A cerrada, in the dry uplands of Teruel and Cuenca, is a place where the land closes in: a narrow gorge, a pinch in the valley wall, the sort of spot where a shepherd could shut a flock in for the night and be done. Tío Jorge, Uncle George, is one of those anonymous local names that outlast any record of who he was.
The villages are tiny. Villel and Villastar each hold a few hundred people, and Teruel, the only real town in reach, is some twenty-four kilometres off. That distance matters, because the places in between are quiet in a way coastal Spain forgot long ago. Fill the tank in Teruel before you come. The roads are narrow and often empty, running along river terraces and over low passes in easy curves, with a gravelly surface in places and the occasional flock of sheep that will take its time. Winter is hard on this plateau, with deep frost and snow, so spring and early autumn are the sensible months.
Villastar has one real surprise. On a rock outcrop above the village, the Romans and the local Celtiberians left an inscription at a sanctuary, a long Celtiberian text carved into the rock, one of the longest of its kind. It is a reminder that this thinly peopled country was a crossroads of languages and gods long before it was emptied. The river Turia, which gathers here from the Montes Universales, runs on toward Valencia, and by the time it reaches the sea it has watered some of the richest orchards in Spain.
Back in Teruel, the old Mudéjar towers, with their glazed green ceramic and patterned brick, are worth an hour, and the city celebrates the Vaquilla del Ángel in July with a good deal of noise and wine. After a day among juniper and silence, a table of local ham, bread and strong red wine feels about right.