The drive from Monasterio de Piedra to Albarracín was over two hours along back roads that evolved from the narrow and serpentine to long straightaways. I passed acres of vineyards golden in the autumn sun and fields of ochre hues punctuated with swaths of red earth. Sheep grazed on the plains and never far, keeping watch, would be a solitary man and his dogs.

I arrived in Albarracín about 3pm and not having much for breakfast I was looking forward to a full lunch. Hours for lunch are strict and usually 1:00 to 3:30 or 4:00. Not knowing this town’s particular rhythm, it was best to eat before finding a place to stay. When small towns in Spain close their restaurants there can be few if any options.

Thursday in November is iffy in areas that depend on tourism during the high season. Many hotels and restaurants reduce their hours considerably once the days turn chilly. But I stumbled upon a restaurant (Tiempo de Ensueño) offering a four-course tasting menu. I decided to treat myself. The chef clearly loved froth-nearly everything had some-but it was all delicious. I left sated, content, and ready to seek my temporary home in Albarracin.

The attentive and kind waitress pointed me in the direction of a nearby B&B. No one was there, but a number was posted for contact. I called and expressed my desire to stay for three nights. A few minutes later a woman of a certain age, with jetblack hair, wearing a bright yellow sweater and jeans came driving up. (The extremely narrow and steep ancient streets are largely restricted to cars except those of the residents, who take advantage of the privilege. ) Isabel, the owner, took considerable time showing me my choice of rooms with wonderful views, cozy furniture, and tasteful decor, where breakfast would be served, in a lovely dining room, and the fruit, coffee, and tea that was always available. I was pleased by my good fortune, until she stopped abruptly and said, “Hoy es jueves (Today is Thursday).” Continuing in Spanish she explained that she forgot what day it was and was completely booked for the weekend.

Isabel apologized then kindly suggested a few places in town. Walking to each one I found them either shut with no contact number or no response. I continued walking the labyrinthine streets and headed toward the bigger hotels in the lower section of town.

A young woman in one such hotel offered me two options: a room with a view and a room without. There was a difference in price and I asked to see both. As best as I could tell the view was the same. I didn’t question it. However both rooms were dark and unwelcoming. I thought to look on. The young woman’s associate made the decision that much easier when he pointed out that they too were all booked for the weekend.

By this time it was after 6pm, the warmth from the sun was rapidly dissipating. Days were in the 60’s (15 degrees C). Nights plummeted to the high 20’s ( minus 2 degrees C).

I walked to the nearest hotel, housed in a mammoth ancient convent of stone.  (Like the above mentioned  monastery, many convents have been converted into hotels.)  A soft-spoken, slightly rotund man at the reception offered me a room for two nights, but couldn’t guarantee the third. The hotel was completely booked on Saturday. Although there was little to adorn the austere edifice and the long confusing corridors surrounding an open patio offered no warmth both figuratively and literally, the two rooms he showed me were spacious with views of the town’s surrounding hills. I was ready to agree to take one of them when he recalled that those rooms were booked for the entire weekend. He apologized and showed me another. It was considerably smaller and lacked decor, but still had a view. I took it for the two nights.

The decision was a good one. The staff was friendly, the cafe downstairs had long hours, and I slept well. My days were spent exploring Albarracin: noted to be one of the prettiest villages in Spain, and hiked along the GR-10 (part of an extraordinary network of hiking trails) to caves with “pinturas rupestres” ancient rock drawings, barely visible but nonetheless haunting.

After the two nights I asked to stay a third. The same man at reception said there had been a cancellation, but the available room would be an additional 15 euros. I asked if I could see this other room. There was a pause. He looked at me, but said nothing. It took me a minute to realise that he was offering me my own room at an increased weekend rate. I agreed to stay another night.

Sure enough, the empty shops and streets of Thursday became populated and busy by Saturday and teeming by Sunday afternoon.

Thinking about my question “May I see this other room?” makes me laugh.