Momblona

The church bell strikes noon, but only the wind answers. In Momblona, twenty-three residents share three square kilometres with crested larks, stonechat and the occasional tractor that appears on the horizon like a punctuation mark. At 1,062 m above sea level, the village sits on the roof of Soria's high plateau, far enough from the A-15 to feel airborne yet only 22 minutes' drive from Almazán's supermarkets and petrol stations.

A map that forgot to mention the quiet

Approach from the south-east and the road folds into cereal plains the colour of weathered parchment. The first houses emerge as a single line of stone, their roofs pitched for winter snow that sometimes refuses to arrive. There is no tourist office, no brown sign, no coach bay—just a concrete bench and a cattle grid that rattles every chassis heading into the village proper. Park by the stone cross; the verge is wide enough for three cars, which is fortunate because that is all Momblona normally receives in a day.

The settlement plan has not shifted since the 1850s. Two parallel streets taper into a stub of plaza, the church lording over roofs of weather-crackled tile. Walls are thick enough to swallow mobile signal: inside the houses, WhatsApp pings arrive in batches when the wind turns. Electricity cables still run overhead, looping from ceramic insulators like clothes-line. Someone has painted the street numbers by hand—blue for odd, red for even—and the brushstrokes wobble, proof that a steady pulse matters more than art school.

What you notice when nothing demands attention

Start at the Iglesia de San Pedro. It is locked unless Pilar has seen you arrive; she keeps the key in a biscuit tin and will open up if you knock at number 17. Inside, the nave smells of extinguished candles and sun-warmed pine. The single aisle ends in a retablo gilded in 1897; the left panel depicts Saint Peter with keys shaped like the local wheat sickle. Light filters through alabaster quarried 60 km away in El Burgo de Osma, giving faces a bloodless, marble complexion. Up in the bell tower, swallow nests clog the staircase—tread carefully, the birds object to latecomers.

Outside, walk anti-clockwise and you will pass:

• A bread oven bricked up in 1973, its chimney now home to white storks
• A stone drinking trough fed by a spring that rarely freezes, even in January
• Three haylofts converted into weekend studios; one belongs to a sculptor from Vigo who drives up monthly with the boot full of welding gear

The village ends where the tarmac gives way to farm track. Beyond, a grid of unirrigated wheat stretches north until it meets the pinewoods of the Cebollera range, a faint blue saw on the horizon. In May the fields glow emerald; by late July they have bleached to straw that snaps underfoot like biscuit. There are no way-marked footpaths, but landowners tolerate walkers who stick to the margins. A thirty-minute stroll south brings you to an abandoned railway sleeper marked "Ferrocarril Almazán-Burgo de Osma 1923". Sit here at dusk and you can watch red kites quarter the stubble, rising on thermals that smell of baked earth and wild thyme.

Eating, drinking and the art of forward planning

Momblona offers zero commercial services. No bar, no shop, no cash machine—nothing that requires a till since the last grocer closed in 1982. Self-caterers should stock up in Almazán (Consum and Carrefour on the ring road) or in nearby Muriel de la Fuente where the bakery opens at 07:00 and sells still-warm barras for 65 cents. If you crave a menu del día, drive 12 km to Aldealices where Casa Cayetano dishes out roast lamb, peppery migas and a carafe of tempranillo for €14. They will ask if you want postre; say yes to the cuajada with honey, set that morning by the owner's sister.

Water is drinkable from the public tap opposite the church—high mineral content, faintly metallic, perfectly safe. Bring a filter if you dislike the taste. In summer, temperatures reach 34 °C but humidity stays low; dehydration creeps up faster than you expect, especially when the only soundtrack is cicadas and your own footsteps.

When darkness becomes the attraction

Light pollution maps render Momblona in inky black. On clear, moonless nights the Milky Way arches overhead like spilled sugar. Amateur astronomers set up on the football pitch—level ground, 360° horizon, and an understanding that car headlights must die after 22:00. The Perseids in mid-August can notch 60 meteors an hour; bring a deckchair and a blanket because the altitude makes 18 °C feel chilly. Locals switch off porch lights out of courtesy; if you need a torch, use the red filter to preserve night vision.

Winter is a different proposition. Snow arrives sporadically, sometimes 20 cm overnight, sometimes none until March. The council grits the main road but side streets remain white and compressed into ice by the first tractor. Chains or 4×4 are advisable between December and February; without them, the slope out of the village becomes a glassy ramp that even locals think twice about. Daytime highs hover around 5 °C, nights drop to –8 °C, yet the dry air tricks you into underestimating the cold. Stone houses hold the chill; heating is by butane or olive-wood stoves, so pack slippers and expect the scent of smoke to cling to your clothes.

Festivals measured in decibels of joy

The calendar contains two spikes of noise. On 29 June, San Pedro, the villagers drag a sound system into the plaza and play folk-rock until 03:00—amplifiers that would be background chatter in Sheffield become seismic here. Entry is free, wine flows from plastic jerry cans, and visitors are expected to buy a €5 raffle ticket for a ham. The second fiesta, Virgen del Rosario on 7 October, is smaller: a communal paella for 200 people using rabbits shot the previous week. If you arrive that weekend, bring your own plate and spoon; the village hall runs out quickly.

Outside these dates, silence is the default currency. Birds provide the melody: larks at dawn, stone curlews after dark, the occasional tawny owl auditioning for a horror film. Human conversation carries; stand near the church and you can hear two neighbours discussing rainfall three streets away.

Leaving without promising to return

Momblona will not suit everyone. Mobile coverage is patchy, the nearest doctor is 18 km distant, and a blown tyre on the access road can leave you dependent on the one passing farmer with a jack. Yet for travellers who measure worth in kilometres walked without meeting another soul, or in stars counted before goose-pimples win, the village offers a calibration device for modern life. Come with provisions, a full tank and no expectation of souvenir shops. Depart when the fields turn golden, or when snow clouds stack on the horizon—whichever arrives first, and whichever makes you slow the car, window down, to catch one last lungful of cereal-scented air.