Villanueva de Gormaz

The church bell strikes noon, yet nobody appears. The sound echoes across stone houses and dirt tracks, eventually swallowed by the vast Castilian plateau. At 966 metres above sea level, Villanueva de Gormaz doesn't so much welcome visitors as tolerate their presence—a quality that, paradoxically, makes it one of the most honest places in Spain to witness rural life without the trimmings.

This Sorian village sits in Tierras del Burgo, a region that cartographers label Castilla y León but locals simply call "the countryside." Getting here requires commitment: the nearest railway station lies 45 kilometres away in Soria, with infrequent bus connections that dwindle to nothing on Sundays. Those who persist find a settlement that peaked centuries ago, its population now measured in dozens rather than hundreds. The empty houses aren't abandoned—they're merely waiting for families who left for Madrid or Barcelona to return, a wait that stretches into decades.

Stone Against Sky

The village's architecture makes no concessions to passing trends. Granite walls, some approaching a metre thick, rise directly from the earth they've guarded for generations. Windows appear almost as afterthoughts: small, deep-set openings designed to trap winter warmth and repel summer heat. These aren't the whitewashed façades of Andalucía or the manicured stone of northern Spain. Here, buildings wear their age openly—mortar crumbles, wooden doors sag, and the occasional satellite dish clings to walls like technological lichen.

The parish church stands at the village's highest point, though "stands" might overstate its condition. Inside, the retablo shows paint flakes the size of 50-p pieces, while a 19th-century repair to the nave uses bricks three shades lighter than the original stone. These aren't flaws; they're annotations in a 500-year conversation between builders and climate. The church's modest dimensions—barely 20 metres long—speak to an era when Villanueva's population could fit inside its walls. Those days ended with the mechanisation of agriculture and the promise of urban wages.

Walking the two main streets takes ten minutes if you dawdle. The plaza, more widening than square, contains the village's social infrastructure: a closed bar, a locked community centre, and a stone bench that faces southeast—positioned for morning sun rather than postcard views. British visitors expecting a Spanish village to centre around a fountain and orange trees will find instead a utilitarian space where farmers once gathered to discuss wheat prices and rainfall statistics.

The Arithmetic of Absence

Villanueva de Gormaz embodies Spain's demographic challenge in concentrated form. The village school closed in 1998; its playground equipment rusts quietly behind chain-link fencing. The last shop shuttered three years later. Today, basic necessities require a 12-kilometre drive to El Burgo de Osma, where the supermarket stocks UHT milk and tinned asparagus alongside local chorizo. For anything beyond groceries—pharmacies, banks, petrol stations—the distance doubles to Soria, a provincial capital that itself feels peripheral in modern Spain.

Yet absence creates its own attractions. The silence isn't complete; it carries layers. Wind through oak branches combines with distant tractor engines to create a soundtrack that city dwellers pay meditation apps to replicate. Night skies deliver stars in quantities that make familiar constellations difficult to pick out. And the air carries scents—thyme, sage, occasionally woodsmoke—that no amount of rural-themed candles can capture.

The surrounding landscape rewards those who walk it. Ancient drove roads, their stone walls intact despite centuries of neglect, connect Villanueva to neighbouring hamlets three kilometres distant. These paths climb gently through cereal fields that turn from green to gold between May and July, depending on rainfall. The local saying claims you can watch wheat grow during thunderstorms—an exaggeration that captures the crop's importance to regional identity. Along the way, you'll encounter stone huts built for shepherds who spent weeks away from home during transhumance. Their roofs have collapsed but walls remain, creating shelters that lunching hikers appreciate more than medieval builders intended.

Eating and Sleeping on the Edge

Food presents challenges. The village contains no restaurants, cafes, or even a bakery van. Self-catering becomes essential, which means shopping before arrival. Those staying at La Casa Grande de Gormaz—the only accommodation within 15 kilometres—can arrange evening meals with advance notice. The £85-per-night converted manor house sits in the neighbouring village of Gormaz, offering four rooms and a honesty bar stocked with local Ribera del Duero wines. Its TripAdvisor reviews mention "authentic experience" and "middle of nowhere" with equal frequency, both descriptions proving accurate.

For independent eating, the region maintains culinary traditions that predate refrigeration. Migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and chorizo—originated as shepherd food, designed to use stale bread and travel well. Local lamb, roasted in wood-fired ovens until the exterior crisps while interior stays pink, appears on weekend menus throughout Tierras del Burgo. The preparation takes four hours, meaning restaurants require advance orders. More accessible are local cheeses made from sheep's milk, their flavour varying with the season's pasture. Autumn varieties carry hints of thyme and rosemary that the animals consume during summer grazing.

Mushroom hunting draws specialists during September and October, when níscalos and setas de cardo appear after first rains. The activity requires permits from Soria's regional government—obtainable online for €15—and absolute certainty about species identification. Local hospitals treat several poisoning cases annually, usually involving visitors who "recognised" mushrooms from British field guides that don't cover Spanish varieties.

When to Visit, When to Stay Away

Spring brings unexpected colour to the plateau. Between April and May, fields between Villanueva and the Duero River explode with wild tulips and irises, creating patches of red and purple visible from the village's highest point. Temperatures hover around 18°C—perfect for walking—but change rapidly. Morning frost remains possible until late April, while afternoon sun can push mercury towards 25°C. Packing layers becomes essential; the same walk might start in gloves and finish in shirtsleeves.

Summer intensifies everything. Daytime temperatures regularly exceed 35°C, though humidity stays low enough to make heat bearable for British visitors accustomed to maritime climates. The village's altitude provides slight relief, creating temperature drops of 10°C after sunset. August brings returning emigrants who maintain properties and organise the village's sole festival: three days of religious processions followed by communal meals in the plaza. Visitors during this period witness Villanueva at its most populous—perhaps 200 people gather for evening meals cooked by women who learned recipes from mothers and grandmothers.

Winter often proves brutal. Continental climate means clear skies and bright sun, but temperatures drop to -10°C at night. Snow arrives intermittently, sometimes closing the access road for days. The village's handful of permanent residents heat homes using butane bottles delivered weekly from Soria—visitors renting houses must arrange deliveries in advance or face cold nights and lukewarm showers. Between December and March, Villanueva de Gormaz functions as a test of self-reliance rather than a holiday destination.

The village won't suit everyone. Those seeking tapas trails, boutique shopping, or Instagram moments should continue to San Sebastián or Seville. Villanueva de Gormaz offers instead a confrontation with Spain's rural reality—beautiful in its honesty, challenging in its limitations, unforgettable in its refusal to perform for tourists. Bring walking boots, a Spanish phrasebook, and enough food for your stay. Leave expecting nothing beyond what exists: stone, sky, and the slow arithmetic of a village calculating how few people constitute a community.