Medina de Pomar

The cloistered nuns at Santa Clara will only buzz you in when they're good and ready. Stand at the wooden grille long enough and you'll hear the faint clack of rosary beads approaching—a sound that hasn't changed since the fourteenth century when Pedro I's courtiers first rattled their swords through these same stone corridors. Medina de Pomar doesn't do rush jobs.

At 583 metres above sea level, the town sits just high enough for the air to carry a sharp edge, even in May. The Alcázar de los Condestables rears up from a crag above the Arlanzón valley, its square towers still wearing the brick-red badges of the Velasco family who ran this corner of Castilla like a private fiefdom. Inside, the Museo Histórico de Las Merindades lays out the family tree—generations of nobles who taxed wool, controlled salt and occasionally locked up annoying relatives in the castle's keep. Entry is €4, but the tower climb is worth it for the view: a patchwork of cereal fields stretching towards the Basque hills, with the town's mismatched rooftops tumbling down the slope like spilled Lego.

The historic centre barely spans four streets, which suits most visitors fine. Half a day poking around the blazoned mansions, the medieval hospital that once fed bedraggled Santiago pilgrims, and the parish church of Santa Cruz is enough before hunger kicks in. Sunday lunch is the main event—try booking a table at Asador Merindad by Friday or you'll be queuing with hungry locals who've been fasting since mass finished at noon. Their chuletón—a rib-eye the size of a steering wheel—comes sizzling on a clay tile. Ask for poco hecho if you like it properly rare; Spanish kitchens default to well-done unless instructed otherwise.

Medina's gastronomy tastes like winter even in spring. The olla ferroviaria—a hefty stew of beans, chorizo and morcilla—originated with railway workers who needed ballast against the mountain air. Sopa de ajo sounds alarming but tastes more like gentle garlic bread soup, ideal for dipping the town's crusty candeal loaves. Finish with queso de Burgos, a delicate fresh cheese that spreads like butter and costs about €3 a portion. The local cider arrives in 100 ml pours; at 5% ABV you can sample three without wobbling back to your hotel.

Practicalities first: everything except the castle shuts between 2 pm and 5.30 pm. Plan lunch either side of the gap or you'll be stranded with a rumbling stomach while shopkeepers enjoy their siesta. The convent only opens when the Poor Clare nuns feel sociable—ring the bell beside the Gothic portal and wait. Photography inside is forbidden, but nobody minds if you stand in the Renaissance cloister and gawp at the faded frescoes. Admission is by donation; drop a couple of euros in the box and they'll hand you a laminated card explaining which saint is which.

Come October the town swaps daily routine for the Ruta de Carlos V, a medieval festival that fills the streets with costumed merchants, falconers and—slightly anachronistically—craft-beer stalls. It's colourful without being canned: children still charge around wielding wooden swords, and the evening concerts finish early enough for farmers to get up for milking. Hotel rooms book up six weeks ahead; if you miss out, base yourself in nearby Frías (25 minutes west) and drive over for the daytime parades.

Medina works best as a launch pad for walking. The GR-99 long-distance path skirts the Arlanzón river, while shorter loops head into the Montes Obarenes, a ridge carpeted with holm oaks and griffon vultures. Pick up route leaflets from the tourist office beside the castle—staff speak patchy English but hand-drawn maps transcend language barriers. After rain the limestone tracks turn slick; proper boots beat trainers. A half-day circuit to the Horadada gorge (12 km return) threads through sheep pastures and ends at a viewpoint where vultures circle at eye level. Pack water—bars are thin on the ground once you leave town.

Getting here requires a car unless you enjoy logistical Sudoku. Fly to Bilbao (Bristol, Manchester, Gatwick, Edinburgh) and hire wheels for the 90-minute drive south on the A-68. Santander works too—Ryanair serves it from several UK airports, then it's 75 minutes west via the A-67. Public transport exists but feels designed to deter: the last bus from Burgos leaves at 7.30 pm, and Sunday services are mythical. Trains from Madrid take three hours to Burgos; add another 70 minutes on the regional bus and you've burned a day before you've unpacked.

Stay overnight if you can. The Parador de Turismo chain hasn't discovered Medina yet, which keeps prices human. Hotel Velasco occupies a seventeenth-century mansion on Plaza de España; rooms start at €70 including breakfast pastries strong enough to moor a ship. Cheaper pensións cluster around Calle de los Llerones—expect spotless rooms, creaking floors and owners who switch to slow, emphatic Spanish when they realise you flunked GCSE. None have lifts, so request a first-floor room if stairs bother you.

Winter arrives early at this altitude. November brings mist that pools in the valley like milk, and January daytime highs struggle past 8°C. Snow is rare but not impossible—if the white stuff falls, the castle closes and locals dust off sledges improvised from tractor tyres. Spring and autumn deliver the sweet spot: clear skies, wildflowers on the surrounding hills, and café terraces warm enough for a coffee outside at 11 am. August tops 30°C by midday; sensible Spaniards retreat indoors until 6 pm, re-emerging for evening paseos that stretch past midnight.

The town's single cash machine sits in Plaza del Generalísimo and occasionally runs dry on market days (Tuesdays and Fridays). Family bars still treat cards like suspicious foreign contraptions—carry €20 in notes for lunch and you'll avoid the walk back up the hill. English is spoken in the castle museum and nowhere else; download an offline Spanish dictionary and practise the phrase "¿Qué recomienda?" before pointing at whatever the next table ordered.

Leave Medina before sunset and you'll miss the best show. As the light fades, swallows dive between the castle battlements and the stone walls glow apricot. Elderly residents emerge for their evening circuit, greeting each other with two-cheek kisses that never quite touch. The bars fill with the clatter of dominoes and the hiss of cider taps. It's not picture-postcard Spain—there's a half-built block of flats spoiling the eastern skyline, and teenagers weave past on scooters. But it's alive, functioning, stubbornly itself. The nuns will still be praying when you drive away, and the olla will be simmering for tomorrow's lunch. Some things in Medina refuse to hurry, even for British tourists with tight itineraries.