Carabantes

The church bell strikes noon, but only twenty people can hear it. At 979 metres above sea level, Carabantes floats above the surrounding plains like a ship that's forgotten to sink. The village sits so high that mobile phone signals struggle to climb the final metres, leaving visitors in a peculiar limbo—close enough to see the modern world, too far to participate in it.

This is Spain's empty quarter, where the province of Soria meets the southern edge of the Meseta Central. The landscape stretches flat in all directions, broken only by scattered holm oaks and the occasional juniper that has survived centuries of livestock grazing. It's country that Antonio Machado knew well, the Castilian plateau he immortalised in verse, though he never wrote about Carabantes specifically. Perhaps he never found it.

The Arithmetic of Extinction

Twenty residents. That's not a village, that's a committee. Yet Carabantes persists, its stone houses huddled around the 16th-century church of San Pedro like survivors of some great catastrophe. The arithmetic is brutal: in 1950, over 200 people lived here. Each decade took its toll, until only the stubborn, the elderly, or those with nowhere else to remain.

The houses tell their own story. Some stand renovated with precise masonry work, their wooden doors painted municipal green. Others slump in various stages of surrender, roofs collapsed inward like broken spines. Between them lie the plots where houses once stood—now just rectangular depressions in the earth, filled with wild fennel and the purple flowers of broomerape.

Walking the single street takes precisely twelve minutes at a respectful pace. The asphalt ends abruptly at the village edge, turning to dirt track that dissolves into the surrounding cereal fields. These fields dominate the horizon: wheat and barley mostly, their colours shifting through the agricultural calendar from emerald green in April to burnished gold by July, then the sad browns of post-harvest stubble.

Weather at Altitude

At nearly 1000 metres, Carabantes experiences weather that surprises visitors expecting Spanish warmth. Winter temperatures regularly drop below -10°C, and snow can isolate the village for days. The road from Borobia—the nearest settlement of any size, twelve kilometres distant—becomes impassable with the first serious snowfall, usually arriving before Christmas.

Summer brings compensation. While Madrid swelters at 40°C, Carabantes rarely exceeds 30°C. The altitude creates its own climate: mornings start cool even in August, and evenings require a jumper by nine o'clock. Spring arrives late—mid-April rather than March—and autumn lingers through October, painting the surrounding fields in subtle variations of ochre and rust.

The wind never stops. It accelerates across the treeless plains, gathering speed until it hits the village's modest elevation. Locals claim they can predict weather changes by the wind's tone: a low moan means rain within 24 hours, while a high whistle brings clear skies. Whether meteorological fact or rural folklore, the wind provides the village's constant soundtrack.

Walking the Empty Fields

The surrounding countryside offers walking opportunities that require more stamina than skill. Tracks lead outward in all directions, following the traditional paths that once connected Carabantes to neighbouring villages. These routes—never signposted, occasionally waymarked with cairns—traverse gently rolling terrain that gains and loses perhaps fifty metres of elevation over five kilometres.

Birdwatchers bring binoculars for the steppe species that thrive here. Great bustards occasionally appear in the distance, prehistoric-looking birds that seem too heavy for flight. Calandra larks provide the soundtrack, their complex songs mixing mimicry of other species with mechanical clicking sounds. Booted eagles circle overhead, riding thermals that rise from the sun-warmed fields.

The walking season runs March through November. Summer heat, though moderated by altitude, still makes midday walks uncomfortable. Spring offers the best combination of mild weather and bird activity, while autumn brings mushroom foraging opportunities in the scattered oak groves. Chanterelles and penny buns appear after September rains, though locals guard their collecting spots with typical Castilian reticence.

Practicalities for the Curious

Reaching Carabantes requires determination and preferably a hire car. The village sits 65 kilometres north-east of Soria city, itself two hours from Madrid by train. From Soria, the journey takes ninety minutes through increasingly empty country—first the A-15 motorway, then the N-122 national road, finally the CL-116 provincial route that narrows to single-track with passing places.

Accommodation options exist, though calling them options suggests choice where little exists. The Casa Bécquer Rural Lodging scores perfect tens on rental websites, perhaps because expectations remain modest. Three bedrooms, thick stone walls, and views across the meseta justify the £80-120 nightly rate. The Luna de Borobia offers similar facilities in a restored farmhouse two kilometres from the village centre.

Food presents the real challenge. Carabantes has no shops, bars, or restaurants. The nearest supermarket stands fourteen kilometres away in Ágreda, making self-catering essential. Local specialities—torreznos (crispy pork belly), migas (fried breadcrumbs with chorizo), and roast suckling lamb—require travel to larger villages or advance arrangement with neighbouring farmers who still maintain traditional practices.

The Return Journey

Leaving Carabantes means descending back into connectivity and complexity. The mobile signal returns first—one bar, then two—as altitude decreases. By Borobia, full service restores with its attendant barrage of notifications and demands. The village recedes in the rear-view mirror, becoming first a cluster of roofs, then merely a darker patch against the pale gold of cereal fields.

Some visitors return. They come back for the silence that feels almost physical, for skies so dark that the Milky Way appears as a solid band across the heavens, for conversations with people who measure time in agricultural cycles rather than digital notifications. Others tick it off their list—another Spanish village seen, photographed, and filed away.

Carabantes doesn't care either way. The church bell will strike tomorrow at noon, and twenty people will hear it. The wind will continue its eternal passage across the meseta. The fields will shift through their seasonal colours, and the village will persist, stubborn as its remaining residents, high above the modern world that forgot it exists.