Portillo de Soria

The church bell hasn't rung here since 1987. That's not speculation—it's written in felt-tip pen on a cardboard sign taped inside the porch of Portillo de Soria's single-storey bar, which opens Saturdays only and doubles as the village's unofficial information centre. At 1,024 metres above sea level, this scattering of stone houses marks the point where the province's southern farmland buckles into the high plateaux of Campo de Gómara. Eleven permanent residents. One working phone box. Zero traffic lights. Even by Soria's standards, that's thin.

The Arithmetic of Absence

Drive south from the provincial capital and the maths turns brutal fast. Seventy-two kilometres on the SO-20, then twelve more on the SO-165. Each junction peels away another layer of population: Soria city (39,000), Gómara (250), finally Portillo (11). The road narrows to a single track hemmed by cereal fields that in June glow like burnished brass and in January disappear under snow so deep the farmers mark their boundaries with three-metre canes. Mobile signal dies at the last crest; what little internet exists arrives via a microwave relay mounted on the water tower. Download speed: 3 Mbps on a still day. Less when the wind picks up.

What keeps the place visible on the map is geography, not commerce. Portillo means "small pass", and for centuries the village funnelled transhumance traffic between the Duero valley and the southern sierras. Shepherds still graze their flocks on communal land—you'll see the merino ear-tags glinting if you walk the old drove road that leaves the upper end of the village and peters out after eight kilometres at an abandoned corral. No way-markers, no interpretive panels. Just stone, sky and the occasional bleat.

Architecture Without Make-up

The houses don't posture. Adobe walls sixty centimetres thick keep July heat outside and January cold at bay; roof tiles the colour of burnt toast are weighted down with stones against the Atlantic fronts that sweep across the plateau. Some dwellings are immaculate—second-home owners from Madrid repaint their shutters ox-blood red every spring. Others slump in slow motion, rafters sagging like tired horses. One facade carries a sun-bleached advert for La Estrella beer priced at seven pesetas. Nobody has bothered to erase it.

The parish church of San Pedro retains its Romanesque doorway but lost its tower during the Civil War. Replacement bells hang in a welded steel frame that looks like a child's Meccano set. Step inside (key kept by Señora Cebrián, house opposite, knock loudly) and the temperature drops ten degrees. Interior highlights: a polychrome saint whose face was scratched off in 1936, and a 17th-century altarpiece paid for with tithes of wheat and wool. Donation box accepts euros; candles cost fifty cents. Bring coins—no change given.

Walking the Vacuum

Serious hikers arrive expecting way-marked loops and stumble instead onto a spider's web of agricultural tracks. The rule is simple: if the gate is closed, open it, pass through, close it. Cattle grids mean no gate. A two-hour circuit heads west across the SO-165, climbs a limestone ridge nicknamed El Fraile for its monk's-hood profile, then drops into a hidden valley where junipers survive on dew alone. Spring brings feral irises the exact shade of Cadbury's Dairy Milk wrapper; autumn smells of wet thyme and gun-metal sky.

Winter walking is another matter. Snow can fall overnight from October onward; drifts last well into April. The provincial gritting service classes Portillo as "low priority", which translates as "never". Chains or winter tyres are compulsory—rent them in Soria before you leave. Even then, a white-out can strand you for days. The village keeps a communal pantry of tinned tomatoes, rice and firewood for exactly that scenario. Contributions welcome.

Eating Above the Clouds

There is no shop. The Saturday bar serves tortilla, chorizo and coffee strong enough to etch glass, but closes at 14:00 sharp. Stock up beforehand in Soria's covered market: local Queso de Oveja (€14/kg), a loaf from Panadería López (€1.80), and a slab of torrezno—deep-fried pork belly that reheats well over a campfire. Water from the village fountain is potable; locals fill 5-litre jugs and drive it back to their city flats "because it tastes of something".

If you crave a chair and a menu, drive twenty minutes to El Portillo restaurant on the main road—no relation to the village. House special is cordero asado, baby lamb roasted in a wood oven until the bones caramelise (half kilo €22, feeds two). House wine arrives in a plain glass bottle with the vintage scrawled in biro—usually last year's Rioja cosecha, drinkable, no ceremony.

When the Wind Drops

Silence at this altitude isn't absence; it's a presence with weight. At night the Milky Way spills across the sky like tipped sugar. Owls call across the rooftops; occasionally a wild boar crashes through the almond grove on the eastern edge. Light pollution registers zero—astrophotographers set up tripods in the square and expose for thirty seconds without a single car headlight ruining the frame.

Yet the emptiness carries a caveat. Visit during Easter or August and the population swells to maybe ninety. Motorbikes roar up from Valencia; someone cranks 1990s euro-pop from a Bluetooth speaker. The Saturday bar runs out of beer by noon. Second-home owners will tell you, eyes shining, how they "escaped the rat race". By Tuesday the shutters bang shut again and the village exhales, returning to its default state of hush.

Getting Out Again

Buses? None. Taxi from Soria costs €55 one way—book through Radio Taxi Soria (+34 975 22 22 22) and confirm the fare upfront. Petrol stations close at 20:00; the last reliable pump is in Gómara, twelve kilometres north. If the forecast mentions "nevadas intensas", leave early or hunker down. The mountain rescue unit charges €180 per hour if they have to fetch you.

Portillo de Soria offers no souvenir shops, no audio guides, no sunset yoga. What it does offer is a calibration service for urban clocks: a place where distance is measured in walking time and the loudest sound at midday is your own pulse. Come prepared—carry water, respect the cold, and don't expect applause when you reach the ridge. The landscape simply watches, impassive, exactly as it has done since the last resident locked the church and walked home beneath a sky still bright with stars.