Cañamaque

The thermometer on the car dashboard drops a full five degrees between the provincial capital of Soria and the turn-off for Cañamaque. At 961 m above sea level, the village sits high enough for the air to feel thinner, cleaner, and—once the engine is switched off—almost startlingly quiet. Thirty residents, one church, no bars, no cash machine, and a landscape that rolls away in every direction like a brown-gold sea. This is not the Spain of coast-hugging motorways or weekend city breaks; it is Castilla y León’s answer to the question “What happens when everyone leaves?”

A Plateau that Breathes

Approaching from the N-122, the tarmac narrows to a county road that threads through wheat fields already harvested by late July. The only vertical features are the concrete grain silos every few kilometres and, on the horizon, the church tower of Cañamaque itself. Park on the slight rise at the village entrance and the view opens westward for forty kilometres; on a clear winter day you can pick out the snow-dusted summits of the Sierra de la Demanda.

That altitude matters. Nights remain cool even in August, and frost can arrive six weeks earlier than in the Duero valley. Spring is brief, often swallowed by a cutting wind that arrives straight from the Meseta. Autumn, however, stretches into golden weeks of mellow afternoons and star-loaded skies—probably the single best season to visit if you intend to walk. Bring a fleece at any time of year; after sunset the temperature plummets, and the nearest open petrol station is 28 km away in Ólvega.

Stone, Adobe and the Sound of Your Own Footsteps

A slow circuit of Cañamaque takes forty minutes if you stop to read every hand-painted ceramic street sign. Houses are built from locally quarried limestone and river-pebble mortar; roofs pitch steeply to shed winter snow that, though seldom deep, can linger. Many properties are locked up for ten months of the year, their owners having left for Zaragoza or Barcelona in the 1980s. Wooden doors—some still iron-studded—have warped so badly that gaps appear at the hinges, offering glimpses of abandoned winepresses and threshing sledges inside.

The sixteenth-century parish church of San Pedro is kept unlocked by the sacristan, who lives three doors down. Inside you will find a single-nave interior remodelled in the nineteenth century, its baroque retablo painted in a shade historians call “Sorian blood-red”. The bell still rings at noon; if you climb the tower (ask at number 17) the ladder emerges onto a roof terrace where storks clack their beaks overhead and the plateau drops away on every side.

Below the church, a lane descends to the old wine caves. Half are bricked up, but several retain their original sandstone arches. These are private cellars, not attractions; if the owner is working his allotment opposite, he may lift the iron grill so you can inhale the damp-earth aroma of a place last used to ferment grapes in 1993.

Walking Without Waymarks

Cañamaque has no signed footpaths, and that is precisely the point. A spider-web of farm tracks radiates into the cereal steppe, used nowadays by the occasional tractor and by shepherds moving flocks of Churra sheep. Head south on the track signed “Ctra. de los Pozos” and within twenty minutes the village shrinks to a Lego-sized cluster behind you. The path follows a low ridge where calandra larks launch vertically, singing like clockwork toys. Keep walking for an hour and you reach the abandoned hamlet of Los Llanos—roofless, ghost-quiet, but with a working well whose water is still sweet.

Distances deceive: a barn that looks ten minutes away takes twenty under the midday sun. Carry more water than you think necessary; there is no shade, and the only trees are regimented lines of poplars planted to shelter wheat from the wind. Mobile coverage is patchy, so download an offline map. If the sky clouds over, retrace your steps immediately—plateau storms arrive fast, turning the clay soil into boot-clogging paste.

What You Will (and Won’t) Eat

There is no shop, no café, no Saturday-morning market. Self-catering is mandatory unless you have arranged comida with one of the two households that occasionally take in paying guests. Drive fifteen minutes to Ólvega for supplies: smoked chorizo from the cooperative supermarket, a lump of queso de oveja cured in oil, and a bottle of robust Toro red. Back in the village, the public barbecue by the grain store is free to use; bring charcoal and your own matches. Local etiquette is to offer the first spare chop to any resident who wanders past curious about the smoke.

If you are invited inside a home, expect migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and pancetta—followed by cordero asado so tender that the bone slides out like a spoon from custard. Eat quickly; country politeness means seconds appear the moment your plate empties, and refusing a third helping is only allowed if you claim stomach trouble.

When the Village Wakes Up

Cañamaque’s population quadruples on the weekend of 15 August, when the fiesta of San Roque lures back descendants of the original families. A sound system rigged on a tractor trailer plays pasodobles until two in the morning, and the village square becomes an open-air kitchen where two entire lambs roast over holm-oak fires. Visitors are welcome but not catered for: bring your own chair, your own glass, and—if you cannot stomach neat anis—your own mixer. The next morning a dusty silence returns, broken only by the departing cough of aged Seat hatchbacks.

Winter is even quieter. January snow can block the access road for a day or two; locals keep shovels handy and regard a 4×4 as a sensible investment rather than a status symbol. If you do arrive in deep winter, the reward is astronomical: zero light pollution and air so dry that Orion seems to hover within arm’s reach. Stand in the middle of the wheat stubble, listen to the creak of your own coat, and you will understand why Spanish poets call the Meseta “the land that teaches distance”.

Getting There, Staying There

The practical bit, then. From London, fly to Madrid, pick up a hire car at Terminal 1, and head north on the A-2 and then the N-122 towards Soria. After 190 km, turn left at the Ólvega roundabout; Cañamaque is 13 km further on a single-lane road where hares outnumber cars. Total driving time from Barajas is two and a half hours, but allow longer if the Meseta is fog-bound—a November speciality.

Accommodation is limited. The village has two casas rurales, each sleeping four, booked through the provincial tourist office in Soria. Expect €70 a night for the house, not per person, paid in cash on arrival. Heating is by pellet stove; instructions are in Spanish only, so bring a translator app and patience. The nearest hotel with a reception desk is in Ólvega, a functional three-star whose restaurant serves commendable roast suckling pig but closes at ten sharp.

Fill the tank before you leave the motorway; petrol stations thin out dramatically north of the capital. Phone signal on Vodafone and EE works on the village’s western edge, near the cemetery—locals joke that you need to be half-dead to get coverage. Download offline maps, pack a power bank, and tell someone where you are walking.

Cañamaque will never make a list of Spain’s “must-sees”, and that is its virtue. Come for the space, the hush, and the slight vertigo of realising how much land exists beyond the guidebook highlights. Leave before you start counting the remaining residents like sheep.