Torrubia de Soria

The church bell strikes noon, and only the wind answers back. At 1,048 metres above sea level, Torrubia de Soria sits high enough that the air carries a permanent chill, even when Madrid swelters two hours south. Fifty-six souls call this home—officially, at least—and the nearest supermarket lies 40 minutes away across wheat fields that shimmer like the North Sea in late spring.

Welcome to Spain's España vaciada, the emptied country. No souvenir stalls, no guided tours, no weekend crowds escaping the capital. Just stone houses huddled round a 16th-century church, cereal plains rolling to every horizon, and silence so complete you can hear a tractor gear-change three kilometres off.

The View from the Bell Tower

Start at the mirador just east of the church plaza. From here the Campo de Gómara spreads out like a rumpled quilt: ochre parcels of ploughed land, green stripes of young barley, and the occasional holm oak standing solitary guard. On a clear day you can pick out the stone roofs of five neighbouring villages, each one smaller than the last. The landscape obeys geometry rather than tourism boards—straight farm tracks, perfect rectangles of crops, and sky that occupies three-quarters of your vision.

Photographers arrive hoping for drama, and the plateau rarely disappoints. Dawn fires the eastern sky rose-gold; by dusk the same clouds have bruised to violet. Bring a tripod and a wind-proof jacket—up here the breeze rarely drops below 15 km/h, and gusts above 50 km/h are common enough that farmers tie tractor doors closed with baling twine.

A Walk Through the Grain

Torrubia functions best as a staging post rather than a destination. Park by the stone water trough on Calle Real (there's room for four cars, six if everyone breathes in) and set off on foot. A web of unmarked farm tracks links the village to Arévalo de la Sierra (6 km north) and Rello (9 km south-west). None are strenuous; gradients rarely exceed 5 %. Do carry water—there's no café, no fountain, and midday shade is theoretical.

Spring walkers share the paths with skylarks and the occasional Montagu's harrier quartering the fields. In October the stubble glints like bronze and red-legged partridge explode from ditches in clattering coveys. Winter brings its own austere beauty: snow is infrequent but frost etches every stalk silver, and the air tastes metallic. Summer walking is possible if you start before eight; by eleven the thermometer can nudge 34 °C and the only living things moving will be harvesting combines.

What Passes for Services

The last permanent shop closed in 2003. Today Torrubia's commercial life consists of a mobile butcher who parks outside the ayuntamiento on Thursday mornings and a bread van that toots its horn around ten o'clock daily—arrive late and the barra loaves are gone. If you need petrol, breakfast, or a cash machine, head 27 km west to Ágreda, a hill-town large enough to support three supermarkets and a medieval cloister famous for its judías blancas beans.

That scarcity is precisely the point. Visitors come not to consume but to recalibrate. Mobile reception is patchy—Vodafone works on the church steps, nothing else does—so maps.me and pre-downloaded routes are essential. The single bar, Mesón de Torrubia, opens randomly; more often you'll drink coffee in someone's kitchen and leave with a jar of home-made miel de romero.

Eating, Sleeping, Timing

Staying overnight means renting one of three village houses restored by families who left for Zaragoza or Barcelona decades ago. Expect stone walls 80 cm thick, wood-burning stoves, and Wi-Fi that flickers whenever the wind swings north-west. Prices hover round €70 a night for two, minimum two nights; owners prefer WhatsApp bookings and will meet you with keys at the entrance arch. Bedding is provided, but bring slippers—stone floors are cold even in May.

Meals require forward planning. The nearest restaurant, Asador de Arévalo, serves roast suckling lamb at weekends (€22 half-ration, book ahead). Midweek you'll cook: stock up in Soria city before you climb into the hills. Local specialities to look for in markets include chuletón al estilo soriano (beef chop for two, €28/kg) and borrajas—a cucumber-flavoured green that arrives in spring stews.

Timing matters. Visit in late April and the plains flicker green; wheat heads ripple like fur. August fiestas swell the population to perhaps 200, with evening barbecues and a Saturday disco powered by a single generator that gives up at 2 a.m. November can be glorious—clear, crisp, deserted—but the first snow sometimes blocks the road from Ágredo for a day or two. January and February are stark, beautiful, and best left to those who know how to wield a shovel.

The Bigger Picture

Torrubia sits inside the proposed Geoparque del Campo de Gómara, an initiative to protect a landscape shaped by two million years of continental uplift and erosion. Interpretation boards are still scarce, so download the Soría provincial geology PDF before you arrive; the limestone escarpment north of Rello contains ammonite fossils you can spot with a ten-year-old's eyesight.

Conservationists see potential in these empty villages: dark-sky status, sustainable tourism, rewilding projects. Farmers remain sceptical—they've watched rural flight accelerate for seven decades. Between 1950 and 1970 Torrubia lost two-thirds of its population; the school closed in 1981, its basketball court now a barn for straw bales. Whether visitors arriving with binoculars and bicycles can reverse that tide is an open question.

Drive out at sunset. The grain silo on the hill blushes pink, then grey, then black against a sky still fire on the horizon. Somewhere a dog barks once, twice, then thinks better of it. The village contracts to a single lit window—and you realise the silence isn't absence, but space. Just remember to fill the tank before you leave the main road; the next petrol pump is 40 km east, and the wheat fields offer no opinions on whether you'll make it.