Coscurita

The Sound of 69 Voices

At 964 metres above sea level, Coscurita's silence hits you first. Not the hushed reverence of a cathedral, but the complete absence of human noise that makes a tractor three kilometres away sound like it's passing through the square. This Sorian village, perched on the high plateau south of Almazán, houses exactly 69 residents who've perfected the art of quiet living. They'll nod when you pass—everyone knows you're not from here within minutes—but conversation waits until the evening gathering outside the only bar, where the day's events (someone's cousin visited from Burgos, the bread van arrived late) merit thorough analysis.

The village stretches across a ridge, its stone houses huddled against winds that sweep unchecked across Castilla's cereal plains. Adobe walls two feet thick keep interiors cool during summer's furnace and retain heat when winter temperatures plummet to -15°C. Traditional portals—massive wooden doors opening to reveal cobbled courtyards—show how families once lived with livestock on the ground floor, grain stores above, and living quarters tucked into whatever space remained. Most now stand empty, their owners deceased or relocated to Madrid, creating a patchwork of immaculate restoration beside gradual decay.

Walking Through Empty Streets

There's no map, no audio guide, no gift shop selling fridge magnets. The entirety of Coscurita reveals itself in twenty minutes of wandering, though lingering rewards those who notice details: how rooflines sag like tired shoulders under terracotta tiles, the way shadows pool in doorways during siesta hours, why certain corners bear centuries of wagon-wheel scars while others remain pristine. The parish church, modest in scale but commanding in position, anchors the village physically and spiritually. Its single bell tolls the hours with casual irregularity—time moves differently here, measured in seasons rather than minutes.

Photographers arrive seeking drama and leave disappointed. Coscurita's beauty lies in restraint: a solitary holm oak against wheat stubble, the geometric precision of harvested fields stretching to horizon's edge, how afternoon light transforms brown stone to honey gold. Spring brings green wheat rippling like ocean waves; by July, everything turns burnt umber before the combine harvesters arrive. Autumn strips leaves from the few trees, revealing skeletons that frame winter skies—often the only vertical elements in a landscape of horizontal lines.

When Nothing Happens Intentionally

The village serves as base camp for exploring Spain's most sparsely populated province, though 'exploring' requires redefinition. Activities centre on absence rather than presence: no traffic, no queues, no admission charges, no closing times. Birdwatchers position themselves along dirt tracks, waiting for great bustards performing mating dances or hen harriers quartering fields. Walkers follow cañadas—ancient drovers' roads connecting villages across the meseta—where footsteps echo on paths used for moving livestock since Moorish times. Cycling works better than walking; distances between settlements demand wheels, and the plateau's gentle gradients suit moderate fitness levels.

But Coscurita punishes the unprepared. Mobile reception vanishes in valleys between villages. The nearest cash machine sits seventeen kilometres away in Almazán. Restaurants require driving—local cuisine means roast lamb at Casa Juan in Muriel de la Fuente or hearty Castilian soups in Berlanga de Duero, twenty-five minutes distant. Stock up before arrival: the village shop closed in 2003, and the weekly bread van arrives Tuesdays at 11 am, selling out within twenty minutes to residents who've memorised its schedule like trainspotters tracking locomotives.

Four Seasons, Four Personalities

Winter transforms Coscurita into a study of endurance. Atlantic storms bring snow that drifts against doorways, cutting the village off for days. Residents stockpile wood and food like Arctic explorers; those remaining (numbers drop to forty-something during cold months) develop routines around weather forecasts. The landscape becomes monochromatic—white fields, grey sky, black tree silhouettes—while inside, thick walls create cocoon-like warmth where time slows to syrup.

Spring erupts suddenly, usually mid-April, when fields green overnight and migratory birds return to established nesting sites. Temperature swings prove dramatic: frost at dawn gives way to 20°C by afternoon. This season offers the village at its photographic best, though muddy tracks require proper footwear and the notorious Soriano wind—the one that drove Cervantes' characters mad—returns with vengeance.

Summer means escaping or enduring. Daytime temperatures regularly exceed 35°C; shade becomes currency. Locals emerge at dawn to tend vegetable plots, retreat indoors by 10 am, reappear after 8 pm when shadows stretch across the square. August brings an influx of grandchildren visiting grandparents, temporarily boosting population to maybe ninety. The village feels almost lively—children's voices echo off stone, elderly residents supervise from folding chairs, someone might even open the second bar (irregular hours, cash only).

Autumn provides the sweet spot. Harvest activity animates the landscape without disturbing village rhythms. Temperatures moderate, skies clear to impossible blue, and the plateau's vastness feels companionable rather than oppressive. Mushroom hunters disappear into pine groves south of the village, returning with wicker baskets of níscalos that'll appear on dinner plates across the comarca. This is when Coscurita makes sense—when the balance between human presence and absence feels deliberate rather than accidental.

The Reality Check

Coscurita won't suit everyone. Romantic notions of rural Spanish life collide with practical challenges: the doctor visits twice weekly, petrol stations require twenty-minute drives, and entertainment means making your own. Younger residents express mixed feelings about village future—proud of heritage yet realistic about limitations. "We stay because we choose to," explains María, whose family never left, "not because we're trapped in some postcard."

Yet for travellers seeking genuine disconnection, Coscurita delivers something increasingly rare: a place where human scale hasn't been sacrificed to tourism demands. Come prepared, arrive without expectations, and the village reveals its rewards slowly—like the way sunset light catches church stone, or how the Milky Way appears so clearly that you understand why plateau dwellers developed different relationships with sky and land. Just remember to fill the petrol tank before turning off the A-15. The next station might be closer than Madrid, but out here, that still means forty kilometres of empty road through landscapes that make infinity feel measurable.