Muriel Viejo

The streetlights switch off at midnight. Not because of power cuts or council cuts—this is deliberate. Above Muriel Viejo, elevation 1,090 metres, the Milky Way arrives in such dense clusters that the village voted to dim its own bulbs rather than compete. On a clear new-moon night you can read a map by starlight alone, provided you can feel your fingers. Even in late spring the wind carries enough resin-scented chill to drive stargazers back inside for another layer.

Seventy-five residents remain. Their stone houses, mortared with local clay the colour of burnt toast, huddle along a single ridge road that dead-ends three kilometres further on. There is no petrol station, no cashpoint, no souvenir shop—only a bar that doubles as grocer, post office and gossip exchange. Order a caña before 11 a.m. and you will be the day's entertainment.

Forests Older Than the Kingdom

Muriel sits in the centre of Europe’s largest Scots-pine forest, a sea of straight trunks stretching from Soria province deep into neighbouring Segovia. The trees were planted in regimented lines during the 1940s reforestation drive, yet from the village they look ancient, especially at dawn when ground mist blurs the grid into something wild. Roe deer slip between the trunks; wild-boar prints pock the red earth after rain. The only sound is the soft click of pine cones warming in the sun.

Walking trails begin immediately behind the last house. Yellow waymarks appear every kilometre or so—paint splashes on bark, nothing fancier. The shortest loop, to the abandoned charcoal platforms, takes forty minutes and gains 120 metres of gentle gradient. Longer routes thread south to Muriel Nuevo (the "new" settlement founded after the 1959 fire) or east to the limestone bluffs above the River Duero. Maps are sold at the bar for €3, but stock is erratic; download the free IGN sheet before leaving Madrid.

Mobile signal collapses fifteen kilometres out, somewhere around the hamlet of Fuentearmegil. From there the SO-P-5018 twists upward through switchbacks sharp enough to test British handbrakes—remember to drop into second, keep the revs high, and watch for free-range mastiffs asleep on the warm tarmac.

When the Thermometer Matters

Altitude flattens the summer heat that fries the Duero valley below. July afternoons peak at 26 °C instead of 36 °C, and night temperatures regularly dip below 12 °C—perfect for sleeping but pack a fleece even in August. Winter is a different contract: snow can arrive overnight in November and stay until March. The council grades the approach road daily, yet hire cars fitted with summer tyres are refused by local insurers. Bring snow chains or book a room and sit it out; the forest muffled by fresh powder is worth the imprisonment.

Spring and early autumn offer the kindest compromise. Wild narcissus and lavender erupt along the verges in May; by mid-October the resin smell intensifies as crews fell pines for next year’s timber. Mushroom hunters arrive in droves, baskets strapped like cycling panniers to ancient Seat 600s. Níscalos (saffron-milk caps) fetch €30 a kilo in Soria market, so expect territorial glares if you wander off-trail with a pocket knife. Permits cost €8.50 from the regional website; print the PDF because the bar printer is permanently jammed.

One Bar, One Oven, One Rule

Lunch is served between 14:00 and 15:30 or not at all. The daily menu del día—three courses, bread, wine, water—runs to €12 and is chalked on a board that changes weekly, sometimes daily. Expect torreznos, the local pork-belly crackling, served still bubbling; roast kid so tender it falls from the bone; and for dessert, miguelitos, feather-light pastries filled with custard made by whoever’s grandmother drew the short straw. Vegetarians can request pimientos de padrón, but the kitchen will look wounded.

Evening meals are trickier. Unless you booked half-board at Hotel El Cielo de Muriel, the only alternative is a twenty-minute drive to Covaleda where two restaurants keep Spanish kitchen hours (dinner from 21:00, last orders 22:30). Stocking up in Soria before the climb is prudent: the village shop’s fridge holds a single shelf of cheese, another of chorizo, and bottles of Rioja priced below supermarket cost because overheads are essentially zero.

Starlight as Public Service

Astro-tourism keeps the village solvent. The municipality built a four-metre retractable-roof observatory on the old threshing ground; sessions start at 22:00 in winter, 23:00 in summer. English-speaking guides are available on pre-booked nights (€15 pp, minimum six people). Through the 200-mm Schmidt-Cassegrain you can split Albireo’s gold-and-sapphire binary or count five of Saturn’s moons while the guide explains how medieval shepherds used the same stars to move merino flocks along the Cañada Real.

Hotel El Cielo leans into the theme: constellation murals on bedroom ceilings, red-torch bedside lamps, and private roof terraces fitted with reclining loungers. Even so, the car-park ten metres away provides nearly identical views for free. Wrap up, lie on the warm bonnet, and let the Perseids burn trails above the pines—no booking required, only silence.

Fiestas Without Microphones

The feast of the Assumption, 15 August, drags exiles back from Madrid and Barcelona. The population quadruples overnight; cousins sleep on sofa-beds wedged into kitchens built for one. A brass band—three trombones, two trumpets, no volume control—marches through the single street at 07:00, returning at intervals until the small hours. Bulls with padded horns chase teenagers around a makeshift ring constructed from hay bales; entry is free if you don’t mind standing behind wooden rails last painted in 1992. Outsiders are welcome, though photographers should ask first: these are family albums, not Instagram content.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

There is nothing to buy except wine, honey and, if you arrive on slaughter day, a portion of morcilla still warm from the kettle. That is the point. Muriel Viejo offers subtraction, not addition: fewer lights, fewer choices, fewer people. The risk is arriving unprepared—expecting a gastro-bar, a bus timetable, a cash machine—and discovering how quickly modern habits unravel. Fill the tank, download the map, bring layers. Then drive uphill until the phone goes quiet and the sky switches on.