffs. Either way, tell someone where you're going—phone coverage vanishes once the canyon walls close in.

Back in town, boots are best cleaned on the metal grille outside Bar Deportivo while you order a beer and a plate of morteruelo. The local pâté tastes like spiced pork butter and arrives scalding hot; mop it up with the complimentary stale bread. They also do trout from the Gallo, served head-on and tasting of river water, which is exactly what you want after a day on limestone.

When the thermometer plunges

Winter arrives early at this altitude. November can bring minus five at dawn, and the castle's stone staircases turn into an ice rink. The upside is crystal air and empty streets; the downside is that the petrol station 40 km away on the A-2 may be the only place still open. Molina's one cashpoint is inside the supermarket, so if the power goes (it will) you're stuck with whatever euros are in your pocket.

Summer is kinder than you'd expect—average July highs of 27 °C thanks to the altitude—but the sun still bites. Afternoon siesta is observed religiously: shutters clatter shut at two, reopen at five. Try to check into the Parador during the gap and you'll stand on the doorstep until the receptionist finishes her cigarette. The modern glass-box extension looks odd against the town wall, but the lounge faces the castle and the coffee is decent.

Spring and autumn are the sweet spots. In May the surrounding steppe turns mauve with thyme flowers; in October shepherds drive flocks down from the high pastures and the smell of lamb fat drifts from every vent. That's also when restaurants trot out setas—wild mushrooms sautéed with garlic and parsley, served on earthenware plates hotter than the castle battlements at midday.

A night in the old kingdom

Accommodation is limited. The Parador has 54 rooms, underground parking and the only lift in the province that smells of cedar. Doubles from €120 including the view. Budget alternatives are two small guesthouses on Calle de los Huertos—clean, heated, €45 a night, but you share a bathroom with whoever else braved the bus from Madrid. That service, by the way, runs three times daily, takes three and a half hours and deposits you at 22:30 with no onward taxis. Hire a car.

Evening entertainment is whatever you invent. Locals promenade the main street until nine, then vanish. The castle is floodlit until midnight—drive up the access road, switch off the engine and listen to the wind rattle the crags. If you need noise, Teruel is an hour east and has tapas bars open until the small hours. Just remember the road back crosses 1,400 m of pass; deer appear without warning and the tarmac ices over.

Come morning, the bakery opposite the church opens at seven. Buy a sponge-like mollete still warm from the oven, walk to the Roman bridge and watch the mist lift off the Gallo. By eight the schoolchildren are clattering up the hill, the castle lights have finally dimmed and Molina settles into another day of not being famous. Long may it continue.