Prados Redondos

The sheep bells start before dawn. By the time first light touches the stone roofs of Prados Redondos, a single shepherd is already a black dot on the grey-green horizon, moving his flock across the high plateaux that gave this village its name. No cafes open early. No buses arrive. The only shop keeps whatever hours its owner fancies. At 1,150 metres, time is dictated by animals and weather, not timetables.

Stone, wind and the memory of transhumance

Forty-seven residents are registered here, though on a cold Tuesday in March you would be hard-pressed to find half that number. The rest have migrated to Guadalajara or Madrid for work, returning only when the fields around the houses turn improbably green in late April. Their stone-and-timber homes are not monuments; they are simply built from what lay to hand when the village grew up around winter livestock pens. Walk the single main lane at dusk and you will notice doors left ajar—an invitation to air rooms, not a welcome to strangers. Photography feels intrusive; the place is still working, not performing.

The parish church of San Pedro keeps watch from the highest point. Its bell tolls the hours with the enthusiasm of someone who rarely gets the chance: Mass attendance is thin outside major feasts. Step inside and the air smells of wax and damp stone; the paint on the altar retable is flaking, but the woodcarving underneath—sixteenth-century, local craftsmen—remains sharp. No admission charge, no postcard stand. If the door is locked, knock at the house opposite; the key lives in a kitchen drawer.

Walking the empty ridges

Maps call the surrounding country the Señorío de Molina, a medieval jurisdictional oddity that once answered to the Knights of Malta rather than any Spanish crown. Out here the title means nothing beyond a useful label for 80 km of uninterrupted walking territory. Three waymarked paths leave the village, but the best strategy is to follow the unpaved road that snakes north-west towards the Hoz de Arroyo Seco. After 40 minutes the track dissolves into twin ruts; keep going and you reach a natural balcony where the land falls away 300 metres into a canyon of red sandstone. Griffon vultures ride the thermals at eye level, and on very clear days the blue line of the Sierra de Albarracín appears 60 km distant.

Spring arrives late. Even in May night frosts are common, so pack a fleece whatever the forecast says. By June the parameros—high meadows—yellow overnight; thyme and rosemary release their scent only when boots bruise them. Carry water: streams marked on older topographic charts are often dry by July. Mobile reception is patchy; download the IGN 1:25,000 sheet beforehand. If you meet anyone, it will probably be a mushroom hunter in October, basket in hand, eyes on the ground, unwilling to reveal whether the rovellons (saffron milk-caps) are out this week.

The summer exodus in reverse

Fiesta proper begins on the third weekend of July, when emigrants drive up the A-2 from Madrid, cars loaded with grandchildren and portable fridges. The population swells to perhaps 200. A sound system appears in the plaza, powered by a generator that competes with the church bell. On Saturday night an orchestra plays pasodobles until the Guardia Civil reminds organisers of the 2 a.m. noise limit. Sunday brings a procession: the statue of the Virgin is carried once round the single street, followed by villagers who chat rather than pray. By Tuesday the cars have left, the generator is gone, and the shepherd resumes his slow circuit before anyone notices.

San Isidro, 15 May, is quieter: a priest from Molina de Aragón blesses fields and animals, scattering holy water from a plastic watering can. Locals insist this is not staged for visitors—there rarely are any—but the ritual feels self-conscious now that half the audience films it on phones.

Eating when nothing is open

There is no bar, no restaurant, no Saturday market. Self-catering is obligatory, so stock up in Molina (28 km) before the 700-metre climb. What you will find instead is invitations. Accept them. A woman in an apron may wave you into a garage where her cousins are roasting a suckling lamb in a brick oven built by their grandfather. The meat arrives with no garnish beyond a wedge of lemon and a bottle of tinto de la casa drawn from a plastic drum. Migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic and chorizo—follow, heavy enough to silence the table. Payment is refused; the correct response is to bring a bottle of something decent next time you pass.

If you are refused entry (it happens), the nearest reliable meal is at Asador el Casar in El Casar de Molina, 25 minutes by car. Order cordero asado for two; they will bring enough for four, plus chipped plates and a television showing football with the sound off. Expect to pay €18–20 per head.

Getting here, staying over, knowing when to leave

Public transport stops at Molina de Aragón; from there a taxi costs €35–40 and must be booked a day ahead (Molina Radio Taxi, +34 949 30 02 12). Driving from Madrid takes two and a half hours on the A-2, exit 178 towards Checa. The final 15 km climb narrow CM-2116: stone walls, no barrier, sheep with right of way. In winter the road ices; carry chains between December and March, and do not attempt the ascent if the wind is lifting cloud across the tarmac.

Accommodation is limited to four village houses signed up as casas rurales. All sleep four to six, cost €80–110 per night for the unit, and include fireplaces because nights remain cold even in July. Owners leave a basket of firewood but charge €5 for a refill. Bring slippers; stone floors suck heat from bare feet. One house has wifi that works when the generator in the next garden is off. Booking is through the Molina regional office (+34 949 30 03 52) rather than online; expect to leave messages and wait for a callback.

Stay a maximum of three nights unless you have a car and a taste for solitude. After 48 hours you will have walked every path, named the village dogs, and learned which roof receives the first morning sun. That is the moment to descend while the high plains still feel expansive rather than empty. Drive away at dawn, windows down, and the sheep bells will follow you for the first kilometre, fading only when the road drops below 900 metres.