Sotillo del Rincón

The only traffic jam in Sotillo del Rincón happens at dusk, when a farmer herds his 23 sheep down Calle Mayor to the stone fold behind the church. At 1,100 metres above sea level, the evening air carries the smell of pine resin and wood smoke, and the only light comes from open stable doors and a sky thick with stars you rarely see in southern England.

This is the Soria high plateau, 30 km past the last proper supermarket and 173 souls above sea level. The village sits on a ridge that drops sharply to the Razón river, a tributary of the Duero, and the tarmac ends here: everything further north is forest track and, eventually, the Picos de Urbión. Mobile data flickers in and out on Vodafone, so the WhatsApp tick circles while you watch red kites wheel over the pinewoods instead.

Stone, Silence and the School Bus

Houses are built from the grey local quartzite; roofs are layered with hand-split pine shingles that turn silver after one winter. Most date from the 1920s, when the population was closer to 600, and the empty ones still have hay-loft doors high up on the gable, perfect for winching feed sacks with a rope. Nobody has painted the wood pastel Andalusian colours; this is Castile, so timber stays the colour it arrived. The effect is austere rather than pretty, but the uniformity is oddly comforting, like walking through a charcoal sketch.

There is no high street, just a triangle of road around the church. The bar, Casa Juana, opens at seven for coffee and closes when the last customer leaves; mid-week that can be half past nine. A single three-page menu offers trout caught the same dawn in the Razón, grilled with nothing more than lemon, olive oil and a pinch of the coarse local salt. A plate costs €11 and comes with a foil-wrapped baked potato because chips need a freezer the kitchen doesn’t have. The wine list is one red, one white, both from Aranda del Duero 90 km west. They are served at cellar temperature—cooler than a British bistro, warmer than your fridge at home.

If you stay out late, remember the church bell strikes the hour twice, once on the dot and once three minutes later: a medieval system so field workers out of earshot get a second chance. Light sleepers should pack ear-plugs or choose a room facing the forest, not the square.

Walking Without Way-markers

Footpaths exist, but the council hasn’t got round to signposts. The safest tactic is to buy a €1 photocopied map from the bar and follow the river upstream. A thirty-minute shuffle over granite boulders brings you to a pool deep enough for a swim in July, when the water temperature touches 18 °C and dragonflies skim the surface. The banks are shaded by alder and wild cherry; in early May the blossom drifts onto the water like confetti.

For something stiffer, drive five kilometres to the Puerto de Santa Inés (1,530 m). An unmarked but obvious track climbs gently south-east through Scots pine, then breaks onto open heather where the only sound is wind and, occasionally, the clack of a shepherd’s staff on limestone. After 90 minutes you reach a fire-lookout hut; from the roof the view stretches south across the Meseta, a brown ocean of ploughed earth that looks almost Saharan after rain. Turn around and the snow still streaks the upper cirques of Urbión well into June. The round trip takes three hours, requires no technical skill, and you will meet nobody between October and June except a forest ranger on a quad bike.

In winter the same road is gritted only as far as the first farmhouse. If snow is forecast—and it can arrive overnight in late October—chains are compulsory. The village itself becomes very quiet: most retired residents head to relatives in Soria or Logroño until March. Book accommodation only if the owner confirms the access lane has been cleared; otherwise you may spend the night in the car three kilometres below, engine running to keep warm.

A Calendar Dictated by Pigs and Pine Cones

August brings the fiesta mayor. The programme is printed on a single A4 sheet taped to the church door: outdoor mass, giant paella for 200, five-a-side football on the polideportivo, and a disco that finishes at 03:30 sharp because the DJ has to open his butcher’s shop in Vinuesa at seven. Visitors are welcome but there are no wrist-bands, no tourist prices, and nowhere to buy a sombrero you will never wear again.

The other fixed date is 11 November, the matanza weekend. Half a dozen families still slaughter their own pig, and the air smells of paprika and wood smoke as chorizos hang in every cellar. Outsiders can observe if they ask politely; photographers should offer to help stir the black pudding mix—hands too busy to hold a camera. You will leave with a plastic bag of chorizo curado, milder than anything in UK supermarkets, and strict instructions to hang it in the coolest room of the house for a month.

Spring is brief and breezy; wild crocus appear in April and are gone by May. Autumn, on the other hand, lasts: mushrooms pop up from mid-September, the oak canopy turns copper, and the temperature hovers around 15 °C—perfect walking weather. British half-term (late October) coincides with peak boletus season; bring a folding knife and a paper bag, but check boundaries first—the best spots are often somebody’s private monte and locals notice tyre tracks.

Getting There and Away—The Non-negotiable Car Bit

There is no railway. ALSA runs one bus a day from Soria at 14:15, returning at 06:50 next morning; miss it and you are stranded. Hiring a car at Madrid-Barajas is painless: take the A-2 north-east to Medinaceli, then the N-111 to Soria, finally the CL-116 mountain road for the last 28 km. The final stretch is tarmac but narrow; meet a timber lorry and someone has to reverse. Allow two and a half hours from the airport, longer if the A-2 is hauling artichokes to Mercadona.

Fill the tank in Soria—the village has no fuel and the nearest station, in Covaleda, closes on Sundays. Bring cash: the bar, the bakery van that visits on Thursdays, and all self-catering cottages deal only in euros. The cashpoint in Sotillo was removed in 2019 after the bank calculated it served nine people.

Phone reception is adequate on EE outside the narrowest lanes; O2 struggles. Download an offline map before you leave the main road. Wi-Fi in most rural houses is 3 Mbps on a good day—enough to check weather, not enough for iPlayer. Embrace the excuse; nobody comes here to stream box-sets.

Leave the Car, Take the Memories—But Maybe Not the Cheese

On departure day you will probably meet the mayor—he doubles as refuse collector—emptying the communal bins by the river. He’ll ask where you walked, whether you tried the trout, and if the bed was warm enough. Answer honestly; word reaches him anyway. Thank him, drive slowly past the stone houses one last time, and resist the urge to buy a holiday home. Property is cheap—stone cottages start at €35,000—but the village needs neighbours, not landlords. Better to return with friends, a pair of decent boots, and space in the suitcase for a vacuum-packed chorizo that will scandalise UK customs but perfume the kitchen for weeks.

Back on the N-111 the signal bars reappear, Google Maps regains its confident British voice, and the 21st century reassembles itself. Keep the window open for the first kilometre; pine and wood smoke linger in the upholstery all the way to the airport, a stubborn reminder that somewhere on the roof of Old Castile the day is still run by bells, weather and sheep.