Hortezuela de Océn

The road climbs past Océn until the tarmac narrows and the fields give way to something harsher. At 1,100 metres, Hortezuela de Océn appears—not dramatically, but gradually—as stone walls emerge from scrubland where junipers bend to the wind. Thirty-eight people live here. On weekdays, it feels like fewer.

This is not a village that entertains. It is one that survives, stubbornly, in La Serranía de Guadalajara, the high southern brow of the Castilian plateau. The houses are built from what lies around: grey limestone, oak beams, clay tiles fired in nearby Brihuega. Walls are a metre thick because winter nights drop to –12 °C and snow can cut the place off for a week. In July the same houses stay cool while the surrounding páramo shimmers at 35 °C. The altitude makes the light sharper; shadows fall like knives at 7 a.m. and disappear equally fast at 9 p.m. in midsummer.

What passes for a centre

There is no plaza mayor, just a widening of the lane where the church sits. The building has no name beyond “la iglesia”; its bell tower is a square block pierced by two arched openings, the paint long gone from the wood. Sunday mass was suspended years ago, but the door is unlocked. Inside, the air smells of candle smoke and damp stone; the plaster is peeling like old parchment. A 19th-century retablo dominates the apse, its gilt flaking to reveal pine beneath. Locals will tell you—if you meet any—that the retablo arrived by oxcart from Sigüenza after the desamortizacion land sales, a two-day journey that now takes thirty minutes by car.

Houses are arranged on a rough grid that once followed livestock paths. Look up: original wooden balconies survive, though many are propped by acacia poles. Granaries—raised on mushroom-shaped stones to keep out rats—have been converted into weekend studios by a handful of families from Madrid who bought ruins for €18,000 and spent three times that on roofs and septic tanks. Planning permission is informal; the mayor, who also runs the only bar when it opens, stamps forms at the kitchen table.

Walking into absence

Paths leave the village as if embarrassed. One drops into the Barranco de Hortezuela, a limestone trench only two metres wide in places but thirty deep. Griffon vultures circle at eye level; their nests are invisible from above but echo with hissings when fledglings are disturbed. The track is a shepherd’s shortcut to the summer pastures of Aragosa, marked by cairns every hundred metres. After rain the stone turns slick with ice even in April; walking poles help.

A longer route follows the Cañada Real Conquense, an ancient drove road still legally wide enough for five hundred sheep. South-eastwards it contours across the meseta to the ruins of Roman salt pans near Zaorejas, a day’s march that can be shortened by leaving a second car at the bridge over the Tajuña. Expect to see no-one after the first kilometre; phone signal dies at the second cattle grid. Carry water: the only spring marked on the map dried up in the 2017 drought.

Winter alters the rules. Snow arrives suddenly, driven by the cierzo wind that barrels across Teruel. The GC-112 becomes impassable; the grader from Tamajón arrives when it arrives. If you are already in the village, relax—someone will dig you out by Tuesday. The upside is photographic: dawn light reflected off white ground turns every thorn bush into a filigree of silver, and wolf tracks (yes, they are back) cross the road without hesitation.

Eating what the land still gives

There is no shop, no bakery, no Sunday market. Bring groceries from Guadalajara—45 minutes down the winding CM-101—or from the Consum in Brihuega, slightly closer. The mayor-bar opens randomly; if the metal shutter is up, order a caña and whatever has been cooked that morning—perhaps perdiz estofada (partridge stew) or migas with grapes. Pay in cash; the card machine never works.

Local produce appears by chance. Knock on the green door opposite the church and Doña Rosario may sell you a 500 g slab of payoyo goat’s cheese made in the next valley; €8, wrapped in newspaper. In October her son sets up a trestle table with jars of honey from hives that spend summer up at 1,400 m; the rosemary version crystallises into something close to fudge. Mushrooms—níscalos, rebozuelos—are traded more discreetly; ask after the first autumn rain.

For a proper meal drive three kilometres to El Castejón de Luzaga, where Casa Agustín serves cordero al estilo de Ocentejo: shoulder slow-roasted with garlic and vinegar until the bone slides out clean. A quarter-kilo portion feeds two; €14. They close Tuesdays and the entire month of February.

When silence isn’t golden

The emptiness that charms at 11 a.m. can feel oppressive after dark. Street lighting consists of three sodium lamps that switch off at midnight; beyond their pool the plateau is ink-black and star-crammed—perfect for astrophotography but unnerving if you are used to the orange glow of Britain’s suburbs. Dogs bark in neighbouring hamlets that seem miles away; sound carries in thin air.

Weekends in August swell the population to perhaps a hundred. Cars with Madrid plates squeeze through lanes designed for mules; someone always loses a wing mirror reversing from the church frontage. Fiesta programming is minimalist: Saturday evening communal paella (€5 donation, bring your own bowl), Sunday morning mass sung by a visiting priest from Anguita, followed by an open-air comida in the school patio that hasn’t seen pupils since 1998. If you crave fireworks or flamenco, go to Sigüenza instead.

Beds and how to reach them

Accommodation is scattered. Closest is El Castejón de Luzaga (three double rooms, shared kitchen, €60 night). Vega de Sotodosos offers two stone cottages sleeping four from €90; wood-burning stoves, no wi-fi. The smartest option is Hotel Rural Los Anades in Luzaga itself—nine rooms, small pool, dinner on request—yet still only 9 km away. None provide onward transport; you need a car.

Public transport is theoretical. A weekday bus leaves Guadalajara at 14:30, reaches Tamajón at 15:45, and stops at the Océn crossroads if the driver remembers. From there it is a 4 km uphill walk on a road with no verge. The return departs 07:10 next morning—miss it and you wait twenty-four hours. Hiring at Madrid airport is simpler; the drive is 110 km, last 25 km on secondary roads. Fill the tank in Brihuega; petrol stations close at 20:00 and Sunday is Sunday.

Leave the village as you found it: quietly. Close gates, nod at strangers, refrain from drone photography over private roofs. Hortezuela de Océn does not need saving, only respecting. If the silence starts to itch after two days, head north to the medieval certainties of Sigüenza. If it doesn’t, stay until the snow forces you out—and realise you have begun to measure time by the flight of vultures rather than the clock on the church tower.