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about Castrojeriz
Major landmark on the Camino de Santiago, shaped like a sickle beneath the ruins of a castle.
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A Town That Refuses to Bend
The castle walls end in thin air. Walk to the edge of Castrojeriz's ruined fortress and you'll find stone battlements simply stop, as if some medieval architect got bored and wandered off. Below, the town unrolls like a parchment—one main street, two kilometres of honey-coloured stone houses, all pointing west towards Santiago. At 860 metres above sea level, the wind up here doesn't mess about. It whips across the meseta with nothing to block it until the Galician mountains, carrying the scent of wheat and distant rain.
This is Spain's high tableland, where the earth spreads flat as Norfolk but sits higher than Ben Nevis. The altitude matters. Summer mornings start cool even in July, and winter can lock the town in ice for weeks. British walkers arriving in shorts after Burgos's heat often dig desperately through rucksacks for forgotten fleeces. The air tastes thin, clean, almost metallic—a reminder that you're walking across the roof of northern Spain.
What Remains When Pilgrims Leave
Castrojeriz's glory days peaked seven centuries ago. Nine churches, three monasteries, multiple hospitals—medieval infrastructure built for a population ten times today's 800 souls. Now you'll find six functioning bars, two small grocers, and a bakery that opens when the owner feels like it. The rest is architecture without audience: Renaissance doorways leading to empty houses, heraldic shields weathering above bricked-up windows, the Collegiate of Santa María locked more often than not despite its fifteenth-century Flemish altarpiece.
The town divides visitors cleanly. Pilgrims love it. Non-walkers scratch heads, wondering why they've bothered. There's truth in both reactions. Without a rucksack, Castrojeriz offers limited conventional attractions. The castle ruins provide panoramic views but little else—no information boards, no gift shop, just wind and perspective. The churches require dedication to track down opening times. Yet for those walking the Camino, the place resonates precisely because it expects nothing. After twenty kilometres of wheat fields, the town's human scale feels luxurious.
Walking Into Nothingness
The real drama starts where Castrojeriz ends. Follow the yellow arrows past the ruined Convent of San Antón and you hit the Alto de Mostelares—a 3-kilometre pull onto the meseta proper. No trees, no villages, no mobile signal. Just you, the path, and horizon in every direction. British walkers often call it their first taste of 'proper' Camino—brutal, beautiful, impossible to fake. The slope's gentle but relentless. By the top you're breathing hard, tasting that metallic air sharper now, legs confirming what altitude already suggested: this landscape demands respect.
Locals call it the paramo—not quite moorland, not quite desert. Colour shifts with crops and seasons: green wheat in spring, gold stubble in July, black furrows after harvest. The emptiness isn't picturesque; it's functional, agricultural, honest. Photographers work for their shots here. Midday light flattens everything into monochrome boredom. Dawn and dusk transform the same fields into something worth the early alarm.
Food That Knows Its Place
Forget tasting menus and deconstructed classics. Castrojeriz eats like it lives—straightforward, filling, unapologetically local. Mesón de Castrojeriz does proper roast lamb, pink inside, crisp outside, portion sizes that would shame a London carvery. Sopa de ajo appears everywhere come October: garlic broth thickened with bread and egg, peasant food elevated to winter necessity. The local cheese tastes like a milder ricotta—fresh Burgos cheese that even fussy British children will tolerate.
Wine comes from Ribera del Duero, an hour south, served in short glasses at two euros a pop. It's reliable, honest plonk that won't challenge anyone who's survived house reds in provincial France. Vegetarians struggle—this is pig and lamb country where 'without meat' means they'll only put half the usual chorizo in your beans. Best strategy: embrace the protein, walk it off tomorrow.
The Silence Between Footsteps
Afternoon siesta here isn't suggestion—it's lockdown. Metal shutters slam at two, streets empty completely. The only movement comes from swallows dive-bombing between eaves, occasional pilgrims trudging through towards the municipal albergue. This silence unsettles some visitors. Others discover it's the point. The Casa de Silencio occupies a converted pilgrim hospital near the church of San Juan. Inside, rows of cushions face each other across polished floorboards. No talking, no phones, just the sound of your own breathing mixing with centuries of whispered prayers.
British meditation converts compare it to Buddhist retreats in Nepal, minus the jet lag and dal. You don't need to be spiritual to appreciate the pause—just capable of sitting still for thirty minutes without checking Twitter. When the town wakes at five, movement feels different. You've slowed to match the pace. Coffee tastes stronger. The evening light hitting castle stones looks worth photographing rather than Instagramming.
Getting There, Getting Away
Access requires patience. No train station exists—Burgos, 40 minutes by car, provides the nearest rail link. Buses from Burgos run twice daily except Sundays, when service drops to once. The journey crosses monotonous wheat plains that make Norfolk feel mountainous. Drivers find the town via the N-120, parking easily outside medieval walls that predate cars by several centuries.
Weather dictates timing. April-May offer wildflowers and comfortable walking temperatures. September-October provide harvest colours without July's fierce heat. August empties Spanish cities but fills every pilgrim bed—book accommodation ahead or carry camping gear. Winter brings crystal skies and empty streets, plus the risk of snow that can isolate the town for days. British off-season travellers should pack layers and flexibility in equal measure.
Castrojeriz doesn't seduce so much as endure. It existed before you arrived and will continue long after you've gone, wind scouring the same stones, wheat growing and falling in ancient rhythms. Some visitors find this depressing. Others recognise something rarer: a place comfortable with its own diminishment, offering neither apology nor welcome, simply the chance to witness what happens when geography and history collide and nobody bothers to tidy up the mess.
