Aldealpozo

The only traffic jam in Aldealpozo is caused by sheep. They shuffle down the single lane at milking time, watched by a farmer who greets every animal by name while a red Seat toots politely from behind. Twenty residents, one flock, no hurry.

1,050 m above the rush

At just over a thousand metres, the village sits high enough for your ears to pop on the final approach, yet the surrounding meseta feels more sky than summit. Wheat, barley and wind press against the horizon; clouds drag long shadows across the cereal quilt like someone slowly pulling a duvet. The air carries a faint cereal-sweet smell after rain, but when the wind flips north-east it brings the sharper scent of thyme and the awareness that winter can arrive overnight, even in May.

The altitude dictates the timetable. Mornings start bright and cold; by midday the sun is merciless, sending walkers scuttling for the handful of stone houses that throw shade. Dusk falls quickly—head-torch weather by nine-thirty—yet night skies repay the inconvenience: Orion looks close enough to snag your sleeve, and satellites pass in steady silence because there is almost no light to drown them out.

Stone that learned to wait

No guidebook monuments here. The 16th-century church of San Juan Bautista keeps its door locked unless you ask Julián, who lives opposite the bakery that no longer bakes. He’ll wipe his hands on overalls still dusty from the fields and fetch a key the size of a croquet mallet. Inside, the nave smells of candle smoke and old grain sacks; the fresco over the altar has faded to biscuit brown, but you can just make out a bishop raising two fingers like a hitch-hiker.

Houses follow the same palette: ochre limestone, timber beams the colour of strong tea, clay tiles patched with tin during Franco’s metal-for-the-war drive. Some façades carry chipped coats of arms—wolves, stars, a single tower—evidence that families once had enough surplus to commission stonemasons. Now doors hang open to reveal tidy woodpiles and the occasional abandoned tractor seat repurposed as a porch chair. One semi-roofless stable has become a photographic set for Spanish film students; they leave lens-cap lids in the feed trough.

Walking without way-markers

Maps call the web of farm tracks “local paths” but they feel older than cartography. Set off south-east and you will reach the deserted hamlet of Valdelavilla in forty minutes—rooftops swallowed by ivy, stork nests balanced on the church bell-cote. Keep straight and the trail tips gently towards the River Manzanares (not the Madrid one), where a stone terrace offers a picnic table and dragonflies that ignore you.

Cyclists can loop 26 km through Gómara and back on gravel so smooth it hums; gradients rarely top five percent, yet the emptiness makes the ride feel epic. Take two litres of water—there are no fountains after the livestock trough outside the cemetery, and the guard dog at Cortijo del Moro has learnt to chase bike tyres.

How to eat when no-one’s selling

Aldealpozo has no shop, bar or card machine. The nearest cashpoint is a 24-km haul into Soria, so fill the tank and the sandwich box before you leave the N-122. Breakfast options therefore become creative: yesterday’s baguette toasted on a camping gas flame, local honey dribbled straight from the jar bought at a farm gate near Calatañazor. The honey is dark, almost treacly, and tastes of rosemary and heather—better than any continental breakfast buffet.

If you rent one of the three village houses (Casa La Gran Familia sleeps six, €110 a night, Wi-Fi fast enough for Netflix but why would you), you can roast a Soria milk-fed lamb shoulder in the tiny electric oven. Supermercado El Árbol in Soria sells them vacuum-packed with garlic and bay already tucked under the skin; 90 minutes at 180 °C and the kitchen smells like a Sunday in Yorkshire—until you open the balcony shutters and see wheat rippling in the evening breeze.

When twenty becomes two hundred

August changes the head-count. Families who left for Zaragoza factories or Barcelona catering return for the fiestas of San Juan and San Bartolomé. A sound system appears in the square, children chase footballs past the church, and someone’s uncle wheels in a beer tent that accepts only cash. The night sky fills with cheap fireworks that bounce off the surrounding plateau like corn popping in a lidless pan.

Book accommodation early: August weekends sell out nine months ahead because former residents rent their grandparents’ houses to city friends. Mid-week you might still squeeze in, but expect friendly interrogation—new faces are logged faster than passport control.

Winter arithmetic

Between November and March the village halves again: some owners head to coastal flats, others simply lock up and rely on neighbours to check for burst pipes. Snow is infrequent but lethal when it arrives; the SO-920 is cleared eventually, yet hire cars without winter tyres have been known to spin like Zambonis. Bring chains or wait it out—the view of iced wheat under a cobalt sky is worth a lost afternoon, especially when the only soundtrack is your own boots creaking.

Daytime temperatures can touch ten degrees if the sun makes an effort; by 4 p.m. the mercury dives, and you will understand why every living room contains a wood burner the size of a London fridge. Firewood is stacked in mathematically perfect walls along alleyways; resist the temptation to Instagram them—locals already think Britons are obsessed with kindling.

Leaving without a souvenir shop

There are no fridge magnets, no artisanal gin distilleries, no elderly watercolourist selling postcards outside the church. Your souvenirs are lighter: the hush after a lark stops singing, the knowledge that civilisation can still function with twenty people and a flock of sheep, and perhaps a half-kilo jar of that dark rosemary honey balanced on the passenger seat. Drive back towards Soria at dusk and watch the village shrink in the rear-view mirror until only the church tower remains, a stone finger pointing at the sky, reminding you that some classrooms teach silence better than any lecture hall.