Barrios de Luna (Los)

A reservoir that swallowed the past

Stand on the dam at Los Barrios de Luna and you are walking above whole neighbourhoods that still have street names, even though the streets themselves have been underwater since 1956. When the Luna River was walled off to feed León’s steelworks, seven villages disappeared; the survivors resettled on higher ground, bringing their church bells, their front-door keys and a lingering habit of glancing downhill whenever the water level drops. What looks at first glance like an ordinary mountain reservoir feels, once you know the story, like a liquid cemetery with the occasional roof tile poking through.

Today the municipality clings to a sunny shelf at 1,050 m, its stone houses shoulder-to-shoulder against a wind that smells of pine and damp slate. Population 309 on the last padron, swelled in August by grandchildren who know exactly which uncle keeps the key to the football pitch. There is no souvenir shop, no cash machine, no Sunday market. The single bar opens when the owner hears the first car gravel-crunch at 10 a.m.; if nobody turns up, it stays shut.

Walking above the waterline

The GR-231 long-distance path skirts the reservoir for 18 km, but shorter loops start from the church square. Follow the yellow dashes east and you drop through sweet-chestnut woods to a cove where kayakers pull out in June; by October the same spot is a meadow of cracked mud and bleached driftwood. Keep ascending instead and after forty minutes the track narrows to a shepherd’s trail that delivers you to the Mirador de la Muela. From the iron cross you can trace the original river gorge, now a turquoise vein between soft, cattle-nibbled ridges. Bring binoculars: griffon vultures ride the thermals, and the odd Cantabrian brown bear has been filmed on the far slope, though you are more likely to spot the fluorescent jacket of a solitary angler down below.

Paths are way-marked but not manicured. Expect cattle grids, wobbly stiles and the smell of wild marjoram underfoot. After rain the schist turns slick; proper boots are sensible, yet the gradients rarely punish. A circular route to the drowned hamlet of Soto via the shepherd’s huts at Las Bodas takes three hours, ends at the bar, and burns just enough calories to justify the local cheese.

What you eat when there is only one menu

The chalkboard outside Bar.co changes weekly, sometimes daily, depending on what José Luis has traded with neighbours. Cocido leonés arrives in a clay bowl big enough for two: chickpeas, cabbage, morcilla, a lump of beef that tastes of thyme and smoke. If that sounds heavy for lunch, ask for a serranito – a toasted baguette layered with pork loin, jamón and grilled green pepper, the Andalusian import that has somehow become the village staple. Vegetarians get a plate of pimientos de padrón and a lecture on why lentils need jamón bone. House wine is from Bierzo, £1.80 a glass, poured from an unlabelled demijohn that once held olives.

For self-caterers the colmado stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and the local blue queso de Valdeón, milder than Stilton, wrapped in sycamore leaves. Bread arrives frozen on Tuesday; by Friday you are eating yesterday’s toast. Plan accordingly: La Robla’s Carrefour is twenty minutes down the A-66 if you crave fresh rocket.

The season that decides what you can do

Water rules everything. In June the kayak concession sets up a trailer by the dam, renting sit-on-tops for €12 an hour and running guided paddles to the submerged bridge of Robledo. July and August bring Sunday influxes from León city; parking spaces vanish by eleven and the reservoir rings with splashing children and barking dogs. Come September the company folds, taking its floating pier with it. What remains is a vast, silent basin where the water can drop eight metres in a dry autumn, revealing stone walls and the odd rusted bed frame that locals prefer not to photograph.

Winter is a different bargain. Daytime highs hover at 6 °C, nights sink below zero and the road from La Pola carries the odd snow warning. Yet the light is sharp, the bar fireplace is always lit and you can walk for two hours without meeting a soul. The council sometimes clears the GR-231, sometimes doesn’t; ring the ayuntamiento first if you value your ankles. Mobile coverage is patchy enough that a turned ankle could become an overnight adventure.

Getting here, and why you might turn back

There is no railway station, no daily bus, no Uber. The nearest AVE fast-train stop is León, 55 minutes away by car. From there the A-66 sweeps south, exit 134 sign-posted “Embalse de Luna” in letters the size of a playing card. The final eight kilometres climb through eucalyptus plantations so monotonous you will question the sat-nav; then the road tips over the lip and the water appears, suddenly, like a mirage that forgot to leave.

Accommodation is limited. Three village houses have been restored into holiday lets: thick walls, wood stoves, Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind shifts. Prices sit around €80 a night for two, linen included, but you must bring towels and a tolerance for church bells every quarter-hour. There is no hotel, no pool, no breakfast buffet. If that sounds too spartan, sleep in La Robla and drive up for the day; you will miss the dawn light on the reservoir but gain a kettle that doesn’t trip the fuse.

The honest verdict

Los Barrios de Luna will not entertain you. It offers instead a front-row seat to a landscape still negotiating its own past: farmers who remember the flood, forests reclaiming abandoned terraces, a reservoir that doubles as time capsule. Come prepared – with food, with boots, with downloaded maps – and the place repays in silence, stars and the faint thrill of walking across a drowned village. Arrive expecting cafés, souvenir magnets or even a sandy beach and you will last half an hour before U-turning to the motorway.

Book the house, pack the cheese, fill the tank. And when the water is high, launch the kayak anyway; somewhere below your paddle, a whole main square is still waiting for the bell to ring.