Taravilla

At 1,317 metres, Taravilla sits higher than Ben Nevis. The village's single bar displays tomorrow's weather by where the smoke drifts from its chimney – if it hugs the slate roof, expect snow. If it climbs straight up, you'll see clear across the Alto Tajo canyon to the pine-dark ridges that ripple towards Aragon. This is Spain's empty quarter, where Castilla-La Mancha thins to barely thirty souls and the silence carries a metallic edge.

Stone Against Wind

The houses here weren't built for photographs. They're granite blocks mortared against winter, timber doors barely shoulder-width to keep out the wind that scours the plateau nine months a year. Walk the four streets – Calle Real, Calle de la Iglesia, Calle del Sol, Calle de la Fuente – and you'll notice windows the size of tea towels, chimneys fat enough to swallow a lamb, and roofs weighted with stones that have stayed put since the 1700s. Someone has chalked "se vende" on a green shutter; the paint's faded to the colour of dried thyme. Nobody's buying.

San Miguel Arcángel church squats at the top, its medieval tower patched with 19th-century brick after lightning split the original bell tower. Inside, the air smells of beeswax and cold iron. Services happen twice monthly unless snow blocks the CM-210, the mountain road that switchbacks 25 km down to Molina de Aragón. When that happens, the priest from Tragacete skis in with the host wrapped in foil.

The Lake That Isn't

Three kilometres north, the Laguna de Taravilla isn't quite the glacial jewel Instagram promises. It's a shallow limestone basin that fills after autumn rains, turning milky turquoise where travertine deposits reflect the sky. The walk takes forty minutes on a track that starts behind the ruined sheep shed – unsigned, naturally. Download the route beforehand; phone signal dies after the second cattle grid. In drought years the laguna shrinks to a white scar, but even then the surrounding meadows throw up wild crocus in April and saffron milk caps in October, if autumn storms arrive on time.

The trail continues to the Tajo's canyon rim, where griffon vultures ride thermals that rise 600 metres from the river. Sit on the limestone lip and you might spot a Spanish ibex picking across the opposite cliff – they look like pale flecks until one turns to show scimitar horns against the sky. Bring binoculars and a windproof jacket; the updraft carries canyon chill even in July.

What Thirty People Eat

There isn't a shop, not really. María opens her front room from 10-12 daily except Monday, selling tinned tuna, UHT milk and whatever vegetables her son brings from Sigüenza. The bar – nameless, run by Paco and his sister – serves coffee until the beans run out and beer until the barrel's empty. Order a caña and you'll get a plate of migas: fried breadcrumbs with chorizo, garlic and grapes that taste of mountain honey. If Paco's been hunting, the chalkboard lists "jabali estofado" – wild boar stew rich with bay and clove. It sells out by 9 pm; the village eats early because lights flicker when the generator strains.

For proper supplies, drive 10 km to Tragacete on Tuesdays when the mobile fish van parks by the fountain. Fresh trout from the Tajo costs €8 per kilo; ask Miguel to gut them – he does it with thumbnail and penknife, flicking entrails to the waiting cats. The bakery delivers crusty loaves on Thursdays. Miss both and you're eating tinned sardines on stale bread, which honestly tastes fine beside Paco's fireplace with snow whispering against the windows.

When the Road Turns White

Winter arrives abruptly. One November weekend the asphalt's clear; by Monday, drifts bank two metres high and the only way out is tractor or snowshoe. The council keeps a mechanical digger parked at the village entrance all season – villagers call it "la excavadora" like it's family. Temperatures drop to -12°C; pipes freeze, phones die, and the generator becomes the heartbeat that keeps Taravilla alive. This is when the village shows its bones: neighbours sharing firewood, Paco cooking giant pots of lentil stew, someone always checking the elderly widow whose son works in Madrid.

Come February, snow lingers in north-facing gullies but days warm enough for shirt-sleeves at midday. That's when the first motorbikes appear – Madrid firefighters on weekend leave, riding KTMs up the cleared road to drink Paco's beer and sleep in the albergue that doubles as village hall. They leave Sunday evening; silence resets like a held breath.

Beds for the Brave

There are no hotels. The Casa de los Piraguistas sleeps six in a converted hayloft with underfloor heating and views across the pine ridge – book through the Tragacete tourist office, collect keys from María. At €90 nightly it feels steep until you realise the nearest alternative is 40 km away. Eco Art Hotel in Tragacete offers contemporary suites from €120, plus an EV charger that actually works. Both provide detailed directions for the final approach: "After the second bridge, ignore your satnav, take the left fork signed 'Taravilla 6 km' and keep going until asphalt turns to gravel. If you reach the cattle grid, you've gone 200 metres too far."

Pack layers even in August – night temperatures sink to 8°C. Bring cash; María's room-shop doesn't do cards and Paco's card machine lives in a drawer "until someone fixes the phone line". Download offline maps, fill the tank in Molina de Aragón, and carry a spare tyre; the CM-210 eats sidewalls on its shattered edges.

Leaving the Empty Quarter

Drive out at dawn and Taravilla shrinks to a granite smudge between pale grass and darker forest. The road drops through switchbacks where stone walls still bear scorch marks from 1994's wildfire. By the time you reach the A-2, Madrid's heat already shimmers on the horizon. Back in the village, Paco will sweep last night's ash from the bar floor, María will count remaining tins of tomato, and the generator will cough into life for another day. They don't expect you to return; most people don't. But the laguna will refill after the next storm, the vultures will circle regardless, and somewhere a ibex will pick its impossible path across the cliff. Taravilla continues, stubborn as the stones that built it, breathing thin mountain air that tastes of pine resin and distance.