Matamala de Almazán

The church bell strikes noon, but nobody checks their watch. In Matamala de Almazán, 945 metres above sea level on the high plateau of Castile, time follows older rhythms. The grain harvest, the sheep bells, the shifting light across cereal fields that stretch to every horizon—these mark the day's passage more reliably than any clock.

This Sorian village, home to roughly 250 souls, sits forty minutes south of Soria city along the SO-820. The drive climbs steadily through wheat and barley country, past isolated holm oaks that have watched over these fields for centuries. At this altitude, the air carries a clarity that makes distant ridges seem closer than they are, and summer temperatures stay several degrees cooler than Madrid's furnace three hours south.

Stone, Adobe and the Stories Between

Matamala's architecture tells its own unvarnished story. The parish church dominates the modest skyline, its stone tower visible from every approach road, though the doors remain locked except for Sunday mass and feast days. Along the narrow lanes, houses built from local limestone and adobe stand shoulder-to-shoulder—some freshly pointed and painted, others gradually returning to earth. This isn't a film set of rural Spain; it's the real, uneven fabric of a village that's neither dying nor thriving, simply persisting.

The older wine cellars, carved into the hillside behind the main street, hint at more prosperous times. Their wooden doors, many now warped and gaping, once protected barrels of country wine when every household produced its own. Peer inside and you'll see the earth walls still blackened from decades of fermentation, the stone presses abandoned mid-century when young people began leaving for Barcelona and Bilbao.

Walking the village perimeter takes twenty minutes at most, though allow longer. The unpaved lanes between houses reveal details worth pausing for: a perfectly preserved wooden balcony, medieval in its construction; a bread oven built into a cottage wall; the metal rings set into stone where farmers once tethered their mules. These fragments aren't labelled or explained—they simply exist, part of the living texture that guidebooks often sanitise.

Walking Country Where Eagles Circle

The real scale of Matamala reveals itself beyond the last houses. Agricultural tracks radiate across the plateau, forming a network that connects scattered farmsteads and neighbouring villages. These caminos, wide enough for a tractor but surfaced only with compacted earth, make perfect walking routes for anyone content with their own thoughts and the occasional skylark for company.

Morning walks offer the best conditions, particularly outside July and August when temperatures can reach 35°C by midday. Spring brings green wheat rippling like ocean swell, while autumn transforms the stubble fields into copper-coloured expanses that glow during the long sunsets Castile is famous for. The tracks rise and fall gently—this isn't mountain hiking, but the altitude means distances feel longer than they appear on maps.

Birdwatchers should pack binoculars. The surrounding steppe country supports one of Spain's densest populations of great bustards, though you'll need patience and silence to spot these elusive giants. More obvious are the red kites and booted eagles that patrol the fields, riding thermals that rise from the sun-warmed earth. Bring water—there's no café culture here, and the nearest bar closes when the owner feels like it.

When the Village Remembers How to Celebrate

August transforms Matamala completely. The fiestas patronales draw back emigrants and their families, swelling the population tenfold for a long weekend of religious processions, open-air dancing and communal meals in the plaza. The village's single sound system gets wheeled out, playing everything from traditional jotas to reggaeton at neighbour-waking volume. Visitors are welcome, though beds are non-existent—most returning families sleep in cars or on relatives' floors.

Winter brings different traditions. The January fiestas feature massive bonfires built from vine prunings and old pallets, around which villagers gather to drink anis and eat roasted chestnuts. The smoke drifts across the plateau, visible for miles, a signal that despite everything—rural depopulation, an ageing population, the gradual erosion of country life—the village still knows how to mark the turning year.

Eating and Sleeping: Managing Expectations

Let's be clear about practicalities. Matamala has no hotel, no restaurant, no shop selling anything beyond tinned goods and washing powder. The bakery van visits three times weekly, announcing its arrival with a horn that could wake the dead. For proper meals, Almazán lies twenty minutes west along the SO-820, where Mesón Mateos serves excellent lechazo (roast suckling lamb) and local mushrooms when in season.

Accommodation means either self-catering rural houses—book well ahead for August—or the Hotel Villa de Almazán on the town's outskirts. Neither option comes cheap, particularly during hunting season when city dwellers book weekend shooting trips. The smarter move bases yourself in Soria city, where the Parador occupies a medieval monastery and costs roughly £120 per night including breakfast.

Getting There, Getting Away

Public transport reaches Matamala twice daily on schooldays only: one bus at dawn, another mid-afternoon. Miss it and you're walking fifteen kilometres to the nearest village with regular service. Driving remains essential, preferably with a vehicle that doesn't mind gravel tracks or the occasional suicidal hare.

Winter access requires caution. When snow falls—rare but not unknown at this altitude—the ungritted approach roads become treacherous. Chains prove useful between December and March, though most locals simply stay home until conditions improve. Summer brings different challenges: the dry heat means carrying spare water in your car, and the intense UV at this altitude will burn unprotected skin within minutes.

Matamala de Almazán offers no Instagram moments, no tick-box attractions, no souvenir shops selling fridge magnets. What it provides instead is space to think, walks where your only companions are circling birds of prey, and the increasingly rare experience of a Spanish village that hasn't remodelled itself for visitors. Come prepared for silence, for roads that end at field boundaries, for a way of life that continues regardless of whether anyone's watching. The plateau's beauty is austere, demanding patience rather than applause. Those who linger discover that this apparent emptiness contains its own subtle rewards: the way afternoon light turns stone walls honey-gold, the sudden appearance of a hoopoe probing a roadside verge, the realisation that somewhere still exists where mobile phone coverage remains gloriously unreliable.