Borjabad

The church bells stop at eleven. That's when you notice the wind has been the only sound for twenty minutes, pushing through Scots pines that shouldn't really grow this far south. Borjabad sits at 1,013 metres above sea level, high enough that the air thins and Madrid—two hours south by car—feels like a different continent. Thirty residents remain, though the census claims more. They learned long ago that official numbers rarely match the emptiness you feel walking these streets.

The Arithmetic of Emptiness

Every stone house here is built for winters that kill rosemary. Walls half a metre thick, tiny windows facing south, roofs weighted against the cierzo wind that barrels across the Meseta. The construction logic becomes clear when temperatures drop to -15°C in January and don't rise above freezing for weeks. Summer brings the opposite problem: 35°C by midday, the slate rooftops too hot to touch, though nights cool fast at this altitude. Spring and autumn last about three weeks each—the only sensible seasons to visit unless you enjoy extremes.

The village layout follows medieval livestock routes. Streets wide enough for ox-carts spiral uphill to the 12th-century church, its masonry patched so many times the original stone is a minority material. Below, the houses cluster like sheep for warmth. Some retain noble coats of arms from when Borjabad had 400 inhabitants and enough wheat fields to pay taxes to three different lords. Now those stone escutcheons serve as bird perches, their lions and castles weathered to geological anonymity.

Walking Through What Remains

There are exactly six streets. Counting becomes a pastime here, partly because mobile reception vanishes depending on which slope you stand on, partly because arithmetic confirms what your eyes report: this place is shrinking in real time. Start at the lower fountain—dry since 1992—walk past four abandoned houses with collapsed beams, reach the church in four minutes flat. The distance isn't far but the gradient makes it feel like vertical travel. Your ears pop slightly.

The surrounding landscape works on a different scale. Wheat fields roll eastward until they meet the Sierra de Toranzo, twenty kilometres distant but looking touchable in the thin air. Westward, the land drops 300 metres into the Almazán basin, Spain's widest cereal bowl. Between crop seasons these fields glow bronze, then emerald, then ochre, colours so saturated they seem digitally enhanced. They're not. It's just what happens when nothing blocks the horizon for fifty kilometres.

What You Actually Do Here

First, abandon the concept of "attractions". Borjabad offers subtraction: fewer sounds, lower oxygen, minimal light pollution. On clear nights the Milky Way appears as a dust cloud thrown across black glass. August meteor showers arrive without competition from streetlights—there aren't any. Bring a red-filtered torch; white light feels violent here, like shouting in a library.

Walking tracks exist, though calling them "trails" flatters the reality. They're farm tracks used by the one remaining tractor, branching into holm oak stands where níscalos mushrooms fruit after October rains. Picking requires a €3 daily permit from the Soria regional website; guards do check, and fines start at €300. The mushrooms taste of pine resin and smoke if you cook them over holm oak, assuming you can find accommodation with a working kitchen.

Birdlife compensates for the lack of mammalian drama. Golden eagles ride thermals above the cereal steppe. Iberian grey shrieks—small raptors that impale lizards on thorns—nest in the few phone poles. At dusk, red-necked nightjars start their mechanical trill, a sound like a broken bicyle wheel spinning in darkness. Binoculars help, though the altitude makes everything closer than it appears.

Eating Without Shops

Borjabad has zero commercial outlets. The last grocery closed when its proprietor died in 2008; neighbours divided the stock. For food you drive twelve kilometres to Aldealpozo, where Bar Alameda serves roast suckling lamb at €18 per quarter-kilo, or continue to Almazán for proper restaurants. Buy supplies before arrival. The village water runs safe from a mountain spring, but tastes metallic—high iron content turns tea black within minutes. Bring teabags you don't mind discolouring.

If you're staying overnight—which means you've rented one of three renovated houses booked through the regional tourism board—cook migas. This shepherds' dish of fried breadcrumbs, garlic and chorizo tastes correct when eaten at altitude. The recipe scales down badly; make too much and you'll understand why Spanish peasants ate once daily. The leftovers solidify into brick-like consistency overnight.

The Seasonal Contract

Winter access depends on snowplough mood. The CL-114 regional road gets cleared eventually, but "eventually" stretches to days after heavy falls. Chains become mandatory from November to March; without them you're parking at the bottom and walking the last 2 km uphill. Summer brings the opposite problem: the asphalt softens, tyre tracks sink, and the smell of hot tar competes with wild thyme.

Village fiestas happen on 15 August, when emigrants return with Madrid licence plates and stories of office work. The population swells to 120 for exactly 48 hours. There's mass in the church, a communal paella cooked in a pan two metres wide, and a disco that finishes by 2 am because the generator can't handle later hours. Then Sunday ends and Borjabad reverts to thirty souls, the silence louder than the weekend music that preceded it.

Leaving Without Promises

Don't expect transformation. Borjabad gives you altitude headaches, thigh-burning walks, and nights so quiet your heartbeat keeps you awake. It also provides something increasingly scarce: measurable distance from other humans. At 1,013 metres, with thirty residents and six streets, the maths is honest. You came, you subtracted, you left. The village will be smaller when you next check the census—unless August brings babies, which seems unlikely. The wind through Scots pines doesn't care either way.