Narboneta

The mobile phone signal dies somewhere between the pine-scented bend and the stone wall where three goats stare without blinking. That's when you know Narboneta has started. Forty-one people live here, and the census taker must have come during summer when the grandchildren visit.

At 850 metres above sea level, the village sits where the plateau fractures into limestone gorges, 60 kilometres east of Cuenca. The road climbs through sabina trees and abandoned threshing circles until stone roofs appear, huddled against a wind that carries the scent of rosemary and distant sheep. Winter arrives early; snow can cut the place off for days. Summer brings a different isolation—thirsty heat that turns the surrounding fields the colour of lion hides.

Stone, Silence, and the Art of Staying Put

Nobody comes to Narboneta for monuments. The church stands plain and square, its bell tower more functional than inspiring, built with the same honey-coloured masonry as the houses. What matters here is continuity: wooden doors that have closed for two centuries, stone lintels carved with dates from the 1700s, and the way every dwelling faces south to catch winter sun while turning its back to the north wind.

Walk the single main street at 3 pm and the only sound is your own footfall echoing off stone. Then a door creaks. An elderly woman emerges with a plastic bucket of potato peelings for the chickens. She nods—neither friendly nor unfriendly, simply acknowledging that you exist in her peripheral vision. The bucket scrapes the ground. The door thuds shut. Silence returns, now heavier.

The houses aren't quaint; they're working buildings designed for people who once kept animals downstairs and lived above. Many stand empty, their roofs collapsed inward like broken mouths. Others show fresh mortar where someone's retirement savings have been poured into preserving a grandparents' home. Property costs roughly €30,000 for a habitable three-bedroom, though "habitable" includes wood-fired heating and a bathroom tacked onto what was formerly the stable.

Walking Without Waymarks

No gift shop sells hiking maps. Instead, old men at the bar (open Thursday to Sunday, hours approximate) will trace routes in spilled wine. Follow the track past the last house and you hit a network of agricultural paths leading into the Serranía Baja. These aren't manicured trails—expect loose shale, thorn scratches, and the occasional dead badger.

A circular walk of eight kilometres drops into the Hoz de Beteta, where griffon vultures circle on thermals rising from cliffs the colour of digestive biscuits. The path climbs through pine plantations before contouring back to the village across terraces of almond and ancient olive. Allow three hours, carry water, and don't rely on phone GPS—download maps offline before leaving Cuenca.

Spring brings wild asparagus thrusting through roadside weeds; locals collect it in plastic bags, eyes scanning for rival foragers. Autumn means mushrooms, though you'll need permission from landowners and knowledge of what won't kill you. The village bar sells no field guides; mistakes here are final.

What Forty-One People Eat

There's no restaurant, no bakery, no shop. The daily bread van arrives at 11 am, horn blasting the first four notes of a pasodoble. If you miss it, drive fifteen kilometres to Beteta for supplies. What Narboneta produces instead is conversation, traded in the bar over €1.20 cañas of lager kept icy in a chest freezer.

The menu when someone's daughter gets married: Manchego lamb slow-roasted in wood ovens until the fat caramelises, served with garden peas and potatoes fried in olive oil pressed from village trees. Rosemary honey appears at breakfast, dribbled over toast rubbed with tomato and garlic. The cheese comes from a cousin in Villalba de la Sierra; it's semi-cured, tasting of thyme and sheep, sold wrapped in greaseproof paper for €8 a round.

If you rent the only tourist accommodation—Casa Olaila, three stars, €70 per night—bring ingredients. The kitchen has a four-ring hob and a knife sharp enough to split hairs. The nearest supermarket is 25 minutes by car; don't expect organic quinoa.

When the Village Swells to Eighty

August transforms everything. Emigrants return from Madrid and Barcelona, cars squeezing into spaces that haven't seen traffic since last summer. The church bell rings properly, not just for Sunday mass but for evening processions where teenagers carry saints' effigies with the bored efficiency of those fulfilling family duty.

A sound system appears in the square, playing 1980s Spanish pop until 4 am. Grandmothers gossip from folding chairs while toddlers chase feral cats. Someone sets up a barbeque; the smell of charred chorizo drifts through windows left open for cool air. For three days, Narboneta feels almost viable.

Then September. Cars loaded with school uniforms and city shoes depart before dawn. The silence that returns is different—emptier, though the goats couldn't care less. By October, only the permanent residents remain, plus the odd British couple who bought a ruin on Instagram and are learning why stone houses need roofs that breathe.

Getting Here, Getting Away

From Cuenca, take the CM-210 southeast through Uclés, then fork right onto the CM-2116 after San Clemente. The tarmac narrows, hedges disappear, and suddenly you're driving through a landscape that feels like Spain before smartphones. Parking means finding a gap between houses wide enough for a Fiat Panda; anything larger requires reversing skills and blind optimism.

No buses run here. A taxi from Cuenca costs around €80—if you can convince a driver to come this far. Winter tyres aren't mandatory but recommended; the final ascent includes a 12% gradient that turns entertainingly icy after December rain.

Stay longer than two days and someone will ask why. Tell them you're walking. Tell them you're writing. Tell them you're considering buying, then watch their faces calculate whether you'll last the first winter. Most don't. The ones who do learn to recognise the bread van's horn, to greet the goats by name, and to understand that forty-one people create all the society anyone genuinely needs—provided you bring your own entertainment and aren't fussy about quinoa.