Alpanseque

The church bell tolls at noon, and nobody appears. Not a soul emerges from the stone houses huddled around Alpanseque's single square. At 1,100 metres above sea level, the sound carries across empty fields where wheat stubble catches winter frost like scattered diamonds. This is Spain's emptiness made manifest—a village where forty-seven permanent residents share forty square kilometres of windswept plateau.

The Arithmetic of Emptiness

Drive north from Medinaceli along the SO-151 and the maths becomes stark. Each kilometre brings fewer neighbours, more sky. By the time Alpanseque's modest church tower materialises against brown fields, you've climbed 400 metres from the Jalón valley. The air thins. Mobile phone signal wavers. Winter temperatures regularly drop fifteen degrees below those in Madrid, just 150 kilometres south.

The village sits at the precise point where the Meseta Central tilts upward into the Sistema Ibérico. Glaciation never reached these heights, leaving rounded hills that roll like frozen waves toward the horizon. Stone walls divide wheat from barley, barley from fallow land. Nothing interrupts the horizontal except occasional poplars, their leaves rattling like dry bones when the wind arrives—which it does, reliably, every afternoon.

Summer brings a different calculus. Population swells to perhaps 120 as Madrilenians unlock holiday homes. Children who've inherited their grandparents' houses arrive with supermarket shopping and expectations of rural tranquillity. They find it, mostly, though August weekends can feel unexpectedly crowded when every terrace holds a barbecue and conversations echo across the narrow lanes.

Walking Through Geological Time

Forget waymarked trails. Alpanseque rewards those comfortable with map and compass, or preferably the GPX files that local shepherd José María keeps on his cracked smartphone. The Cañada Real Soriana—a medieval drovers' road—passes two kilometres north, its twenty-metre width still visible where modern agriculture hasn't erased it. Follow this eastward and you'll reach Retortillo de Soria in three hours, though the wind might add thirty minutes to your estimate.

Southward paths descend through juniper and kermes oak toward the Jalón. The drop is gentle—perhaps 200 metres over five kilometres—but reveals Triassic sandstones beneath the thin soil. Fossil hunters occasionally find ammonites here, curled stone cephalopods that last swam these slopes 200 million years ago when this was seabed. Carry anything interesting back to the village and José María's brother, the mayor, will identify it over coffee in the plaza.

Birdwatchers arrive with telescopes and patience. The plains hold little bustards in winter, their strange corkscrew display flights visible from February. Calandra larks sing overhead year-round, while merlins hunt them from low perches on fence posts. Bring warm layers—even May mornings can start at three degrees—and expect to walk. The birds keep distance from roads, and roads keep distance from everywhere here.

Stone, Mud and Survival

The church of San Pedro sits slightly elevated, its 16th-century tower rebuilt after lightning struck in 1874. Inside, faded frescoes show agricultural scenes: sowing, harvesting, the predictable cycle that defined existence here for centuries. The font holds carved sheaves rather than religious imagery—grain was always the true deity. Sunday mass happens monthly, when the priest circuits several villages. Attendance averages twelve, though numbers double when someone's getting married or turning eighty-seven.

Domestic architecture speaks of thermal efficiency rather than aesthetic ambition. Two-storey houses built from local limestone sit tight against north winds, their south-facing windows small and shuttered. Adobe upper floors provide insulation; ground levels store grain and animals. Many retain the traditional zaguán—an entrance passage wide enough for a mule—that now serves as bicycle storage for summer visitors. Restoration varies wildly. Some properties sport German-engineered windows and underfloor heating; others remain exactly as abandoned in 1968, right down to the calendar on the kitchen wall.

The plaza holds a stone fountain where women once washed clothes. Water arrives via Roman engineering—an underground channel that taps an aquifer three kilometres distant. It still runs, though nobody drinks it after agricultural chemicals seeped into groundwater during the 1980s. The village's single bar occupies what was the school, closed since 1978 when the last two pupils reached sixteen. It opens weekends only, serving Estrella de Galicia at €2.50 and tapas that depend on whatever the owner's wife feels like cooking.

Seasons of Silence and Fire

Winter brings the clearest light. January days start with hoarfrost coating every surface, turning the landscape monochrome until sunrise paints the plaster walls pink. Thermometers drop to minus twelve regularly; the Soria province record of minus twenty-eight was set twenty kilometres north. Roads ice quickly—the N-111 from Madrid gets gritted, but the final twelve kilometres of provincial road don't. Chains become essential, though locals simply stay home and wait.

Spring arrives late and brief. Wild tulips appear in April, purple blooms startling against brown earth. Wheat germinates almost overnight, transforming the plateau into an emerald ocean that ripples in waves when wind crosses it. This is photography season—low sun angles create shadows in every furrow, and clouds build theatrical cumulus against cobalt skies. Bring neutral density filters; the light intensity at altitude surprises those used to British softness.

Summer means preparation. Days reach thirty-five degrees, but nights plunge to twelve—Alpanseque's altitude moderates extremes. Locals close shutters at noon and reappear at five. The wheat harvest happens in July, enormous combines working through night when moisture levels drop. Dust hangs in the air for days, coating everything with fine yellow powder that tastes of soil and cereal.

October brings migrants—both human and avian. Swallows depart southward; weekenders arrive for mushroom season. Boletus edulis appears beneath Mediterranean pines planted during Franco's reforestation campaigns. The local restaurant (twenty minutes drive in Alcubilla de Avellaneda) serves them scrambled with eggs from village hens, charging €14 for portions that would cost £28 in Borough Market.

Practicalities for the Curious

Accommodation options remain limited. Three houses offer rural tourism rentals through Spanish websites—expect to pay €60-80 nightly for two bedrooms, though weekly rates drop significantly. None provide breakfast; the nearest supermarket sits fifteen kilometres away in Arcos de Jalón. Better to self-cater, stocking up in Soria where Mercadona sells decent local wine for €3.50 and Manchego at supermarket prices.

Transport requires planning. No buses serve Alpanseque; the nearest railway station at Arcos sees two trains daily from Madrid, taking two hours twenty minutes. Car rental becomes essential—Soria's Europacar closes Sundays, so arrange collection carefully. Fuel stations thin out north of the provincial capital; fill the tank before leaving the A-2 at Medinaceli, because the village shop sells petrol only from an ancient pump that accepts cash exclusively.

Mobile coverage surprises pleasantly. A mast on the hill provides 4G to most networks, though Vodafone drops to 3G in the plaza's lee corners. WiFi exists in rental properties but expect rural Spanish broadband—adequate for email, hopeless for streaming. This matters less than expected. Darkness arrives completely here; no light pollution means the Milky Way appears in its full glory, and satellite photography shows this as one of Europe's last genuinely dark skies.

The village won't suit everyone. Those seeking restaurants, nightlife or organised activities should stop in Medinaceli with its Roman arch and boutique hotels. Alpanseque offers something rarer—the sound of absolute quiet, broken only by church bells marking hours that pass largely unobserved. Come prepared for self-sufficiency, bring curiosity about how Spain lived before tourism, and pack an extra layer. The wind remembers when this land lay beneath oceans, and it has stories to share with anyone who listens properly.