Blacos

The grain lorry takes the bend in second gear, tyres spitting ochre dust onto stone walls. For thirty seconds the diesel engine fills the entire village, then it is gone and the silence returns so complete you can hear your own pulse. This is Blacos: thirty-eight residents, one church bell, and a horizon that starts somewhere in Burgos.

At 960 metres the air thins and sharpens. Night-time temperatures in April can still dip below freezing; August afternoons bake the adobe until it smells like warm biscuit. The houses huddle shoulder-to-shoulder, not for company but for shelter—winds from the Meseta have been polishing these walls since the 12th century. Granite quoins, timber slots for scaffolding that will never be used again, tiny windows set deep like narrowed eyes: every detail says resist.

What passes for a centre

There is no plaza mayor, merely a widening where two lanes meet. Park here and walk; the only traffic after the lorry will be Don Saturnino’s quad bike at siesta time. The parish church of San Millán keeps its door latched unless the priest drives over from El Burgo de Osma for the Saturday mass. Knock politely and the sacristan’s widow may let you in to see the single-nave interior, whitewashed annually so the stone saints look mildly surprised. No charge, but leave a euro in the box—the roof leaks every spring.

A complete circuit takes twenty minutes if you dawdle. Adobe glows mustard in low sun; stone turns pewter. Half-collapsed dovecotes perch on rooflines, their entry holes now starred by sparrows. Notice the wooden lintels carved with the original owner’s initials—JMC 1847—and the newer aluminium roller doors that clash like false teeth. Someone’s grandmother has hung geraniums in a cut-off plastic bidón, the brightest thing for kilometres.

Below the village the land drops into a dry gulley where winter runoff used to power a flour mill. The millstone lies cracked in nettles; kids from Soria use the hollow building for weekend botellóns, leaving neon plastic bags that flutter like prayer flags. It is as close as Blacos gets to nightlife.

Walking without signage

Forget way-marked trails. Farm tracks radiate into wheat and barley, their edges trimmed by thistle and poppy. Head south on the wide camino blanco and within ten minutes the village shrinks to a dark smudge; twenty minutes more and you are alone with skylarks and the occasional Mercedes left in a gateway by a commuter who works in Valladolid. The paths split and re-split—take the tyre tracks, not the tractor ruts, and remember the church tower as your handrail.

Spring brings green so sudden it looks artificial, followed by a brief outrageous burst of crimson poppies. By July the palette has burnt to bronze; harvesters drone until 22:00 when the light finally fades. Autumn smells of crushed fennel and gunpowder from partridge shoots; winter strips everything back to stone, sky, and the distant white comma of the Urbión peaks. Boots are adequate year-round, but after heavy snow the road from El Burgo is chained—carry blankets and a Thermos if travelling between December and March.

Birdlife is the main attraction: red kites circle endlessly, a pair of golden eagles breed in the cliffs above the Arroyo de Blacos, and bustards can sometimes be seen doing their absurd shuffle on dawn patrol. There are no hides, no interpretation boards, no entrance fee—just binoculars and patience.

Eating (elsewhere)

Blacos itself has no bar, no shop, no bakery. The last grocery closed when its proprietor, Doña Ángela, died in 2009; the counter is still visible behind cracked glass, tins of mackerel swelling and rusting like archaeological finds. For coffee or calamari you drive 14 km north to El Burgo de Osma, where Casa Pelayo serves roast suckling lamb at €22 a quarter and a decent glass of Ribera del Duero for €3. Mid-week lunch menus in surrounding villages run €12–14: soup or migas, meat and chips, dessert, wine included. Ask for gachas in winter—a peppery porridge once considered poor food, now rehabilitated as heritage cuisine.

If you are staying in self-catering accommodation (there are two village houses rented out through the regional tourism board, around €80 a night for four people), stock up in Soria before you arrive. The nearest supermarket is a Mercadona on the Osma ring road; it shuts on Sunday afternoons, as does everything else.

When people return

The fiesta honouring the Virgen del Espino happens on the second weekend of August. Population swells to perhaps 120. A sound system appears in the lane, powered by a generator that competes with the crickets; elderly men play mus with cards soft as felt; women ladle caldereta from aluminium pots. At midnight there are fireworks so modest they feel almost apologetic. By Tuesday the village is empty again, stray napkins blowing like tiny ghosts.

The other date that matters is 1 November. Families arrive to clean graves, scrubbing stone crosses with wire brushes and leaving chrysanthemums in plastic drinking bottles. The cemetery sits above the wheat on the east side; from here you can see the entire municipal boundary, a ragged square of moorland that once supported 300 souls. It takes five minutes to read every headstone, many sharing the four surnames that still survive.

Practicalities without romance

Accommodation: two rural houses (Casa Rural La Solana and Casa de los Abuelos), booked through the Soria provincial website. Both have wood-burning stoves; firewood is extra. No swimming pool, no Wi-Fi worth the name. Mobile coverage is patchy—Vodafone works on the church steps, EE struggles everywhere.

Access: from Madrid take the A-1 to Aranda, then N-122 to El Burgo de Osma; the final 14 km are on the CL-117, single-lane but paved. Allow two and a half hours total. There is no petrol station in Blacos; the closest pumps are in El Burgo (Repsol, 24 h automated).

Weather: even in May night frost is possible; midday August can reach 36 °C. Take layers, sun-hat, and a light waterproof—the Meseta does cloudbursts that turn dust to grease in minutes.

What it costs: apart from accommodation, almost nothing. No entrance fees, no guides, no car park charges. A weekend couple could eat, sleep, and drive for well under €150 total.

The honest verdict

Blacos will not change your life. You will leave with more photographs of skies than of people, and a car floor littered with barley husks. Some visitors find the silence uncanny, others restorative; a few last only an hour before fleeing back to the motorway café and its espresso machine hiss. Come if you are curious about how Castile farmed its dry heart for eight centuries, or if you need a place where the night sky still feels domed. Otherwise keep driving—the motorway to Logroño is only twenty minutes away, and it has Starbucks.