Salas de los Infantes

The 11th-century stone walls rise barely a metre above ground level, yet they mark the boundary of a settlement that once defended these mountain passes. At 964 metres altitude, Salas de los Infantes sits where the Sierra de la Demanda begins its proper climb skyward, the last substantial village before the roads narrow and the forests thicken.

This isn't a place that announces itself. The A-1 motorway shoots past 20 kilometres west, carrying travellers between Madrid and the coast, and most remain blissfully unaware of what they're missing. Those who do turn off find a working market town of 2,000 souls where medieval foundations support a thoroughly modern Spanish life. Children spill from the primary school at break time, grandparents gossip outside the pharmacy, and the Tuesday market fills Plaza Mayor with everything from brassieres to locally grown potatoes.

The Dinosaur Connection

The town's star attraction lurks in an unassuming modern building near the health centre. Spain's dinosaur museums tend towards the gimmicky, but Salas delivers something different: a serious palaeontological collection built around actual finds from the surrounding hills. Fossilised eggs, complete skeletons and perfectly preserved tracks fill the galleries, all excavated within a 30-kilometre radius. The collection ranks among Spain's most complete, yet on most weekdays you'll share it with perhaps a dozen visitors.

Wednesday afternoons bring free entry, a gesture that sees local families treating the museum like an extension of their living rooms. Children race between the reconstructed skeletons while grandparents rest on benches, discussing tomorrow's weather over the echoing soundtrack of prehistoric roars. The real magic happens outside though, where signed paths lead to actual dinosaur trackways preserved in creek beds and cliff faces. These aren't replicas behind glass but 120-million-year-old footprints baked into mud that became stone, now exposed by erosion and centuries of goat herding.

Finding them requires patience and decent footwear. The main track site sits forty minutes' walk from town along a path that starts promisingly enough beside the cemetery before degenerating into a stony track that wouldn't look out of place in the Peak District. Information boards appear sporadically, some weathered beyond legibility, but the footprints themselves remain unmistakable: three-toed theropod prints the size of dinner plates crossing ancient riverbeds.

Mountain Living

Salas serves as the Sierra de la Demanda's unofficial capital, which means you'll find three supermarkets, two pharmacies and a proper petrol station alongside the more expected bakeries and bars. The altitude makes itself known in subtle ways. Summer mornings start fresh enough for a jumper even in August, while winter brings proper snow that can isolate the village for days. The locals, naturally, treat both extremes with indifference. They'll drive to Burgos for work regardless of weather, returning each evening to streets where the air smells of wood smoke and roast lamb.

The surrounding landscape delivers proper mountain scenery without requiring technical expertise. Forest tracks radiate from the village like spokes, following ancient drove roads through oak and beech woods where wild boar root among the undergrowth. Marked walking routes exist, though the signage varies from excellent to non-existent within the same trail. The most popular circuit climbs to the abandoned village of San Mamés, three kilometres north-east, where stone houses slowly surrender to brambles while vultures circle overhead.

Mountain biking offers better infrastructure, with proper waymarked routes connecting Salas to neighbouring villages across rolling terrain that never gets technically demanding but can certainly test your fitness. The GR-86 long-distance path passes through town too, following medieval trading routes that once carried salt and wool between Castile and the Basque Country.

What to Expect on Your Plate

The restaurants here don't do tasting menus or foam. They do roast suckling lamb, slow-cooked until the meat slides from the bone, served with chips and the local red wine from Arlanza. El Pelayo, on the main street, has been serving the same dishes for three decades, their croquetas de boletus achieving minor legend status among Spanish food writers who've actually made the journey. The menu del día costs €12 and arrives with the efficiency of a provincial train timetable.

Breakfast means tortilla española thick as house bricks, served lukewarm from the bar top with coffee that actually tastes of coffee rather than wishful thinking. The bakery opposite the church opens at 7 am sharp, selling still-warm empanadas filled with tuna and red pepper that make perfect walking fuel. Sunday mornings see locals emerging from mass to queue for churros, the queue moving at its own unhurried pace while the church bells mark time overhead.

Practical Realities

Getting here requires commitment. Burgos airport sits 46 kilometres west but handles only summer flights from Barcelona. Most British visitors fly to Bilbao or Madrid, then drive two-to-three hours inland. A car isn't just recommended but essential; the daily bus from Burgos provides a lifeline for locals but proves useless for anyone wanting to explore beyond the town limits.

Accommodation remains limited and pleasantly unpolished. The Hostal Sierra de la Demanda offers clean, simple rooms above a bar where the television perpetually shows football and the proprietor keeps hunting dogs in the courtyard. Rural houses scattered through the old town provide better options for families, though don't expect hotel-standard soundproofing or 24-hour reception. Bring cash, because the ATMs occasionally run dry and several establishments still regard card machines with deep suspicion.

Weather demands respect whatever the season. Spring brings changeable conditions where brilliant sunshine can collapse into mountain storms within minutes. Summer offers perfect walking temperatures but pack layers for altitude changes. Autumn delivers spectacular beech colours and mushroom foraging opportunities, while winter brings genuine ski-country conditions despite the absence of actual ski resorts. The nearby resort of San Glorio, thirty minutes drive, provides modest downhill skiing when conditions allow, though locals tend to favour cross-country tracks through the forests.

When the Lights Go Out

Evenings follow their own rhythm. The bars fill around 8 pm for pinchos and conversation, though you'll hear Castilian Spanish rather than English. Tourism exists here but remains overwhelmingly domestic; the occasional Dutch camper van or German walking group causes mild interest rather than commercial frenzy. By midnight the streets empty, the mountain silence broken only by the occasional reveller weaving home or dogs announcing imaginary threats to property.

The village's greatest luxury might be this very lack of spectacle. In an age where every hamlet markets itself as the next great discovery, Salas de los Infantes carries on being what it always was: a mountain market town where dinosaurs once roamed, where medieval walls crumble quietly into gardens, and where the sierra begins its proper climb towards sky.