Cubilla

The only traffic jam in Cubilla happens when Sr. Martín’s two dozen sheep decide the lane is sunnier than the meadow. Beyond that, silence rolls downhill like morning mist through pines that have stood since Wellington was scrapping in Spain. At 1,091 m the air is thin enough to make a Londoner puff, yet thick with resin and the faint sweet note of distant bonfires.

Twenty permanent residents, one church, zero shops: Cubilla is a textbook case of España vacía, the "empty Spain" policy editors keep predicting will vanish. It hasn’t—yet. Stone houses shoulder together against long winters; roofs slump here and there, but the walls are a metre thick and the message is clear: we’re staying. Weekenders from Madrid or Zaragoza patch up great-grandad’s cottage, then retreat before November when the first snow seals the single access road for days at a time.

Getting here without a train (because there isn’t one)

Fly to Madrid or Zaragoza, collect a hire car, and head north on the A-2. After Soria the GPS loses confidence; switch to the SO-P-5018 and watch the tarmac narrow until the forest presses in. The journey is 215 km from Barajas, roughly the distance from London to Bournemouth, but you’ll climb 900 m and see more pine trees than people. Petrol up in Soria—Abejar’s last pump is 25 km away and Cubilla hasn’t had one since the Civil War.

Phone reception flickers between one bar and none. Vodafone and EE piggy-back on Movistar, so download offline maps while you still can. The village appears suddenly: a stone bridge, a trickling trough, and a hand-painted sign welcoming you to "Cubilla, tierra de pinares". There’s nowhere to pay for anything, so bring cash and a packed lunch.

Forest first, architecture second

Forget cathedrals. Cubilla’s sightseeing is 360° of forest: one of Europe’s largest Scots-pine plantations, managed since Philip II’s day for ship masts and now for resin, honey and weekend oxygen. The GR-86 long-distance path skirts the village, but way-marks are just red-and-white dashes on bark—no finger-posts, no QR codes. A 45-minute loop south-east leads to the Fuente de la Mina spring; fill a bottle, then press on if you fancy a two-hour yomp to Villar del Campo where someone might sell you cheese.

Architecturally the highlight is the Iglesia de San Juan Bautista, locked except for fiestas. Peer through the iron grille and you’ll see a single nave, whitewash flaking like sunburnt skin, and a 17th-century pine-beam roof blackened by centuries of resinous candles. Houses round the tiny plaza are built from the same honey-coloured stone; some sport new green shutters and UK-registration 4×4s, others slump behind rusted bedsteads and thistles. It’s life, not a museum, and the contrast is refreshingly blunt.

Mushroom maths: one basket, two knives, many permits

September rain brings out níscalos (saffron milk-caps) and boletus the size of cricket balls. The forest floor turns into a treasure hunt, but pick blind and you’ll either be poisoned or fined. Permits cost €10 a day from the Soria provincial website, downloadable if you can find 4G. Rangers do patrol: a Belgian couple were stung €300 last October for "exceeding the personal limit"—which is 3 kg per person, per day. If you don’t know a Caesar’s mushroom from a death cap, tag along with Luis Marín (Abejar guiding, WhatsApp +34 622 14 78 03). He charges €30 pp for a half-day, speaks school English, and carries a first-aid kit.

What to eat when there’s nowhere to eat

Cubilla itself has no bar, no shop, no churros. Eat before you arrive or drive ten minutes to Abejar where Asador la Fuente will serve media raciones of lechazo (milk-fed lamb) big enough for two. Vegetarians are stuck with patatas a la importancia (fried potato slices in mild paprika sauce) and a side salad—this is still steak country. Stock up on Soria’s queso de oveja: firmer than cheddar, nuttier than Wensleydale, travels well in a backpack. Opposite the church a hand-written card in the window reads "Miel, €6". Knock and Doña Aurora appears with jars from 40 hives; the honey is light, almost citrusy, ideal on toast back at the cottage.

Accommodation is scattered in nearby hamlets. Casa Rural La Fuentona (three bedrooms, wood-burner, English-speaking owner) sits above Abejar and costs €90 a night mid-week. Hotel Cadosa in Soria offers proper heating and parking if you’ve had enough of rustic. Either way, bring slippers—nights drop to 3 °C even in May.

The fiesta that isn’t for you (but you’re still welcome)

Every 24 June the population swells to roughly 120. Returning emigrants pitch a canvas chapel on the plaza, the priest blesses the façade with a branch of pine, and everyone shares cocido in plastic bowls. There’s no poster, no tourist office photo-call, no bilingual commentary. Turn up and you’ll be offered wine from a steel drum; refuse politely if you’re driving. By 2 p.m. the brass band is tipsy, by 4 p.m. someone is weeping over the grave of a parent they left in 1978, and by nightfall Cubilla is quiet again. If that sounds intrusive, stay away; if it sounds human, bring sturdy shoes and a sense of deference.

Winter: when even the pine needles shiver

From December to March the village empties. Snow can cut the road for two days; electricity fails every other storm. One resident, 82-year-old Eusebio, stocks firewood in October and hasn’t left the sierra since 2019. He’ll wave you through the blizzard if you skid, but don’t expect roadside assistance before spring. Summer hikers sometimes underestimate altitude sunburn; winter drivers forget that hire-car tyres are rarely M+S rated. Carry blankets, water and a shovel November through March, or simply come in late May when the broom flowers and night temperatures stay above 8 °C.

Parting thoughts

Cubilla offers no souvenir shop, no sunset viewpoint bench, no Instagram geotag. What it does offer is the sound of wind moving through a million pine needles, the smell of resin warming after rain, and a lesson in how fragile—and stubborn—rural life can be. Turn up expecting entertainment and you’ll be miserable within an hour. Arrive with a full tank, a paper map and reasonable expectations and you might leave wondering why we ever swapped this kind of space for the M25 on a Friday.