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about Condemios de Abajo
High-mountain village; black architecture and dense pine forest setting
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The Village That Forgot to Grow
At 1,316 metres, Condemios de Abajo sits high enough to make your ears pop on the drive up. The sign at the edge of the village claims eleven residents, though locals admit that's optimistic. Thirteen if you count the dogs. Twenty on a bank holiday when the grandchildren visit.
This isn't one of those Spanish villages tarted up for weekenders. The stone houses huddle together because they always have, not because it photographs well for Instagram. Some roofs have collapsed. Others sport satellite dishes that look embarrassed to be there. The streets - all three of them - are paved with the same granite slabs that have tripped up drunks for three centuries.
The silence hits first. Not the peaceful kind advertised in wellness retreats, but the sort that makes you conscious of your own breathing. A tractor hasn't passed through since Tuesday. The nearest bar is twenty minutes down the mountain in Tamajón, assuming you remembered to book a table. The last shop closed when the owner died in 2003.
What Passes for Entertainment
Walking is the main attraction, mainly because there's nothing else to do. Paths lead into the Sierra de Pela's beech forests, following routes that shepherds have used since the Moors ruled these hills. The GR-88 long-distance trail passes nearby, though signposts are sporadic and some waymarks have weathered into illegibility. Download an offline map before you set off - phone signal dies completely in the valleys.
Two hours of steady climbing brings you to viewpoints across the Sorbe valley. On clear days you can spot the wind farms on neighbouring ridges, their blades turning slowly like giant white spoons stirring the sky. The descent passes through clearings where wild boar have rooted up the ground overnight. Roe deer watch from the treeline, unbothered by humans they rarely see.
Winter transforms everything. Snow arrives in December and stays until March, cutting the village off for days when the CM-101 becomes impassable. The local council clears the road eventually, though 'eventually' operates on Castilian timescales. Bring chains even if the forecast looks benign - mountain weather here changes faster than British rail timetables.
The Architecture of Survival
The church of San Juan Bautista squats in the village centre, its bell tower barely taller than the houses around it. Inside, the temperature drops ten degrees. The altar cloth needs replacing. Candles cost one euro in a box by the door, though nobody checks if you pay. Sunday mass happens when the priest from Atienza makes it up the mountain, roughly twice a month.
Stone houses follow a pattern evolved for brutal winters. Walls measure sixty centimetres thick. Windows face south-east to catch morning sun. Chimneys stack on interior walls to retain heat. Many properties stand empty - inheritance disputes, families moved to Madrid, owners who died without heirs. Restoration costs run high when materials must be hauled up the mountain. A renovated three-bedroom house sold last year for €42,000, though the buyer spent another €60,000 making it habitable.
The few occupied homes display subtle signs of life: smoke from chimneys, geraniums in window boxes, satellite dishes angled hopefully skyward. One resident keeps chickens in a converted stable. Another has filled his courtyard with firewood stacked with Germanic precision. These aren't hobby farmers or lifestyle migrants. They're people who never left, or who returned when city life lost its appeal.
Eating (or Not) in the Highlands
The village itself offers zero food options. Zero. Not even a vending machine. The nearest proper supermarket sits twenty kilometres away in Tamajón, a journey that feels longer given the winding mountain road. Stock up before you arrive - forgetting milk means a forty-minute round trip.
Local restaurants cluster in the valley towns. Atienza, thirty minutes north, serves reliable roast lamb and kid goat at prices that make Londoners weep with joy. A full asado for two costs €28 including wine. The portions assume you've been working fields all day. Miguel's bar on the main square does excellent migas - fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo - though he stops serving food at 4pm sharp. Arrive late and you'll get crisps and apologies.
Bring cash. Many establishments don't accept cards, and the nearest ATM is in Galve de Sorbe, fifteen kilometres of mountain driving away. The machine sometimes runs out of money at weekends when everyone from surrounding villages descends for shopping.
Getting There, Staying There
Madrid Barajas airport lies two hours south on reasonable roads. Hire a car - public transport exists only in theory. The Samar bus line 027 runs from Guadalajara on Tuesdays and Thursdays, returning immediately after a twenty-minute stop. Miss it and you're sleeping in the village, whether you planned to or not.
Accommodation options within the municipality amount to one rental house, booked solid through summer by Spanish families escaping Madrid's heat. Otherwise, base yourself in Atienza or Tamajón and drive up for day visits. Roads are well-maintained but narrow - meeting a delivery van requires creative reversing skills.
Winter visits demand preparation. Temperatures drop to minus fifteen. Snow chains aren't optional extras, they're survival equipment. The village's altitude means weather systems arrive suddenly - sunshine at noon can become a blizzard by three. Local farmers check forecasts obsessively. Visitors should do the same.
The Honest Truth
Condemios de Abajo won't suit everyone. Children complain about the lack of WiFi. Adults accustomed to flat whites and Deliveroo find the adjustment brutal. Mobile coverage flickers between one bar and none. The nearest doctor sits fifteen kilometres away, and serious medical emergencies require a helicopter.
Yet for certain temperaments, the place works a strange magic. Artists appreciate the quality of light at altitude. Hikers value trails empty even on bank holidays. Birdwatchers tick off species rarely seen elsewhere in Spain. Most visitors last a day, perhaps two, before retreating to places with bars and broadband.
The village doesn't need saving, despite what well-meaning urbanites suggest. It needs what it always needed: people willing to trade convenience for space, who don't mind driving for bread, who find satisfaction in growing vegetables and chopping wood. The eleven residents aren't victims of rural decline - they're people who chose this life and continue choosing it daily.
Come if you're curious about how Spain lived before tourism and technology. Don't come expecting revelations or transformation. Bring waterproofs, walking boots, and enough food for your stay. Leave your expectations at the mountain pass. The village will still be here, quiet and unimpressed, long after you've gone home.
