Angón

Stone, Wind and Ten Stubborn Souls

At 970 metres, Angón sits just below the cloud line that scrapes across the Sierra Norte de Guadalajara. Ten people are listed on the municipal roll—enough to fill a single London lift—yet the village refuses to fold. Stone houses climb the south-facing ridge like weather-beaten steps, their Arabic-tile roofs weighted down with rocks against the gales that sweep in from the Meseta. No sea views here; the horizon is a rolling swell of oak and butchered pasture that turns from emerald in April to tobacco-brown by late September. On a clear morning you can pick out the slate roofs of Zaorejas, 12 km away, but most days the world ends at the next crest.

The road up from the A-2 is tarmac, just, but single-track for the last 8 km. Meeting a tractor means reversing to the nearest passing bay—usually a sheep grid. In winter the asphalt ices early; the council grades it, but only after the school bus route is cleared. Chains or 4×4 are sensible between December and March. Mobile coverage is patchy: Vodafone holds a bar on the cemetery ridge, Orange gives up at the first bend.

What Passes for a Centre

There is no square, no café, no yellow “Information” pointer. Instead, the village organises itself around a triangle: the church, the fountain and the bread oven. The Iglesia de San Pedro is locked unless Pilar—one of the ten—has seen strangers wandering. Knock at number 17; she keeps the key in a biscuit tin. Inside, the nave is barely twelve metres long, whitewashed every spring with lime slapped on by whoever’s knees still bend. The altar rail is 1950s pine; the font is a re-purposed olive mill. Sunday mass was suspended in 2018 when the priest died and the diocese never replaced him. Now a communion service rotates through four villages on a monthly circuit; Angón’s turn is the third Saturday at 18:00. Turn up early or the lights stay off.

Beside the church the 1905 stone fountain still runs. Winter water is so cold it makes fillings ache; summer hikers fill bottles gratefully because there is no shop. Twenty metres uphill, the communal oven is lit twice a year: on the eve of the fiesta (15 August) and for the matanza weekend in February. Sausages and fatty ribs hiss on bay branches; the smell drifts down the lane and even the dogs look nostalgic.

Walking Without Waymarks

Angón has never heard of the “Senda Local”; the only signage is the odd blaze of orange paint left by hunters. That does not mean the paths are imaginary. From the last house a track continues south-east, narrowing into a sheep trod that threads the Robledal de la Dehesa. Thirty minutes of steady climbing brings you to the Cerrón, a limestone lip at 1,250 m where griffon vultures ride thermals and the village looks like a handful of dice tossed onto a green baize. Continue another hour and you reach the ruins of Roblelacasa, a village abandoned in 1969 when the spring dried. Walls still stand, roofless but upright, and wild irises push through old threshing floors. Retrace your steps or press on to Zaorejas (total circuit 14 km). Either way, carry water and a print-out from the Spanish IGN 1:25,000 sheet—Google Maps thinks the track is a river.

Spring brings orchids in the uncut meadows; autumn delivers boletus edulis if the August storms behaved. Mushrooming is free and unpoliced, but locals pick at dawn; by the time a London stomach has finished its granola the slopes have been combed.

Eating: Bring It or Drive

No bar, no bakery, no weekend pop-up. The nearest shop is in Checa, 19 km down the winding CM-2106. It opens 09:00-14:00, closes for siesta, then again 17:00-20:30. Bread arrives at 11:00; if you want a baguette, queue early. Fresh fish lands on Thursday—hake from Galicia, already smelling tired after the truck journey. Better strategy: stock in Guadalajara before you leave the A-2. The village oven works if you bring dough; ask Pilar for firewood (€3 a bundle, honesty box on the windowsill).

For a proper meal drive to Majaelrayo, half an hour north. Casa Juan serves roast kid (€18) and pimientos del piquillo stuffed with salt cod (€12). House wine is a young Garnacha from nearby Tamajón; it tastes of iron and thyme and costs €2.50 a glass. They close Tuesdays and all of January.

When the Weather Turns Nasty

Winters hit –8 °C on clear nights. Pipes freeze, so every house drips its taps from November onwards. Snow can arrive overnight; drifts block the road for two or three days until a small yellow plough fights its way up. If you’re renting, confirm the place has a wood burner and that the owner delivers logs—gas bottles give up when the thermometer drops below zero. Summer, by contrast, is dry and 6-8 degrees cooler than Madrid. July afternoons hover around 28 °C, nights drop to 15 °C, perfect for sleeping with the window open and the duvet on.

Rain is scarce but dramatic: August storms can dump 40 mm in an hour, turning the clay tracks into skating rinks and bringing down oak branches. Check the Aemet radar before setting out; the landscape offers zero shelter.

Beds, Not Hotels

There is no hotel, no pension, no casa rural with a booking.com button. Instead, three villagers rent out restored houses by word of mouth. Expect stone floors, low doorways, wood-fired cookers and Wi-Fi that sighs when the wind is in the west. Prices hover around €80 a night for two, minimum two nights; owners prefer WhatsApp to emails. Sheets are provided, towels sometimes not. Bring slippers—bedrooms are upstairs, bathrooms down, and the stone stairs have been polished by three centuries of boots.

Camping is tolerated, not encouraged. Flat ground is scarce, cows use the meadows, and shepherds walk at 05:30. A bivvy among the holm oaks is possible if you leave at dawn and take every scrap of litter.

The Fiesta that Almost Isn’t

The Assumption, 15 August, is Angón’s annual pulse check. Former residents drive up from Madrid, Guadalajara, even Barcelona. Population swells to 120 for twelve hours. A sound system appears, powered by a generator that drowns conversation. Someone roasts a sheep; someone else brings paella for fifty. Dancing starts at midnight in the lane because there is no square. By 03:00 the generator coughs off, the cars leave, and the village drops back to ten. If you want to witness the moment, arrive early: parking is wherever you can squeeze a tyre into the verge, and turning circles are non-existent.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

Angón will not sell you a souvenir; the village lacks even a postcode stamp. What it offers is a calibration device for urban noise: after two quiet nights your ears reset, and the first lorry you meet on the descent sounds like the invasion of Poland. Take the silence home in memory form—it costs nothing, weighs nothing, and customs cannot confiscate it.