Ares del Maestrat

The church bell strikes noon, yet nobody appears. A single swallow cuts across the stone arcade of the medieval market hall, the only movement in Ares del Maestrat besides the wind that scrapes over empty threshing circles. One hundred and seventy-four souls live here, scattered across a ridge so high that the surrounding sierras look like rumpled cloth. No cafés blast Radio Ibiza, no motorbikes snarl through alleyways. The loudest sound is your own breathing as you climb the last slope to the ruined castle that keeps watch over three provinces.

That castle, little more than knee-high walls and a shattered keep, is the easiest "sight" to tick off. A ten-minute stone stairway leaves the uppermost houses behind and lands you on a breezy crown of limestone. From here the view unwraps in every direction: the Maestrazgo’s saw-toothed silhouette, the Ebro valley a faint smudge eastwards, and, on very clear winter days, the sparkle of the Mediterranean 70 km away. Bring a jacket even in July; altitude thins the air and sharpens the sun.

Back in the village, the Gothic-Mudéjar porches of the old grain market still cast striped shadows across the tiny Plaza Mayor. Next door stands the 13th-century carcel—yes, a lock-up the size of a garden shed, complete with original iron grille. Restoration has been gentle: walls remain bulged by centuries of frost, roofs sag, yet the stone is warm ochre rather than museum grey. No ticket booth, no audio guide, just push the heavy door and step inside. Light a torch; the graffiti of bored 19th-century guards is still visible if you peer.

Walking the Empty Terraces

Ares sits on the southern lip of the Iberian System, a maze of karst ridges once densely terraced for wheat and olives. Mechanisation never reached these inclines; when young people left for Castellón and Valencia the dry-stone banks were simply abandoned. Today the network of mule tracks survives, signed by local volunteers as short circular routes. The easiest is the 4 km Ruta de los Neveros, looping past two ice houses carved into the rock where snow was pressed in winter to provide the village with ice in summer. Allow 90 minutes, sturdy shoes advised; the path is stony rather than steep.

Keener boots can continue down the Barranc dels Molins, a 9 km figure-of-eight that dips 400 m to a string of ruined watermills. The going is rough: loose shale, no handrails, and zero phone signal. Carry 1.5 litres of water per person; the stream is seasonal and fountains are dry by May. Mid-March to late April is prime time, when the slopes blush yellow with gorse and the first bee-eaters arrive. In high summer start at dawn; by 11 a.m. the gorge turns into a convection oven and shade is theoretical.

Cyclists on touring bikes usually push straight through—gradient profiles of 9–12% for kilometre after kilometre make Ares a bragging-rights climb rather than a pleasure spin. Mountain bikers fare better on the gravel service road that links the wind turbines behind the village; 360-degree ridgeline riding with zero traffic, if you don’t mind the occasional guard dog at farm gates.

What Passes for Lunch

There is no supermarket, no cash machine, and only two places serving food. Mesón El Coll, by the car park on the CV-15, opens weekends year-round and daily in July–August. Expect thick ceramic bowls of olla de Ares, a pork-and-bean stew that arrives at a rolling boil and keeps bubbling for five minutes. A plate feeds two cautious British appetites or one hungry Spanish shepherd; €12. They’ll swap the morcilla for extra carrot if you ask nicely.

The only alternative is Bar Casa Roque on Carró street, essentially someone’s front room with three tables and a 1990s espresso machine. Thursdays is coca de tomata day—rectangles of dough smeared with fresh tomato, garlic and olive oil, the Valencian answer to pizza. Order a slice (€2.50) and a cafè amb llet, then listen: farmers discuss rainfall in dialect so old it would make a Catalan linguist weep. Both establishments close by 17:00; night-time eating means a 25-minute drive to Morella.

Stock up before you arrive. The last reliable supermarket is in Vall-d’Alba, 55 km away. A basket of basics—bread, cheese, fruit, water—costs roughly the same as in the UK, but choice shrinks once you leave the coast. Vegetarians should note that even green beans may come studded with jamón; state “sin cerdo” early and smile.

Winter White, Summer Furnace

At 1,194 m, Ares has its own micro-climate. Snow can fall from November to March; the access road is cleared quickly, but the final 3 km become a bob-run of black ice at dusk. Rental cars must carry snow chains by law—police set up ad-hoc checkpoints after storms. Daytime highs in January hover around 6°C, perfect for crisp walks and empty viewpoints, but dusk drops below zero and most village houses burn only wood. Book accommodation with central heating, not just “a chimney”, unless you enjoy re-enacting Dr Zhivago.

Come July the thermostat flips. Midday shade is scarce; stone walls radiate heat until well past 9 p.m. Locals shutter windows at sunrise and re-emerge after 5. Smart visitors copy them, hiking at first light, then driving 45 minutes to the beach at Benicàssim for a swim and back for cooler evening air. August fiestas—the Natividad de la Virgen—coincide with the Perseid meteor shower. Brass bands play until 2 a.m.; shooting stars skim the castle ruin. It is the one week when silence surrenders, and when the village population swells to perhaps 300.

How to Get There (and Away)

Public transport exists, but only just. Autos Calandria runs a bus from Castellón on Tuesdays and Fridays, taking 2 h 30 min and taking an even longer route back. Most Brits fly into Valencia or Barcelona, collect a hire car, and thread inland. From Valencia airport it is 145 km: AP-7 north to the Benicarló exit, then CV-15 through hair-pin olive groves. The final 12 km peel off at La Pobla de Benifassà and climb 700 m in one relentless sweep. Fuel up in Morella; the village garage closed years ago.

Parking is simple: a gravel terrace signed “Aparcamiento” sits 600 m below the inhabited core. Leave the car and walk the last stretch; streets are narrower than a Tesco aisle and locals park where medieval mules once drank. Sat-navs occasionally try to send you up a concrete ramp meant for tractors—ignore them unless you fancy reversing downhill past a 200-metre drop.

A Final Word of Candour

Ares del Maestrat is not for everyone. Nightlife means counting stars; shopping is limited to the Saturday morning van that sells bread and toilet rolls. Mobile reception is patchy, and rain can imprison you for 24 hours when the access road floods at a hair-pin known as El Revolt de la Mort. Yet if you crave horizon, elbow room and stone that has forgotten nothing, this ridge-top hush is addictive. Arrive with supplies, decent footwear and no timetable. When the wind drops and the only light comes from the castle and the Milky Way, you will understand why some of the 174 residents left the city, came back, and never bothered to leave again.