Monteagudo de las Vicarías

The thermometer on the car dashboard drops six degrees in the last twenty minutes before Monteagudo. First the pine plantations thin out, then the tarmac wrinkles into switchbacks that climb 400 metres above the Ribeira del Duero. At the summit the village appears—one tight coil of stone roofs balanced on a limestone wedge, with nothing but wheat plains rolling away southwards all the way to La Mancha.

This is Castile at its most uncompromising. Winters here start in October and hang on through Easter; locals talk of “los setenta días de invierno” when the wind drags across the plateau and the road to Soria turns white. Summer, by contrast, is a furnace. By 11 a.m. in July the stone walls radiate heat like storage heaters and the only shade is the 60-centimetre strip cast by the parish tower. Come prepared: a litre of water per hour of walking, a hat that covers your neck, and the realisation that sightseeing is best done at dawn or dusk.

The isolation is recent. A century ago 800 people lived here; today the padre counts 176 on the roll and many of those are retired farmers who spend January with children in Madrid or Valladolid. Their absence explains the shuttered houses with 18th-century lintels still carved with the original owner’s initials—stone witnesses to a slow, courteous exodus.

What Still Stands

Start at the castle gatehouse. The masonry is thirteenth-century, patched after a French skirmish in 1810 and again during the 1936 retreat. Iron hooks the width of a forearm project from the wall; they once held a wooden gallery where sentries could watch both road and river. Walk the short curtain wall and the whole plateau tilts beneath you: barley stripes, red-tiled hamlets, and the A-15 a pencil line 12 kilometres away. Entry is free, though the caretaker prefers visitors to appear within the posted hours (Wed–Sun 10:00–14:00, 16:00–19:30). Turn up ten minutes early, tap the metal knocker, and he’ll emerge wiping breakfast crumbs from his moustache.

Inside the village the lanes are barely two donkeys wide. Granite corbels support balconies just large enough for a chair and a geranium. Peer through the grilles and you’ll see wine cellars hacked into the bedrock, their ceilings blackened by the lamps of growers who bottled here until the 1970s. One or two have been converted into micro-bars; if a door stands open, the polite formula is “¿Se puede mirar?”—you’ll usually be waved in and offered a thimble of thick, almost chewy, local red.

The plaza is a pocket-handkerchief of cracked concrete shaded by a single acacia. On its eastern side the church tower doubles as the village timepiece: swifts exit at first light, jackdaws return at compline. The interior is pure Castilian restraint—no gilded retablo, just a single Romanesque window piercing a wall a metre thick. Mass is at 11:00 Sunday; arrive earlier and the sacristan may lend you the key for ten minutes, provided you leave a euro in the candle box.

Walking the Empty Quarter

Monteagudo sits on the western lip of the Meseta, where the land finally fractures into the gorges of the River Duero. Footpaths radiate like spokes, all way-marked with fresh yellow-and-white paint thanks to a job-creation scheme. The easiest route heads north along a farm track to Villar del Ala, 5 km away. You’ll pass wheat fields the colour of pale biscuits, then drop into a dry valley where bee-eaters nest in the clay bank. Allow ninety minutes; take another litre of water than you think necessary—there are no fountains and the only bar in Villar opens unpredictably.

Serious walkers continue eastwards along the GR-86 to the Cañón del Río Lobos. The full stage is 19 km; most arrange a taxi pick-up at Ucero and walk one-way, meeting griffon vultures that ride the thermals above the pine-clad cliffs. Mountain-bikers prefer the web of forestry roads south towards Rello; gradients are gentle but surfaces are loose—gravel tyres of 38 mm plus advised.

Snow arrives sooner than coastal Spain expects. By mid-December the track to the wind turbines above the village becomes a ski-mountaineering route; locals fit chains to tractors and haul firewood from stands of oak they’ve tended since childhood. Unless you’re equipped for winter hill-walking, visit between late March and early June, when the steppe flowers and the thermometer hovers around 18 °C at noon.

Eating (or Not)

There is no shop. None. The tiny ultra-mini-market closed when its proprietor died in 2021; tinned beans and toilet paper are now 35 km away in Almazán. Plan accordingly. The sole hostelry, Mesón Saminhaan on the plaza, opens for lunch from 13:30–15:30 and for dinner only if five or more people reserve before midday. The menú del día is €14 and sensible: garlic soup, grilled lamb cutlet, almond tart, house wine. Vegetarians get a plate of pimientos del padrón and a tortilla—acceptable if not thrilling. Outside mealtimes the bar serves coffee, ice-cold lager and those addictive pastas de almendra biscuits at €1.50 a pair—buy extra; they travel well.

If the mesón is shuttered, drive 20 minutes to Berlanga de Duero where the cooperative restaurant inside the Parador does a respectable cocido maragato (a stew eaten backwards, starting with the meat). The castle views are thrown in free.

Where to Sleep

Options are binary. Hotel Villa de Molina has six rooms above the bar, all refurbished in 2022 with decent Wi-Fi, rainfall showers and rates that peak at €70 in August. Book by WhatsApp (+34 683 12 88 04) and expect a reply within 24 hours. The alternative is self-catering: two village houses have been restored by owners in Madrid and appear on Airbnb under “Casa del Guarda” and “El Pajar de Monteagudo”. Weekly prices start at €420 including firewood; bring slippers—the stone floors are chilly even in May.

No accommodation accepts pets during bird-nesting season (March–July) because the courtyard walls host a thriving colony of red-billed choughs. The birds are louder than the church bells at dawn; light sleepers should pack ear-plugs.

The Useful Fine Print

Cash: the nearest ATM is a 35-minute drive to Almazán. Cards are accepted at the hotel and mesón, but the candle kiosk in church is coins-only.
Fuel: after exit 122 on the A-15 petrol stations vanish; fill up at Berlanga de Duero before the final climb.
Mobile coverage: Vodafone and Movistar pick up on the castle terrace; Orange users need to stand on the picnic table by the wind pump.
Driving time: Madrid 2 h 15 m; Bilbao 3 h; Zaragoza 1 h 45 m. The last 20 km on the CL-116 are sinuous—add 30 minutes if you’re towing or prone to car-sickness.

When to Leave

Monteagudo rewards patience. Stay two nights and you’ll notice the swifts change flight pattern when a weather front approaches; stay three and the barman remembers how you take your coffee. Leave earlier and you risk filing it under “pretty but dead”—a judgement as unfair as calling the meseta flat. The village is neither sleepy nor romantic; it’s simply calibrated to an older, slower clock. Catch that rhythm, and the drive back down the mountain feels unnecessarily rushed.