Santillana del Mar

The first thing to know is that neither saint, nor plain, nor sea appears on the signpost. Santillana borrowed its name from a 4th-century martyr whose bones arrived here in a reliquary, and the coastal plain that bears her name lies 6 km away. What you do get is a grid of biscuit-coloured mansions built on the proceeds of medieval wheat and wool, all pegged together by streets so polished that local taxi drivers refuse to enter after rain.

That surface is important. The cobbles are river stone, domed like the backs of turtles; in the dry they clack under boot soles, in the wet they turn into a low-friction slide that has written off more than one pair of British ankles. Flat rubber soles are non-negotiable, and anyone who insists on leather town shoes will spend the afternoon plotting a route from doorway to doorway like a chess piece.

A town that wakes twice

Dawn belongs to the residents. By 07:30 the bakery on Calle de Juan Infante has sold out of sobao pasiego, a buttery sponge that tastes like Madeira cake with a tan, and the bar opposite is already on its second vat of café con leche. You can walk the entire perimeter in twenty minutes: past the Romanesque Colegiata whose cloister capitals show rabbits being chased by foxes and vice versa, under the wooden arcades of Plaza de Ramón Pelayo, and out again through the arch where the road once funneled cattle down to summer pastures. Stone everywhere, yes, but also geraniums in blue painted pots, and the smell of bread drifting across the square like a radio frequency.

At 09:45 the coaches nose into the purpose-built car park on the southern edge. From then until early evening Santillana becomes a slow-moving conveyor belt of sun-hats and audio guides. The souvenir shops—more than twenty of them along a 300-metre stretch—deal mainly in pink ceramic donkeys and Cava sold by the shampoo-sized bottle. It is possible, if you time it wrong, to spend longer queuing for the Collegiate church toilet than you do inside the nave. The trick is to treat the middle of the day as a long lunch interval: escape to the coast, or simply sit on the church steps and watch the human traffic lights change.

The Altamira annex

Three kilometres up the hill, the Museo de Altamira explains why the original cave next door is now kept under lock and key. The replica is so accurate that even the temperature drop mimics the real thing; bison still bulge from the ceiling like 3-D stickers, and you exit understanding why Picasso, on seeing the authentic version, declared “we have learned nothing”. Entry is €3, timed slots shrink to 15 people, and in July you need to book the day before or join a queue that snakes past the vending machines. Allow 90 minutes, more if you read every panel about charcoal chronology.

Families sometimes tack on the adjacent Parque de la Naturaleza, a small zoo with brown bears and Iberian wolves. It is clean, conservation-minded, and utterly missable if you are short on hours. The same road continues west to the coast; in ten minutes you can swap medieval stone for the long yellow arc of Playa de Luanco, where surfers change under the pines and a beach bar serves grilled sardines for €8 a plate.

When the coaches leave

By 18:30 the last group is herded back onto the coach and the streets return to locals, overnight guests, and the occasional pilgrim on the Camino del Norte who has splashed out on the convent-turned-albergue. The stone glows amber in the low sun, swallows cut the air above the chimneys, and you finally hear the sound that was missing all day: your own footsteps. Evening is the moment to climb the short stretch of the old town wall by the Torre del Merino and look south towards the Picos de Europa; the limestone peaks appear as a saw-tooth horizon, snow clinging to the blades even in May.

If you stay the night, breakfast arrives as churros at the Bar Plaza. The €2.50 portion is big enough for two, though the owner will pretend not to understand if you try to share. Check-out time in most guest-houses is 11:00, which coincides nicely with the first coach arrival of the new day; depart before then and you can convince yourself you have seen the town at its best.

Getting there, getting round

Santander airport is 30 km east. ALSA buses run roughly hourly in summer, less off-season, and the journey takes 40 minutes (€3.45). A hire car is faster but not necessarily easier: the historic core is pedestrian-only and traffic cameras fine drivers who stray £200 on the spot. Use the signed car parks on the edge; the largest charges €1.50 per hour, capped at €10 for the day, and fills by 11:00 in August.

Trains stop at Torrelavega, 12 km away; from there a local bus covers the last stretch in 20 minutes. If you are relying on public transport, note that the last bus back to Santander leaves at 20:30 outside July and August—miss it and a taxi costs around €55.

Weather reality check

Cantabria is green because it rains, not because the clouds are on a day trip from Manchester. July and August average eight wet days a month, usually a sharp shower at teatime. Winter is quieter—some gift shops shut entirely—but Atlantic fronts can roll in for a week at a time. The cobbles turn black and treacherous, and the Colegiata’s cloister echoes like a swimming pool. Bring a rain jacket whatever the forecast says; locals judge visitors by their footwear, and you will never live down suede.

Worth the detour?

Santillana is not a place to anchor a fortnight. It is, however, an efficient distillation of northern Spain’s stone-and-story heritage, and it works brilliantly as a half-day punctuation mark between the beaches of Suances and the prehistoric art of Altamira. Arrive early or stay late, ignore the souvenir donkeys, and the town will repay you with twenty minutes of absolute silence inside a 900-year-old cloister—proof that even the most visited villages still keep a few secrets for whoever turns up before the coach party does.