Figueruela de Arriba

The road to Figueruela de Arriba climbs through wheat the colour of biscuit until the tarmac thins to a single track and your sat-nav gives up altogether. At 850 m the air sharpens; stone houses appear, roofs still weighted with Arab tiles to stop the Atlantic gales peeling them off. You have reached one of the emptiest squares on the map of Castilla y León—five hundred souls, one bar, and a resident colony of wolves just over the ridge.

A village that refuses to vanish

Aliste county lost two-thirds of its population after the 1950s, yet Figueruela keeps its pavements swept. Granite cornerstones are re-pointed, adobe walls patched with the same ochre earth they were built from. The effect is not chocolate-box cute; it is stubborn. Walk the single main street at 09:00 and the only sound is the clack of a single typewriter inside the ayuntamiento—yes, they still use it—while an elderly man rolls a cigarette on the church steps. The parish church itself, dedicated to Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, is no bigger than a London parish hall, but its bell still marks the quarters of the day for anyone awake to listen.

Houses are arranged around internal corrals where families once sheltered cattle on winter nights. Several of these patios are now roofless, filled instead with firewood stacked in Jenga-perfect towers. Peek through an open gate and you may see a 4×4 parked beside a threshing stone—rural pragmatism at work.

The wolf economy

British visitors usually arrive as an afterthought to a Sierra de la Culebra wolf-watching tour. The wolves themselves den on the military training ground 12 km west, but Figueruela’s stone barns have become the unofficial dormitory. Llobu Wildlife runs dawn howl-expeditions; guests are collected at 05:15 and driven to a vantage point where thermos coffee is handed round while guides play recordings of pups. Success rates hover around seventy per cent in March–April, falling to thirty once the pack follows roe deer higher into the oak woods. Bring binoculars rated for half-light; the animals move at grey-out, not sunrise.

Evenings back in the village are quieter. The bar-tabac opens only when the owner, Pilar, finishes feeding her pigs. If the lights are on, order a caña and a plate of chorizo from the pig you just heard; if the door is bolted, you will drink in the hotel lounge two streets away.

Walking without way-marks

No footpath is signposted, which keeps the place honest. A favourite loop heads south-east along the old drove road to Villarino de Manzanas—6 km across dehesa where holm oaks shade black Iberian pigs. The track is drivable in dry months but turns to gumbo after rain; boots are safer. Buzzards and short-toed eagles patrol the thermals, and in May the verges explode with crimson poppies that would make a Sussex hedgerow blush.

For a shorter stroll, follow the lane north for twenty minutes to the abandoned hamlet of Los Algos. Roof beams have collapsed onto hearthstones; fig trees push through living-room floors. It is a sobering glimpse of where Figueruela itself might have headed without the wolf trade.

What you will (and won’t) eat

The village has no supermarket. Provisions arrive on Thursday morning when a white van parks by the church and sells fruit, tinned tomatoes and washing powder off the tailgate. The hotel dining room is the sole source of a square meal; book before 20:00 the previous night or you will be offered crisps and a packet custard cream—no joke. Dishes are built around whatever the chef shot or grew: chickpea and morcilla stew thick enough to stand a spoon in, or grilled cordero lechal (milk-fed lamb) that tastes of thyme and mountain air. Vegetarians get a roast pimiento stuffed with goat’s cheese; vegans should bring supplies.

Breakfast is negotiable. Ask for “pan de pueblo” and you receive a loaf the size of a house brick, crust blistered like a Stilton. Slather it with fresh curd cheese from Gallegos del Campo—mild, almost like Yorkshire whey. The coffee is proper stove-top, strong enough to wake a wolf.

Practical grit

Fill the tank in Puebla de Sanabria, 35 km north, or you will be siphoning diesel from a tractor. The nearest cash machine is the same distance and villagers mean it when they say “no hay cambio.” Vodafone provides one bar of 4G in the square; other UK networks die at the last roundabout. Winter brings snow that can cut the road for two days—carry a blanket and biscuits between December and March. Summer, on the other hand, is blissfully empty but hits 34 °C at midday; start walks at first light and siesta like the locals.

Accommodation is limited to Hotel Rural La Robla (doubles €70, heating extra) and two self-catering cottages booked through the regional tourism board. Expect stone floors, wool blankets, and bathrooms updated sometime after 2003. Wi-Fi exists, but the router is turned off at midnight to save electricity—bring a paperback.

The honest verdict

Figueruela de Arriba will never tick the “must-see” box. There is no cathedral, no Michelin bib, no gift shop flogging fridge magnets. What you get instead is an unfiltered dose of rural Spain at the very moment it decides whether to survive or surrender. If that appeals, come; if you need a flat white on demand, stay on the A-52. Either way, the wolves will still be howling long after your tyres touch tarmac again.