Borobia

Borobia sits at 1,130 m, exactly where the pine belt running off Moncayo’s shoulders meets the bleached cereal plains of Castile. Stand on the tiny Plaza Mayor at 08:00 and you can watch the mountain’s shadow retreat like a tide across the wheat stubble while the village bakery produces just twenty panes de pueblo—enough for the day, with two left over for late-comers.

Stone houses, Arabic-tile roofs and the conical chimneys typical of highland Soria keep the place looking upright against a wind that can knife through in March. There are no souvenir arcades, no boutique hotels, not even a cash machine; the last ATM glows 25 minutes away in Ágreda and it, too, shuts at 22:00. What Borobia does offer is a front-row view of Moncayo’s 2,314 m summit and the sudden, almost accidental, surprise of a turquoise lake two kilometres north—an abandoned open-cast iron mine locals call La Gandalia—where British hikers have nicknamed the water “the Blue Lagoon of absolutely nowhere.”

Walking into the Wind

Paths leave the upper streets without ceremony. One minute you’re squeezing past a Seat León parked on a corner, the next you’re in replanted Scots pine that smells of damp resin after rain. The PR-SO 70 way-markers are easy to follow as far as the Fuente de la Teja spring; beyond that you’ll need the free Wikiloc file the village library will Bluetooth to your phone—assuming Vodafone feels like working today. Distances sound modest—8 km to the nevero ice-pit, 12 km to the San Juan hermitage—but the altitude nibbles at your thighs and there is no café halfway round. Summer starts cool (15 °C at 07:00) then rockets to 30 °C by noon; set off early or accept that the return leg will feel like a treadmill stuck on “hills”.

Wildlife rewards patience. Corzos (roe deer) step into the clearings at first light, and short-toed eagles circle over the southern cliffs once thermals build. Bring binoculars and something to sit on—there are no benches, only warm flat stones that double as picnic tables and, in October, níscalo mushroom stools for the locals who guard their patches like state secrets.

What Food Appears and When

The two bars coordinate rather than compete. Bar La Fuente opens at 07:30 for café con leche and churros if someone remembers to fetch the dough; it closes once the tostadas run out, usually around 13:00. Asador El Moncayo fires the charcoal at 20:00 and stops taking orders when the last chuletón—a T-bone built for two but often tackled solo by the proud—hits the grill. Expect £22–£25 per kilo, served rare unless you specify “bien hecho” and accept the chef’s raised eyebrow. Vegetarians survive on patatas a la importancia, a Soria invention of battered, broth-soaked potato slices that taste better than they deserve to, particularly after a 15 km hike.

The village shop keeps quirky hours: 09:00–13:30, Tuesday to Saturday. Stock up on judiones (butter-fat white beans), a jar of local honey that costs €6 for half a kilo, and the cooperative’s three-month cured sheep cheese—milder than Manchego, easier on the British palate, and €11 a wedge. Sunday everything is locked; bring sandwiches or befriend a resident with a key to the social club kitchen.

Winter White, Summer Quiet

Snow can arrive overnight in November and stay until March. The council grades the access road daily, but the final 6 km from the N-122 still demands winter tyres; a hire-spec Fiesta will skate like a sledge if you insist on arriving after a blizzard. Daytime highs hover at 4 °C, nights sink to –8 °C, and the village water tank occasionally freezes, so don’t be surprised if the hostal owner hands you a bucket instead of a shower. The reward is silence so complete you hear your own pulse, plus a sky dark enough for Orion to cast a shadow.

In August the population triples as borobinos return from Zaragoza and Madrid. The Virgen de la Asunción fiesta means one street disco, one brass band, and communal paella eaten at plastic tables that block the only through road. Accommodation that was £45 in July creeps to £65; book the solitary three-room hostal by May or you’ll be driving 40 minutes back to Tarazona after midnight.

The Lake that Shouldn’t Exist

The Gandalia mine track leaves north of the cemetery, unsigned, just wide enough for a car before it narrows to gravel. Ten minutes on foot brings you to a 50 m drop fenced by nothing more than wishful thinking. Below, groundwater has flooded the iron pit to an improbable Caribbean blue. Photographers swear the best colour comes between 18:00 and 19:30 when the sun slips under the western ridge; morning shots emerge milky and flat. No swimming—the pH sits around 4 and the edges crumble—but it’s a handy place to rinse salty boots. British visitors keep turning up expecting facilities; there aren’t even litter bins, so pack a bag out.

Getting There, Getting Out

Stansted to Zaragoza on Ryanair gives the cleanest run: 2-hour flight, 70-minute hire-car dash on the A-23, then the winding SO-20 5 that finally spits you into Borobia. Petrol is 10 c cheaper at the supermarket pumps in Tarazona than on the motorway—fill up before the last climb. No buses reach the village; the weekday service from Soria to Ágreda stops at 14:00 and taxis refuse the mountain road after dark.

If you’re rail-inclined, take the morning Eurostar to Paris, overnight trenhotel to Madrid, then the regional to Soria—romantic, but you’ll still need a taxi for the final 65 km (£90 pre-booked). Easier to share a car with friends and split the €80 weekly hire.

Worth the Detour?

Borobia will never elbow aside the Camino or the Costas. It offers space rather than sparkle: a place to remember how dark true night is, how loud boots sound on an empty track, how a chuletón tastes when the nearest alternative is 25 km away. Come for two nights if you hike, one if you simply want to tick Spain’s quietest corner and photograph a blue lake that was never meant for a postcard. Leave before you need cash, Wi-Fi, or a soya latte—because by the time you do, the mountain wind will already be pushing you back down the road.