Hijes

At 1,160 m the air thins noticeably, phone signal collapses, and the only soundtrack is wind rattling juniper branches. Hijes appears without warning: a fistful of limestone houses folded into a ridge of the Serranía de Guadalajara, streetlights absent, souvenir stalls unthinkable. Year-round population: fewer than twenty. Head count of resident dogs almost rivals that of humans.

Reaching it feels like rewinding the calendar. From Guadalajara you drive north-east on the A-2, peel off at tiny Torremocha del Campo, then climb for another forty minutes on roads that narrow to a single lane. Stone walls press in; black cows wander across the tarmac. In winter the last 8 km are regularly glazed with ice; chains are sensible luggage. When snow drifts block the pass, the village is simply cut off until a farmer fires up his tractor.

Stone that has outlasted empires

No grand monuments here—just a cluster of masonry that has survived because nobody bothered to knock it down. Houses are built from chunks of local limestone, roofs pitched steeply with curved Arab tiles to shrug off snow. Wooden doors hang on hand-forged iron hinges that squeal like gossip. Walk the three lanes slowly and you’ll spot intact bread ovens built into gable ends, mangers that once fed mules, threshing circles now colonised by wild thyme. The 16th-century parish church stands on a slight bump, its bell turret more dovecote than campanile; inside, the temperature stays 8 °C whatever the season.

There is no ticket office, no audioguide, no café terrace for post-visit debrief. Interpretation is strictly DIY, which is why a Spanish IGN 1:25,000 map (£8 online) makes a better companion than any glossy guidebook.

Walking into nothing much—deliberately

Hijes is a launchpad for the kind of hiking that doesn’t require summit selfies. A spider’s web of drovers’ paths radiates across the paramo, linking abandoned hamlets whose names—Las Tiendas, El Botero—sound almost fictional. One straightforward circuit follows the ridge south for 5 km to the ruins of La Aliseda, where stone cottages have gaping window holes like empty eye sockets. Allow two hours, plus another thirty minutes if you stop to watch griffon vultures riding thermals above the cliff they use as a communal roost.

Paths are unmarked; cairns appear sporadically, then vanish. Mobile coverage is patchy even on high ground, so downloading a GPX file in Guadalajara saves later head-scratching. Spring brings the biggest colour change: broom turns neon yellow, wild lavender releases a scent sharp enough to make your eyes water, and the night sky stays cold enough for gloves. Summer is quieter—too hot for serious walking after 11 a.m.—but at 6 a.m. the thermometer can still read 12 °C, perfect for an early loop before the sun burns off the scent of sage.

Farmers’ clocks and fiesta etiquette

Daily life revolves around livestock and daylight. The single working tractor fires up around 7 a.m.; after that, silence until the goats are driven back from pasture at dusk. If you meet someone on the track, the correct greeting is “Buenos días” followed by a pause—rushing the conversation marks you as metropolitan. Ask permission before photographing vegetable plots; even abandoned-looking patches belong to somebody.

Every August the population swells to maybe eighty. The fiestas last two days: mass in the church, a communal paella cooked on a wood fire in the square, and a late-night folk session that finishes when the last guitarist’s fingers blister. Visitors are welcome but not fussed over; bring your own beer and expect to wash up afterwards.

What you won’t find—and what to do about it

There are no shops, bars, petrol stations, cashpoints or public toilets. The nearest bread is 18 km away in Campillo de Dueñas, the nearest proper supermarket 35 km back in Guadalajara. Stock up before you leave the motorway. Water from the public fountain is safe to drink; if the handle has been removed for winter, carry all you need.

Accommodation is equally scarce. One house rents out two doubles on a room-only basis (about €60 a night, cash). Booking is word-of-mouth via the village Facebook group—search “Higes (oficial)”—and requires patience; replies can take a week. The alternative is to base yourself in medieval Sigüenza, 45 minutes west, where the converted parador starts at £120 and has heating that actually works.

Weather that changes its mind

Altitude gives Hijes four distinct seasons. Frost can arrive in October and linger until April; snow is common January-March. May and September offer the kindest conditions—clear skies, daytime 18-22 °C, nights cool enough for a jumper. July and August hit 30 °C at midday but drop to 14 °C by dawn; pack layers rather than relying on shorts alone. Rain arrives suddenly, usually as afternoon storms that flood the narrow streets before draining away within an hour. A lightweight waterproof lives permanently in daypacks here.

Leaving without ruining the place

Hijes survives because people stayed away long enough for the village to shrink rather than sell out. There is no entrance fee, no coach park, no plan to build either. That fragility is part of the appeal, and also the reason to tread lightly: take every scrap of litter back down the mountain, keep music in headphones, don’t wander across planted terraces however empty they look. Treat the place as somebody’s home—because for a handful of stubborn residents, that’s exactly what it is.