Montejo de Tiermes

At 1,157 m the air thins and the thermometer drops five degrees the moment you leave the Duero valley. Montejo de Tiermes sits on the lip of the Sierra Pela, its stone houses the colour of burnt Sienna, its only petrol pump 25 km away in San Esteban de Gormaz. This is not the Spain of coast or city; it is the high, wind-scoured plateau where shepherds still move sheep along drove roads laid down by the Romans.

A Ridge That Doubled as a Town

Three kilometres above the village, a sandstone fin rises like the back of a sleeping dinosaur. The Celtiberians noticed it first, then the Romans, who turned the ridge into a municipium chiselled straight from bedrock. Streets, drainage gullies, even house thresholds were cut with iron and patience. What survives is open, free and almost always empty: a grid of rock-cut rooms, a theatre-shaped plaza and an aqueduct that still carries run-off after storms. English visitors reaching the Puerta del Sol gateway regularly mutter “Pompeii without the ropes”; the comparison is overused elsewhere, but here you can wander into any chamber you fancy and no guard will blow a whistle.

The site ticket costs €3 and must be bought in the village at the Museo de Tiermes, open 10-14 & 16-19 in summer. Many drivers race up the hill first, find the interpretation centre locked, and lose an hour turning round. Download the museum’s PDF guide before you set off; the on-site panel by the Sun Gate is sun-bleached to near invisibility.

Walking the Wind-Tunnel

From the ridge the land falls away in pink and ochre tiers, stitched together by sheep tracks and the occasional ruined stone hut. Two way-marked loops leave from the car park: the short Ruta del Yacimiento (1.5 km, 45 min) skirts the ruins and drops into a narrow canyon where juniper clings to vertical rock; the longer Ruta de los Barrancos (6 km, 2 h) follows the river gorge to a natural stone arch, then climbs back across wheat stubble and thyme-scented scrub. Both are easy going, but the sun ricochets off pale stone—carry more water than you think you’ll need, especially in May or September when day-trippers from Madrid arrive unprepared.

Winter is a different affair. At 1,100 m snow can fall as late as April, and the track to the ruins is occasionally chained off. When it’s open the site is magnificent under frost: every chisel mark stands out, and boot prints are the only disturbance. The village’s single hostal, Hotel Termes, keeps a couple of pairs of loan cramels for guests who forgot proper soles.

Stone, Brick and Half-Finished Refurbs

Montejo itself is a working village, not a museum piece. Some houses have fresh double-glazing; their neighbours slump behind iron gates, roofs open to the sky. The 12th-century Iglesia de San Pedro mixes Romanesque corbels with later brick patching—evidence of medieval repopulation after the Reconquista pushed south. Inside, the alabaster font is so deep it could double as a plunge bath; local lore claims infants who disappeared beneath the rim were guaranteed a pious life.

On Calle Mayor the bakery opens at seven for tractor drivers and shuts by eleven. If you miss it, the tiny ultramarinos sells tinned tuna, UHT milk and the local pork-cracking flatbread called torta de chicharrones. Sweet, salty and sturdy, it keeps for days in a rucksack.

Lamb, Mushrooms and the Only Menu in Town

There are two places to eat. Casa Gaspar, on the main road, serves a no-choice menú del día for €14: roast lechal (milk-fed lamb) with chips, followed by flan. They’ll swap lamb for chicken if you ask early; the chips arrive properly crisp, a minor miracle in a village where mains pressure can be temperamental. Hotel Termes’ restaurant lists wines from Ribera del Duero in English; the crianza is dependable, the tinta joven rougher and half the price. In October the owner buys boletus from locals who collect in the pine woods south of the A-1; the mushrooms appear simply sautéed with garlic, or folded into scrambled egg for Sunday supper. Picking your own is legal with a €6 regional permit—buy it online, stick to recognised species, and expect competition from silent Spaniards who know every hollow.

When the Village Comes Back to Life

For most of the year Montejo hums at a whisper. Then, on the last weekend of June, the population triples. The fiesta of San Pedro fills the single square with brass bands, churros stalls and teenagers who’ve flown in from Madrid or Barcelona. Bull-running here involves two heifers rather than full-grown toros; the course is 200 m of fenced village street and ends by the cemetery wall. At midnight everyone drifts up to the ermita on the ridge for fireworks that echo off the sandstone like artillery. Accommodation is booked months ahead—if you dislike sleeping in a car, arrive Thursday or stay 20 km away in Ayllón.

August brings the romería to the same hermitage, a quieter procession of families carrying a 14th-century Virgin down from the church, across fields of broom and back up again. The walk takes three hours, punctuated by lemonade shots offered by householders along the lane. Tourists are welcome to tag along; pace is set by grandparents and toddlers.

Getting Here, Getting Out

From London the quickest route is Gatwick to Madrid, then a two-hour hire-car dash up the A-1. The final 12 km slice off the motorway to Montejo is paved but narrow; meeting a combine harvester round a bend concentrates the mind. There is no bus on Sundays; weekday service from Soria involves two changes and a wait in Ayllón long enough to drink the town dry of coffee.

Fill the tank before you leave the motorway—Montejo’s garage closed a decade ago, and the nearest alternatives are 25 km east or west. Phone coverage fades in every second valley; download an offline map and expect the GPS to throw a wobble among the high ridges.

Worth the Detour?

If you need souvenir shops or night-life, stay on the coast. If you want to stride across a Roman street you can have to yourself, eat lamb that grazed within sight of the table and feel the temperature drop five degrees as the sun slips behind the Sierra, Montejo de Tiermes delivers. Come with water, sturdy shoes and a full tank; leave before the snow if you’re nervous on mountain roads. The village will still be there, half-restored and wholly alive, when you return.