Covarrubias

At 900 metres above sea level the air thins just enough to sharpen the smell of roasting lamb drifting from the kitchens. Below the village the River Arlanza glints like polished pewter; above it the stone tower built for Count Fernán González keeps the same tenth-century watch it did when this strip of Burgos province marked the frontier between Christian Castile and Moorish Spain. Covarrubias is small—barely five hundred souls—but it carries the weight of a kingdom’s origin story without bothering to put up a turnstile.

The first thing you notice is the colour: ochre walls the shade of English Cotswold stone, then timber beams tar-black against whitewash. Nothing is “restored” into pastel perfection; houses are still lived in, geraniums still watered by the people who own them. Park on the southern embankment—the old centre is residents-only and the local police hand out fines faster than you can say “I was only five minutes.” Cross the medieval bridge, glance left and you’ll see the ermita de San Olav, a spare Scandinavian hut that looks as if someone air-lifted it from a Norwegian fjord. Inside the main church, a Norwegian princess really is buried; Kristina arrived in 1257 as a diplomatic bride and never left. British visitors tend to assume the story is tourism fluff until they spot her marble slab under the choir stalls.

A town that forgot to modernise its ground floor

Covarrubias never grew beyond its boots. The street plan is still the defensive tangle plotted a thousand years ago: alleys barely two metres wide, sudden plazas where sunlight bounces off sgraffitoed coats of arms. Give yourself an hour simply to drift. Start at the Plaza Mayor under the wooden balconies, nod to the life-sized statue of the princess, then duck beneath the arcades for a coffee that costs €1.30 if you stand, €1.80 if you sit. Casa Galín roasts milk-fed lamb in a wood-fired oven built in 1897; the scent leaks through the extractor fan and makes decisions for you. Order media ración—half a portion—unless you fancy an afternoon nap instead of sightseeing.

The Colegiata de San Cosme y San Damián hides behind a sandstone wall that looks plain until you step inside. The fifteenth-century cloister is painted the colour of claret; Baroque organ pipes glitter like organ-stop silver. Count Fernán González and his wife Sancha lie in stone coffins at the high altar, carved with lying dogs that symbolise fidelity. Don’t expect audio guides or QR codes: the ticket desk is a tiny wooden hatch, the attendant usually the same woman who was selling candles at Mass that morning. Admission is €3, closed between 14:00 and 16:30 because the sacristan goes home for lunch.

Walking without working up an altitude headache

You don’t need hiking poles here. A gentle 45-minute circuit leaves the town by the riverside path, ducks under poplars and returns through allotments where elderly señoras tie lettuce to stakes with torn tights. If you want something stiffer, follow the signed PR-BU 71 up the Sierra de las Mamblas: 250 metres of climb over 4 km, enough to make the Cotswolds feel flat. Spring brings a haze of broom and the smell of crushed thyme; October turns the maples on the gorge blood-red. Paths are way-marked but carry a print-out—phone signal vanishes in the limestone folds.

Back in the village the Ermita de San Olav is worth the ten-minute detour by car (or thirty on foot along the road). Built in 1990, the pine chapel celebrates Covarrubias’s unlikely twinning with a Norwegian village. Inside, a single candle burns under a simple cross; outside you get a widescreen view of the Meseta stretching north towards Burgos. Bring a jumper—even in May the wind that scuds across the plateau has a North Sea bite.

Roast lamb, river wine and the lunch-time shutdown

Castilian cuisine is not famous for its lightness. The local lechazo is milk-fed lamb roasted whole in clay dishes; the skin crackles like pork while the meat stays spoon-soft. Casa Galín and El De Galo both serve media ración for €14–16, enough for two if you add a plate of morcilla de Burgos—blood sausage studded with rice rather than oatmeal, milder than British black pudding. Vegetarians can fall back on sopa de ajo, a garlicky bread-and-paprika broth normally topped with poached egg; ask for it “sin huevo” if you’re vegan and the kitchen will swap in extra croutons. To drink, try an Arlanza crianza: tempranillo with Rioja’s vanilla touch but less alcohol and a smaller price tag—about €16 a bottle in the restaurants, €9 in the cooperative shop on Calle Monseñor Vargas.

Everything except the bars shuts between lunch and the evening terrace session. Plan accordingly: if you arrive at 15:30 you will find museums locked, bakeries shuttered and only the smell of dish-washing liquid drifting from doorways. The siesta is real, and Covarrubias hasn’t budged for coach parties.

Pairing the village with somewhere bigger

Covarrubias is a half-day stop unless you intend to walk every path twice. Most British travellers sandwich it between Burgos and Santo Domingo de Silos. From Burgos it’s 45 minutes west on the A-1 then the BU-905; after sightseeing, continue 25 minutes to Silos for the famous Gregorian chant at 19:00 (check the monastery website—chant is suspended during some holiday periods). Lerma, 20 minutes north-east, offers a grand ducal palace and a parador with a terrace that looks over the Arlanza gorge; coffee there costs twice the village price but the view compensates.

Public transport exists but feels like an afterthought. ALSA runs one bus from Burgos at 10:15 on weekdays, returning at 17:45; Saturday service is a single round trip. Miss it and a taxi is €50. Car hire is sensible: Bilbao airport is two hours north, Santander two-fifteen, Madrid two-thirty. Roads are quiet, petrol cheaper than Britain, and the BU-905 winds through juniper hills that turn scarlet when the heather flowers.

When to come and what to pack

April and late-September give sharp blue skies and daytime temperatures in the low twenties; nights drop to single figures so pack a fleece even if the hire-car thermometer reads 28 °C at Madrid airport. August climbs to the mid-thirties but the altitude keeps humidity low; August weekends swarm with Spanish families, and every table on the Plaza Mayor is taken by 13:30. Winter is quiet, occasionally snowy, and photogenic in the way Yorkshire dales look on Christmas cards—just remember that restaurants close mid-week and some rural hotels shut entirely in January.

Covarrubias will not keep you busy for a week. It will, however, remind you what a medieval street feels like when no one rips out the beams to install fairy-light bars. Come for the lamb, stay for the silence after the last coach leaves, and leave before the clock tower strikes ten—by then the plateau wind is cold enough to make you grateful for a car heater and the short drive back to the twenty-first century.