Zorita del Maestrazgo

The church bell in Zorita del Maestrazgo strikes noon and the sound ricochets off limestone walls loud enough to make you check your watch. Only 117 residents remain in this Valencian mountain enclave, yet the bell keeps perfect time—same as when mule trains, not rental Clios, negotiated the pass outside the village.

At 661 metres above sea level, Zorita sits on a ridge that feels higher. The air is thinner, the nights cooler, and the sense that civilisation is somewhere far below is inescapable. Drive the final 12 kilometres from the CV-10 and every bend reveals another cliff-top smallholding where almond trees cling to terraces built during the Napoleonic wars. Mobile signal dies two kilometres before the first stone house appears, a built-in digital detox no wellness retreat can match.

Stone, Truffle and Silence

Houses here follow the logic of winter wind rather than Instagram grids. Walls are sixty centimetres thick, windows are few, and roofs slope just enough to shrug off December snow. The stone is local Jurassic limestone; touch it at dusk and it still holds the heat of the day. Iron balconies were bolted on in the 1920s when emigrants returned from Argentina with cash and a taste for ornament, but the bones of the village are medieval. Look up and you’ll spot the occasional date-stone: 1634, 1789, 1898—centuries compressed into a single alleyway.

Inside the single grocery shop, opened on an honesty-box basis when the owner drives to Cantavieja for supplies, a blackboard advertises fresh truffles at €45 per 100g during January and February. The Maestrazgo range produces forty per cent of Spain’s black truffle harvest, yet there are no tour buses because the crop is traded quietly in village bars. Ask politely at Bar La Plaza and someone’s cousin will produce a knobbly specimen from a coat pocket; the aroma is enough to make a Tuscan porcini weep.

Walking Papers

The GR-331 long-distance footpath skirts the village, linking Zorita to neighbouring Linares de Mora across a 17-kilometre ridge walk. Signposts are wooden, weather-beaten and accurate; way-marking paint here predates the EU and hasn’t faded. The route climbs through kermes-oak forest where wild boar dig overnight trenches, then tops out on a limestone pavement shaped like a giant’s chessboard. From the summit marker you can see the Mediterranean 70 kilometres south—on clear days the container ships outside Valencia look toy-like.

Shorter loops exist for the less committed. Leave the upper village by the cement trough labelled “Bebedero – 1928”, follow the stone-littered track for 25 minutes and you reach Cova del Mas d’Avalis, a shallow cave whose ceiling still bears soot marks from 19th-century goat herders. Total distance: 4.3 kilometres. Gradient: enough to make the average British thigh remember the Lake District. Take water; there are no ice-cream vans.

Menu for Mountain Weather

The only restaurant, Casa Ramón, opens Friday to Sunday out of season and serves whatever Marta, the owner, bought from the travelling fish van that morning. Thursday might bring monkfish tail stewed with tomatoes and sweet paprika; Saturday could be a plate of migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with grapes and serrano ham—designed to fuel walkers who’ve just burnt 800 calories on the ridge. House wine comes in 500ml glass bottles and tastes of crushed cherries; price €7, refill negotiable if you ask in Spanish.

If Casa Ramón is shuttered, the bar still does bocadillos filled with local sheep’s cheese that crumbles like aged Caerphilly. British palates wary of fiery spices will relax: Maestrazgo cooking is mountain fuel, not chilli challenge. Vegetarians get tortilla, pimientos del padrón and the best tinned asparagus you’ve ever accidentally forked into—imported from nearby Navarre and treated with the reverence Yorkshire reserves for parkin.

The Wrong Sort of Quiet

Zorita’s population has fallen every decade since 1950 and the silence can unsettle. No traffic hum, no supermarket chiller cabinets, no distant nightclub bass—just wind and the occasional clank of a goat bell. Bring a paper map because Google’s blue dot drifts when the limestone canyon walls bounce satellite signals. Monday and Tuesday the bakery is closed; if you haven’t stocked up on baguette equivalents you’ll be eating crisps for breakfast. And remember the altitude: night temperatures in July can drop to 14°C—pack a fleece alongside the swimsuit you definitely won’t need.

August fiestas temporarily triple head-count. Visitors sleep in motorhomes squeezed into the plaza, brass bands play pasodobles until 3am and the village fountain runs with wine for exactly 45 minutes on Assumption Day. It’s loud, boozy and utterly Spanish; book accommodation a year ahead or you’ll be driving the switchbacks back to the coast at midnight.

Getting There, Staying There

The closest airport is Castellón, served twice weekly from London-Stansted (2h 15m). Hire a car, aim for the AP-7, then quit at junction 43 for the CV-10 inland. After Albentosa the road shrinks to single-track with passing places; meet a timber lorry and you’ll reverse 200 metres uphill—clutch control matters. Total drive from Castellón airport: 75 minutes, last 12km takes 25 of them.

El Bergantes hotel has twelve rooms built into a 17th-century stable block. Walls are one metre thick, Wi-Fi is surprisingly fast, and the terrace faces west for sunset over the olive terraces. Double rooms start at €70 including breakfast (strong coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, homemade sponge cake). Dogs are welcome; the resident beagle is called Ulises and expects ear scratches.

Alternatively, Casa Rural La Fuente sleeps six, has a working fireplace and accepts three-night minimum lets. Firewood is provided in a wheelbarrow; British guests have left TripAdvisor notes praising “proper chimney draw” with the enthusiasm of people who’ve endured too many UK holiday cottages filled with smoke.

Leave early for the drive back. Morning fog pools in the valleys, turning the sierra into islands floating above a white sea. By nine the sun burns it off and the limestone glows butter-yellow. Zorita returns to its default soundtrack—footsteps, goat bells and that accurate, echoing church bell marking time no-one is particularly rushing to keep.