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about Casarejos
Pine-forest town near the Cañón del Río Lobos with deep-rooted traditions.
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The church bell strikes seven and the only other sound is resin dripping from a nearby pine. Casarejos, population 146, sits at 1,085 metres on the shoulder of the Sierra de Soria, and silence here is so complete that a Leeds visitor once described it as “almost unnerving”. The village isn’t hidden—Google Maps finds it without protest—but once you arrive, mobile signal drops to one flickering bar and the modern world feels negotiable.
Stone, Timber and Winter draughts
Houses are built for snow load, not for prettiness. Granite walls rise half a metre thick, capped with Arab tile and trimmed with oak beams greyed by centuries of cold wind. Balconies are narrow, more drainpipe than dream terrace; front doors still wear the iron studs that once repelled wolves and tax collectors. Nothing is restored to “story-book” standard—paint flakes, wood warps, and that is the point. Walking the single main lane takes eight minutes end to end; lingering takes longer if you stop to read the stone plaques that list every family who rebuilt after the 1930s Civil War fire.
The parish church of San Pedro sits plumb centre, bell tower barely taller than the pines behind it. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and damp stone; the altar retable is neat, provincial, 18th-century timber rather than gold-leaf extravaganza. You don’t come for art; you come for the thermometer by the door which, in February, often reads -8 °C and reminds you why the houses are fortresses.
Forests that once paid the bills
Casarejos spreads its back against the largest continuous stone-pine forest in Europe. The trees are property of the state; the resin that seeps along their trunks used to be. Until the 1980s most men here worked as resiners, slashing bark and channelling the white gum into tin pots. Follow any footpath west and you still find rusted stills and clay pipes abandoned among the needles. Spring brings neon-green shoots; autumn smells of damp bark and mushrooms; winter lays a hush of snow so regular that locals keep a second set of wheels chained up from November onward.
Hiking is self-navigated: the Ayuntamiento posts a rough map outside the pharmacy, but waymarks fade quickly. A logical loop runs 12 km south to the ruins of Ermita de San Blas, gaining 300 m of gentle ridge with views north across the Duero plateau. Allow four hours, carry water, and expect to share the track only with wild boar prints. After heavy snow the same route becomes an ad-hoc cross-country ski trail; no lifts, no tickets, just step off the road and go.
What you’ll eat—and when you won’t
There are two restaurants, both on the same 50-metre stretch. Mesón Julio opens Thursday to Sunday; Casa Gerardo opens Friday to Monday. Turn up on a Tuesday and you will be heating tinned soup on a camping stove. If the lights are on, order torreznos—inch-long strips of pork belly fried until the rind shatters like a quality pork scratching but releases hot juice beneath. The sheep’s cheese is milder than Manchego, cut in rough wedges and served with quince paste made by the owner’s sister. House red is a provincial Garnacha that costs €9 a bottle and slips down without the tannic punch Rioja sometimes wields.
Breakfast is harder. The bakery shuts on Monday and doesn’t open until 10 a.m.; British stomachs arriving at eight should stock up the night before. The pharmacy doubles as the cash point and frequently runs out of €20 notes on Saturday—bring coins for coffee or you’ll be offered the elderly owner’s personal float in exchange for a promise to repay after siesta.
Seasons that decide for you
April and late-September are the sweet spots. Daytime hovers around 18 °C, nights drop to 7 °C, and the forest smells of pine pollen or wet leaves respectively. May brings pollen storms that coat cars yellow; August climbs to 32 °C by midday but the altitude keeps nights breathable. January regularly hits -12 °C at dawn; diesel cars grumble and door locks freeze. If you book a rural casa in winter, confirm the firewood allowance—owners hand out two baskets per day and charge €8 for every extra.
Access changes with the weather. The N-234 from Soria is kept clear except during active snowfall, but the final 8 km climb on the CL-101 can ice over. A sturdy front-wheel drive is adequate; summer sports tyres are not. The nearest petrol station open 24 h stands 35 km away in Ágreda—fill up before you leave the A-2 or risk spending the night with the forestry trucks.
A calendar measured by pigs and processions
The year pivots on two events. The August fiestas honour San Pedro with brass bands that echo off stone walls and a street dance that finishes by 01:00—hardly Ibiza, but the village population triples when descendants fly in from Madrid. Two months later the matanza weekend revives the traditional pig slaughter: families invite neighbours to help turn one animal into morcilla, chorizo and slabs of pancetta; visitors who ask politely are usually handed a glass of anis and a slice of warm torreznos straight from the copper cauldron. Vegetarians should stay in Soria those days; the smell of rendered fat drifts for kilometres.
Practical residue
Fly London-Stansted to Madrid, pick up a hire car, head north-east on the A-2. After 1 h 50 take the Soria exit, then the N-234 towards Burgo de Osma; turn off at Monteagudo de las Vicarías and follow signs for 19 km of empty road. The journey door-to-door is about three and a half hours—shorter than reaching some Cornish coves, yet the feeling of distance is greater.
Stay in one of six village houses let by owner Consuelo (book through casarejos.net, €70 a night for two, firewood included). Sheets are line-dried, Wi-Fi exists but forget streaming. Phone reception favours Movistar; Vodafone and EE waver between nothing and GPRS. Sunday lunchtime everything shuts; Monday adds the bakery to the shutdown list. Bring cash, a map, and boots with ankle support—the forest floor is littered with concealed pine holes that turn ankles faster than you can say “EHIC card”.
Parting shot
Casarejos will not change your life, but it will realign your sense of quiet. If you measure holiday success by cocktails and nightlife, keep driving. If you fancy an afternoon counting red kites from a stone bench while your phone stubbornly refuses to load Brexit news, this is the place. Come prepared, respect the cold, and the village will repay you with a silence you didn’t know Europe still possessed.
