Sigüenza

The train from Madrid punches through the limestone ridges of Guadalajara province and, just when mobile reception flickers out, the castle appears—square, stone-deaf to modernity and flying the maroon-and-yellow flag of the regional train company as if it were still 1287. This is the first glimpse most visitors get of Sigüenza, a hill-top bishopric whose 5,000 inhabitants share their streets with a Romanesque cathedral, a twelfth-century fortress and enough tales of warring prelates to fill a season of historical dramas.

At 1,006 m above sea level the air is thinner and cleaner than on the capital’s plain. Spring arrives late, autumn early; in July the thermometer can still hit 35 °C at midday, but by 9 p.m. most diners reach for a jacket. That altitude kept the Moors at bay for longer than neighbouring settlements and later gave the town its defensive edge—one reason the castle walls drop almost vertically to the Henares gorge on the north side. British visitors who arrive expecting La Mancha’s windmill-dotted flatlands are startled to find themselves on a crag that feels closer to northern Aragón.

A town built by bishops, soldiers and farmers

The cathedral of Santa María squats at the centre like a granite lecture on medieval power politics. Begun in 1121, it absorbed every architectural fashion for the next four centuries: a fortress-ready tower, lancet Gothic windows, plateresque choir stalls and, in the north transept, the marble tomb of Martín Vázquez de Arce—El Doncel—killed during the Granada campaign at twenty-five. The effigy shows a young knight reading a book, one leg casually crossed, the very image of Castilian confidence just before Spain became an empire. Entry is €6 and the audio guide lasts 45 minutes; visit before 11 a.m. and you’ll have the ambulatory almost to yourself.

Above the town, the castle-turned-Parador looks sterner than it is. Four of the nine towers were blown up during the Carlist Wars and rebuilt in bourgeois Neo-Gothic, so the profile is more Disneyland than Don Quixote—until you step inside the armour-lined entrance hall and remember that this was once the seat of the diocese’s military command. Non-residents can ride the lift to the battlements for coffee (€2.20, proper beans not machine muck) and a wrap-around view of cereal fields that fade into the oak scrub of the Sierra Norte. Stay the night if the budget stretches: doubles start at €130 room-only, cheaper than many Paradores thanks to the two-hour rail journey from the nearest business hub.

Between castle and cathedral the streets narrow to shoulder-width, cobbles polished to a slick polish by centuries of sandals, horse shoes and, more recently, wheeled suitcases. One alley, officially Cuesta de San Vicente, is nicknamed “la calle del rompeculos”—bum-breaker street—for good reason. Heels are suicidal; trainers echo with the slap of rubber on stone. Half-timbered houses lean overhead, their wooden grilles still painted ox-blood red in memory of the bishops’ coat of arms. Washing flaps from wrought-iron balconies; a butcher’s radio leaks out flamenco at full volume. This is no film set: children spill from the primary school at 2 p.m., grandparents queue for the lottery ticket and the loudest noise most evenings is the cathedral bell counting the hour.

What to eat when the altitude bites

Castilian cooking is built for cold nights, not beach bodies. The local cordero asado—whole lamb slow-roasted in a wood-fired clay oven—appears on every second menu, usually feeding two with leftovers. Miguel at Taberna Seguntina will carve it tableside and pour the juices over home-fried potatoes; allow €24 pp with wine. For lighter appetites the migas pastoriles fry breadcrumbs with garlic, pancetta and grapes, a shepherd’s way of using up stale bread. Vegetarians survive on roasted piquillo peppers stuffed with goats’ cheese; vegans should probably bring snacks.

Puddings carry convent fingerprints. The yemados are balls of egg-yolk and sugar that collapse into sticky custard; buy half a dozen from the cloistered nuns who still sell through a wooden hatch in the old walls. If they’ve sold out, the drunken cake—bizcocho borracho soaked in rum and cinnamon—works equally well for elevenses or midnight smuggling in a hotel room.

Trains, trails and Tuesday markets

Renfe’s regional service leaves Madrid Chamartín at 9:01 a.m. on weekdays, rolling into Sigüenza at 10:32. Sit on the right for the money shot of the castle on the final bend; tickets are €12–18 each way if booked online. At the station a single taxi waits—€8 to the Parador, €6 to Plaza Mayor—or you can walk the 1.2 km uphill in twenty minutes if luggage has wheels. Drivers from the UK usually approach via the A-2 to Guadalajara, then the scenic A-132 that tracks the Henares river; petrol stations are scarce once you leave the motorway, so fill the tank.

Inside the walls everything is walkable, but the surrounding countryside rewards a pair of boots. The GR-116 long-distance path skirts the gorge, descending through holm-oak to the abandoned watermills of La Hoz. A shorter 6 km loop starts at the Alameda gardens, crosses the railway via a brick aqueduct and returns past sunflower fields that glow like motorway headlights in July. Download the free Wikiloc map before leaving—signposting is sporadic and phone signal dies in every ravine.

Back in town the Tuesday and Friday market sets up on Plaza Mayor from 9 a.m. till lunch. Stallholders shout the price of peaches, wicker baskets and cheap drill bits; one van sells nothing but hand-knitted baby clothes next to another offering knock-off football shirts. It’s the place to assemble a picnic: crusty barra, Manchego curado at €14 a kilo and a plastic tub of olives spiced with fennel. Eat on the cathedral steps while shoe-shine men gossip under the portico.

When the bells stop ringing

Evenings drop into a hush that can feel unnerving if you’re fresh from Seville’s tapas crawl. Shops close by 8 p.m.; restaurants fire their ovens for 9. Locals promenade one circuit of the main square then settle into cafés for a cortado and the latest parish gossip. Summer brings outdoor concerts in the castle courtyard—folk, baroque, the occasional gospel choir—while September’s mediaeval festival turns streets into parchment-coloured sets complete with jester hats and roast boar sandwiches. The rest of the year is quieter, sometimes too quiet: several British visitors report feeling they’ve missed the last train out, especially on Sunday nights when even the birds seem to observe the Sabbath.

Come prepared and Sigüenza delivers what the coast cannot: a self-contained slice of old Castile where admission queues are measured in minutes, not hours, and the castle really does belong to the town rather than to an app on your phone. Leave before breakfast, climb the battlement at sunrise and you’ll watch mist fill the valley like steam in a coffee cup while the cathedral bell counts seven across the rooftops. Then walk downhill to the station, buy a coffee from the machine and be back in Madrid before the rush hour starts.