Aliud

The church door is locked. That's your first lesson in Aliud, a Sorian hamlet where a thousand-metre altitude keeps the air thin and expectations thinner. Twenty-one souls officially live here, though you'd struggle to spot one on a weekday afternoon. Stone houses shutter their windows; only the wind moves, rattling cereal stubble that stretches to every horizon.

This is Castilla's depopulated heart, stripped of everything except space and sky. Visitors arrive expecting a quaint retreat, then discover the place demands a different vocabulary. Forget picturesque; think austere, functional, bare. The village square is a patch of compacted earth. The bar closed decades ago. Mobile signal flickers in and out like a faulty light bulb.

What Remains When the Crowds Leave

Aliud's architecture survives because nobody could afford to replace it. Thick stone walls, timber doors pitted by weather, roofs of local tile – all designed for winters that can touch minus fifteen. Peer into abandoned corrales (livestock pens) and you'll still smell sheep dung baked into the sun-warmed stone. Some cottages have been reclaimed as weekend refuges by descendants of original families; look for fresh putty around the windows and a satellite dish skewed towards Astra. The rest slump quietly, interiors open to rain and swallows.

The Iglesia de San Juan stands at the top of the single street, its modest brick tower patched with cement that doesn't quite match. Mass happens twice a month; otherwise the building stays shut. Knock at the house opposite if you want the key – Seña Ángels will oblige, though she'll also deliver a frank lecture on crumbling rural Spain while she wipes flour from her hands. Inside you'll find a single nave, nineteenth-century paint flaking off pine pews, and an altarpiece whose gold leaf has oxidised to the colour of autumn beech.

Walk twenty minutes past the last house and the cereal fields drop away. Suddenly you're on the rim of the Gómara plateau looking towards the River Duero's distant snake of green. Sunrise here is worth the 5 a.m. alarm: the land turns bronze, shadows retreat like spilled ink, and you understand why medieval hermits sought these heights. Bring a jacket; even July dawns can dip below ten degrees.

Tracks, Not Trails

Hiking exists, but the marketing department hasn't arrived yet. Ancient cañadas – drove roads once used for moving livestock to winter pastures – cut across the plateau. One leads south-east to Gómara (6 km), another north to the almost equally empty village of Narros. Both are farm tracks, signed only by the occasional concrete post, so download the IGN topographic map before you set off. After rain the clay surface sticks to boots like fresh toffee; in drought it throws up a pale dust that coats your legs and camera sensor alike.

Bird life compensates for the lack of drama. Calandra larks tumble over the fields; hen harriers quarter the stubble. Bring binoculars and patience – the landscape rewards stillness rather than mileage. If you prefer wheels, mountain-bike tyres of 40 mm plus cope with the ruts; there is no bicycle hire in the province, so travellers arrive by car with bikes on the roof.

Dark-sky enthusiasts clock Aliud at Bortle class 3. On moonless nights the Milky Way throws a shadow; shooting stars leave after-images. Set up on the disused threshing floor south of the village – flat stone, 270-degree horizon, and nobody to complain about tripods. A rechargeable hand-warmer is essential; at this height temperatures can plummet fifteen degrees within an hour of sunset.

How to Eat When Nobody Sells Food

Aliud itself offers zero commerce. The nearest shop is in Gómara, open mornings only, bread sold from the back of a white van that toots its horn at eleven. Stock up in Soria (35 minutes' drive) before you arrive: cured meats from the Mercadona on Avenida Valladolid, a wheel of queso de oveja from the Saturday farmers' market, and tins of cooked lentils for emergency dinners.

For a sit-down meal, drive to Berlanga de Duero (25 km) where Asador Casa José still roasts suckling lamb in a wood-fired brick oven. Half a kilo serves two, costs €28, and arrives with only a dish of roast potatoes and a jug of local red – no vegetables in sight. Book at weekends; Spanish families treat the drive as a Sunday outing.

In mushroom season (October, if autumn rains arrive) locals forage for níscalos along the pine-fringed gullies north of the village. Ask permission before crossing private land, and never basket-collect within fifty metres of the road – the verge is sprayed with herbicide that tastes exactly like it sounds.

When Silence Gets Noisy

The village fiesta, held around 24 June (Nativity of St John), triples the population. Returning emigrants pitch tents in gardens, share litres of calimocho (red wine and cola, an acquired taste), dance to a single amplifier until four. If you crave authenticity, this is it – but book accommodation months ahead and expect amplified folk music at close range.

Winter brings the opposite extreme. Snow can cut the access road for days; electricity fails when northerly winds ice the cables. Four-wheel drive and chains are advisable between December and March. On the other hand, you may have the entire plateau to yourself, and nothing compares to the hush of fresh snow absorbing every footstep.

Useful Details Without the Brochure

Getting there: No public transport serves Aliud. From Soria, take the N-122 towards Burgos, turn off at Gómara, follow the CL-114 for 9 km. The final kilometre climbs 120 m on concrete – fine for a normal car, lethal if it's sheet ice.

Staying: Two cottages rent by the night (around €70). Both have wood-burners, neither has Wi-Fi. Bring cash for the honesty box; card machines are science fiction here.

Best weather: Late April–mid-June and September–October. July nights are cool but midday sun burns; August can hit 34 °C with no shade outside the village.

Footwear: Trail shoes suffice for summer tracks; ankle boots better in wet seasons. Gaiters save socks from thistles and dust.

Aliud will not entertain you. It offers instead a measuring tape for modern noise: stand on the edge at dusk, listen to nothing, then drive back to the motorway and notice how quickly you miss the quiet. Some travellers turn the car around; most accelerate towards the nearest café. Either reaction is correct.