Santo Domingo de Silos

The 11th-century cloister at Santo Domingo de Silos is laid out like a chessboard in stone, its paired columns carved so thin that afternoon light slips straight through the capitals and lands on your boots. Stand still for a minute and the only soundtrack is the click of swallows nesting under the eaves and, if you time it right, the low hum of Benedictine monks filing in for vespers. There are no ropes, no headsets, just a polite notice asking you not to lean on the 900-year-old masonry.

This is a village that has grown sideways rather than upwards. Little more than 250 people live at 1,044 m in the Sierra de la Demanda, and the streets still follow the medieval livestock routes. Houses are built from the same honey-coloured limestone as the monastery, so on a bright morning the whole place glows like a lantern before the sun climbs over the oak ridge. Nights are cold even in May; bring a fleece and you'll still end up borrowing the wool blanket that every innkeeper keeps folded at the foot of the bed.

The monastery that refuses to be a museum

Entry to the cloister costs three euros, cash only, and the guided tour is delivered in rapid Castilian Spanish. No English crib sheets, so download an offline translator if you want the full biblical commentary carved into each capital. That said, the architecture explains itself: Lot's wife turning to salt, Daniel among lions, a medieval dentist yanking a tooth – all rendered with the humour of craftsmen who knew their work would outlive them.

The pharmacy, tucked behind the south gallery, still smells faintly of rosemary and camphor. Ceramic jars line walnut shelves labelled "rad. ivaq." and "mel. rosm." in 18th-century ink. A monk will unlock the door if you ask at the shop; tipping is discouraged, but they will accept a donation towards roof repairs.

Gregorian chant made the abbey famous in the 1990s when a recording of the brothers hit the UK pop charts. The novelty has worn off for them, not for visitors. Vespers begins at 19:30; doors open twenty minutes earlier and close once the first psalm starts. Photography is banned and the abbot will pause mid-verse if a phone pings. The sound is disarming: no microphones, no organ, just human voices rebounding off cold stone. Sunday midday mass is easier to catch, but the office at dusk is what you will remember on the flight home.

A gorge, a forest and why trainers matter

Two kilometres north of the square the road drops into La Yecla, a limestone slit only shoulder-wide in places. A metal walkway hugs the cliff for 800 m, ending at a balcony that looks straight down 75 m to the Mataviejas river. Griffon vultures use the thermals here; if one glides past at eye level you'll understand why the gorge featured in the 2021 Spanish film "El buen patrón" as a place to dispose of evidence. The path is safe but unfenced, so hold the children's hands and save the selfie for the return leg.

From the gorge car park a waymarked trail continues into the Sabinar de la Yecla, one of Europe's largest juniper forests. The trees grow in corkscrew shapes, their trunks polished smooth by centuries of sheep rubbing. The circuit is 5 km with 200 m of ascent – enough to work up an appetite but gentle enough for anyone who walks to the paper shop and back at home. Spring brings white broom and the smell of thyme; October turns the undergrowth bronze and the mushrooms appear overnight. Locals forage níscalos (golden chanterelles) and you will see them laid out on newspapers in the village square by 09:00, priced at €8 a kilo and already half sold.

Eating and what passes for nightlife

There are four restaurants, two bars and a bakery that opens when the baker feels like it. Lunch is served between 13:30 and 15:30; arrive at 15:31 and you will be offered a bag of crisps. Order the cordero lechal – milk-fed lamb slow-roasted in a wood oven until the rib bones pull out like darts. The meat is mild, closer to Welsh spring lamb than to the stronger mutton taste found further south. A half-kilo portion feeds two and costs €24; potatoes are extra and nobody counts calories.

Vegetarians get grilled piquillo peppers stuffed with Burgos cheese, a fresh ricotta that works surprisingly well on the village's crusty white loaf. The local honey is dark, almost treacly, and the monks bottle an herb liqueur that tastes like cough mixture mixed with Christmas pudding. One small glass is restorative; two and you will sleep through the dawn chant.

Evenings tail off quickly. When the last coach leaves at 18:15 the square empties, shutters rattle down and the streetlights flicker on with the hesitation of someone who isn't sure they're needed. Stay overnight and you can walk the cobbles alone, listening to owls and the creak of the 125-year-old cypress that leans over the cloister wall. Light pollution is negligible; the Milky Way looks like someone spilt sugar across velvet.

Getting here, staying warm, leaving room for biscuits

There is no railway. Burgos, 60 km north, has the nearest ALSA station. From there the once-daily Arceredillo bus departs at 17:30, crawls through pine plantations and pulls into Silos at 19:00 just as the bells start. The return leaves at 08:10; miss it and a taxi from Hortigüela costs €35. Driving is simpler: take the N-234, swing off at Aranda de Duero and follow the BU-911 up through the pines. Free parking rings the village, but the upper level fills fast with motorhomes – arrive before 11:00 or expect to parallel-park between oaks.

Accommodation is small-scale: two guesthouses inside the walls, three rural houses on the approach road. Beds have electric blankets set to "medio" year-round and the windows are double-glazed against the mountain chill. Prices hover around €65 for a double including breakfast – expect strong coffee, thick hot chocolate and a slab of sponge cake that would make Mary Berry jealous.

Check-out time is noon, which gives you just enough daylight for the gorge walk and a last beer under the arcades. Before you leave, duck into the monastery shop. The nuns wrap almond biscuits in brown paper and seal them with wax. They travel better than magnet souvenirs and taste better than anything duty-free will ever offer. Slip a box into your rucksack and the chant will follow you all the way back to British drizzle.