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about La Losilla
Tiny village in a high, cold area
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Thirteen souls. That’s all that remains of La Losilla when the almond blossom falls. At 1,174 metres, this stone hamlet in Soria province sits higher than Ben Nevis’s summit—and feels every centimetre of it when the wind arrives straight off the Meseta. The thermometer read –8 °C on the April morning I arrived; ice glazed the cattle troughs and the only sound was a distant chainsaw echoing across the páramo.
What’s Left When Everyone Leaves
La Losilla isn’t pretty in the picture-postcard sense. Its houses are built for winter survival: metre-thick walls of ochre stone, doors the colour of weathered pine, roofs weighted with shale against the gales. Half of them are shuttered permanently—keys passed between neighbours like family heirlooms—while others sag open, revealing haylofts where swallows nest among the beams. The single street peters out into a dirt track within 200 metres; beyond that, the grain fields take over, stretching to a horizon so wide it hurts the eyes.
The 18th-century church stands squarely at the hamlet’s midpoint, no bigger than an English village hall. Its stone belfry houses one bell, cracked in 1938 and never replaced. Step inside (ask at the third house on the left—María keeps the key in a biscuit tin) and you’ll find whitewashed walls, a simple timber altar and a fresco of St Isidore the Labourer whose face has been rubbed away by generations of farmer’s fingertips seeking luck before the harvest.
There are no bars, no bakeries, no souvenir shops selling fridge magnets. The last shop closed in 1974; its wooden counter is now a workbench in someone’s garage. If you need milk, the nearest dispenser is 6 km away in Almajano—a white-knuckle drive along a single-track road that corkscrews down through juniper and thyme. Forget mobile signal: even the local farmers WhatsApp from their tractors in the valley where one bar of 3G flickers briefly beside a concrete marker.
Walking the Invisible Lines
La Losilla’s real map is invisible. It follows the ancient grain routes—paths wide enough for a mule and cart—that fan out across the plateau. Leave the hamlet at dawn and you’ll share the track with red partridges scuttling into broom thickets and the occasional shepherd on a quad bike, two sheepdogs balanced on the back like bronzed surfers. The soil is thin and stony; wheat struggles, but almonds thrive, their roots cracking the limestone to reach water stored from last winter’s meagre snow.
A gentle 45-minute circuit heads south to the abandoned threshing floors on the ridge. Stone circles, grass-grown, look like miniature henges against the sky. Stand here at sunset and the plateau turns the colour of burnt toffee, the distant wind turbines on the Gómara hills flicking slow-motion semaphore. Return via the north track and you’ll pass Cortijo del Cura, a farmhouse whose inhabitants left in 1962; the bread oven still smells faintly of ash if you poke your head through the empty window.
Serious walkers can link into the 20 km Camino de la Lobera, an old wolf-trappers’ path that drops 600 metres to the River Duero. Markers are scarce—cairns every kilometre, a faded stripe of yellow paint on the odd pine trunk—so download the GPX before you leave home. In May the route is edged with purple viper’s bugloss and the air tastes of resin; by mid-July temperatures touch 34 °C and shade is non-existent. Carry two litres of water per person; streams marked on the map are usually dry by June.
Eating (and Sleeping) Like a Castilian
Hunger must be planned in advance. Casa Joya, the only guest accommodation, occupies a converted hay barn on the hamlet’s edge. Sarah and Mark, expats from Devon, bought the ruin in 2017; they underfloor-heated the stone flags and installed Wi-Fi fast enough for Zoom, though guests are politely asked not to use it at dinner. Three apartments share a kitchen stocked with local oil, Rioja and coffee beans from a roaster in Logroño. Breakfast delivered to your door might include still-warm almond cake and yoghurt from a herd of 30 cows in nearby Carrascosa.
Evenings revolve around the communal table. The set-menu supper changes nightly: perhaps garlic soup thickened with egg, slow-roast lamb shoulder, and cheesecake whose base is made from María’s home-made biscuits. Vegetarians get pisto manchego (a smoky ratatouille) and grilled artichokes. Wine is included—usually a crianza from Aranda at no extra charge—yet the four-course feast costs just €24. Book before arrival; Mark shops in Soria on Tuesday and Friday, so last-minute requests stump him.
If Casa Joya is full (it sleeps ten), the nearest beds are in Almajano’s hostal, basic but spotless, €45 for a double including breakfast tostadas and instant coffee. Their restaurant does a decent chuletón (T-bone for two, €38) but closes on Mondays without fail—don’t arrive hungry that night or you’ll be driving another 25 km to Soria.
When to Come, When to Stay Away
April delivers almond blossom and freezing dawns; bring a down jacket and expect sleet. May and early June are kindest: skylarks overhead, fields green as an English lawn, midday temperatures around 22 °C. September glows with stubble fires and the scent of crushed grapes; migrant hawkers patrol the lanes, their wings catching copper light. October nights drop to 5 °C—perfect for star-gazing before an open fire.
Avoid August unless you enjoy solitude in a furnace. The plateau bakes; shade is theoretical and water sources vanish. In winter the road is gritted only as far as Carrascosa—after that you’re on packed snow. Chains are advisable from December to March; without them the Guardia Civil will turn you back when the white winds arrive off the Moncayo.
Crowds are never an issue. On Easter Saturday I met one Dutch photographer and a Madrid couple walking their Labrador. By October you may have the horizon entirely to yourself—just the wind, the wheat stubble and the knowledge that, 1,000 metres below, Spain’s motorways roar with tourists heading somewhere else.
Take cash: no card machine for miles. Fill the tank in Soria; petrol stations close early on Saturdays and all day Sunday. And remember the hamlet’s unspoken curfew—silence by ten, because the dogs sleep in the street and the sky is full of stars no one has bothered to count for a hundred years.
