San Felices

The church bell strikes noon, yet only two tables are occupied at the single bar. One man in work boots nurses a caña; another reads the paper without hurry. This is San Felices, a Soriana village pressed against the southern flank of the Moncayo where the population hovers around fifty-five and the altitude tops nine hundred metres. Mass tourism hasn't arrived, and most locals would be surprised to learn anyone needs directions.

Stone houses shoulder together along lanes barely two metres wide, their walls sixty centimetres thick and windows the size of post-box slots. They were built for January nights when the mercury slips below –8 °C, not for Instagram. Rooflines sag like old sofas, timber doors swell in the rain, and the only traffic jam occurs when someone stops to chat with the baker unloading loaves from a white van. There is no boutique hotel, no craft shop, no guided walk departing on the hour. What exists is altitude, silence and a horizon ruled by the granite bulk of the Moncayo.

Walking the Old Drovers' Threads

Paths leave the village as if apologising for the intrusion: narrow, stony, immediately swallowed by holm-oak and kermes oak. These are the cañadas reales, medieval droving routes still used by local farmers moving cattle between winter dehesas and summer pastures. Markers appear sporadically—faded yellow dashes on boulders, cairns at junctions—so a GPS track or the free leaflet from the ayuntamiento in nearby Tarazona helps. The most straightforward circuit climbs south-west to the Fuente de la Teja (2.4 km, 160 m ascent), a stone trough shaded by reeds where ibex hoofprints crisscross the mud. From the spring the trail swings north along a razor-backed ridge; suddenly the Ebro valley spreads westwards like a corrugated desert and the Pyrenees float on a distant heat haze.

Keener walkers can link to the GR-90 long-distance footpath which passes 3 km east of the village, but a half-day ramble is usually enough. Summer starts early at this latitude: by 09:30 the sun is punitive, water sources are unreliable, and shade is precious. Set off at dawn, carry two litres per person, and expect to meet no one except the occasional shepherd on a quad bike. In October the bush bursts into copper and rust, chanterelles push up under the oaks, and the air smells of moss and wet slate—arguably the finest window for hiking.

What Passes for Entertainment

Entertainment is self-generated. Birdwatchers should station themselves on the track leading to the ruined ermita at dusk; griffon vultures ride the thermals overhead, and a pair of golden eagles holds territory on the north face of the Moncayo. Bring a scope: there are no hides, no café nearby, and mobile reception flickers in and out. Photographers profit from the sharp angle of light—sunrise paints the limestone outcrops peach, while sunset backlights the cereal terraces below the village. In February the range frequently wears a coat of snow down to 800 m; if roads stay open (chains often required on the A-1502), the contrast of white peaks against ochre fields is spectacular.

Rainy days leave exactly one indoor option: the parish church of San Félix. Its Romanesque core was patched up in the sixteenth century after a fire, then again in the 1970s when the bell tower threatened to topple onto the plaza. Inside, a single nave, a dusty baroque retablo and a Christ figure whose polychrome is flaking like old paint on a barn door. The building is usually unlocked; if not, the key hangs next door with María, who will insist you sign a visitors' book that ends in 2019. Donations go toward a new roof; give what you think a leaky ceiling is worth.

Eating, Sleeping, Getting There

San Felices contains no restaurant, no shop, no petrol station. The bar opens 07:00–14:00 and 17:00–21:00; it serves coffee, ice creams and tap-sized raciones of chorizo from a local matanza. For a proper meal you drive ten minutes to Tarazona where Asador Casa Marín does a respectable lechazo (baby lamb roasted in a wood oven) at €24 per quarter. Vegetarians should head for El Pozo in the same town—menu del día €14, but phone ahead; they close if trade looks slow.

Accommodation options within the village amount to two rural houses: Casa Camino and Casa la Teja. Both sleep four, charge €90–110 a night, and include wood-burning stoves plus baskets of oak logs at no extra cost. Booking is direct via WhatsApp; neither accepts cards, and checkout is 10:00 sharp because the cleaner has a bus to catch. Alternatively, stay in Tarazona (Hotel Conde de Aragón, doubles €65) and day-trip: the mountain road is twisty but usually passable except during heavy snow when the Guardia Civil close the gates.

Public transport is skeletal. A weekday bus links Tarazona with Soria at 07:15 and 19:00, stopping at the junction of the A-1502 after a twenty-minute uphill walk from the village. Miss it and you wait twenty-four hours. Driving from Zaragoza takes 75 minutes on the A-68 and N-122; from Madrid figure three hours via the A-2 and the scenic but narrow N-234. Fill the tank before you leave the motorway—service stations dwindle fast.

Seasons of Silence

April brings daffodils along the verges and the first bee-eaters overhead; daytime temperatures nudge 16 °C, ideal for walking, but pack a fleece for the wind that barrels down from the Sierra de Vicort after sunset. July and August are surprisingly busy—by San Felices standards—when grandchildren of locals arrive from Zaragoza or Barcelona. Even then you will share the plaza with no more than a dozen people, but rental houses book up early. Expect 30 °C at midday, 15 °C at night, and star fields so clear you can read by them.

November means mushroom permits. The regional government charges €6.50 for a day licence to collect setas; guards patrol the forest tracks and fines start at €60 for unlicensed picking. Winter itself is short, sharp and beautiful. Snow can block the road for two or three days, electricity fails, and the village generator rumbles into life at 18:00 until the bars close. Bring chains, candles, and a sense of humour; if the weather closes in you may be stuck, though the locals will probably invite you to the communal bread oven and share whatever is in the stew pot.

The Parting Glance

San Felices offers no souvenir stall, no audio guide, no zip-wire across the gorge. It gives instead a yardstick of how quiet a place can be when the motorway is thirty kilometres away and the land is too poor for intensive farming. Those seeking action will last half a day; walkers, readers and star-gazers might linger longer, drawn by the thin air, the scent of juniper and the sense that, for once, the calendar has slowed to a medieval pulse. Come prepared—stock up on food, download offline maps, and carry cash—and the village will repay you with clear dawns and a silence you can almost lean against. Fail to plan and you will discover the other truth about remote places: when the bar shuts, it really is shut.