Villalcázar de Sirga

The bells start at seven. Not the polite Anglican chime you might expect, but a proper Castilian clang that carries across bare wheatfields for miles. From the edge of Villalcázar de Sirga you can watch the sound travel—first the jackdaws scatter off the church roof, then a tractor pauses on the horizon, its driver taking the pause that village life still allows. Eight hundred and ten metres above sea level, the place feels higher than the number suggests: the air thins, the sky widens, and every footstep on the calle Mayor seems to echo a little longer than it ought to.

A Fortified Church That Outgrew Its Village

Santa María la Blanca was built to impress thirteenth-century pilgrims who had spent the previous week trudging across the Tierra de Campos, and it still works. The west portal is a riot of stone soap-opera: archivolts crammed with souls being weighed, dragons gnawing on the damned, and a Virgin so calmly aloof she might be checking her phone. Step inside and the temperature drops five degrees; the thick ashlar walls swallow mobile signal along with the heat. Gothic tombs flank the nave—Infante Felipe of Castile and his wife lie effigies in chain-mail and court dress, their stone dogs curled at their feet. The guidebook calls them “exquisite examples of Castilian funerary art”; the verger, who doubles as the village plumber, calls them “the lads” and will lift the rope barrier if you ask nicely.

Climb the tower—€2 coin in the honesty box— and the whole Camino Francés appears as a brown ribbon across a blond tablecloth. You can spot the next day’s walk: the path lifts over a low ridge, aims at a water tower, then dissolves into shimmer. In April the fields below are emerald; by late July they have bleached to the colour of lion hide. Either way, bring water—there isn’t a café for the next ten kilometres.

Knights, Hospitals and a Rather Thin Castle

The Templars chose the site well: a gentle rise above the flood plain, visible from two days off. Eight medieval hospitals once fed and bedded pilgrims here; nothing remains above ground except a worn carving of a Maltese cross reused as a windowsill in the albergue kitchen. The castle they erected is harder to love—after the Order was suppressed in 1312 the locals treated the fortress like a quarry. What survives is a single tower incorporated into a private house, its arrow slits now glazed and curtained. Knock politely and the owner, Don Aurelio, will let you photograph the Romanesque base for €1. He’ll also tell you that English Templars hid treasure nearby, a tale he confesses inventing after the third beer.

Beds, Blisters and the 14:00 Rush

Pilgrims divide into two camps: those who gamble on the 20-bed municipal hostel run by the Order of Malta, and those who pay €10 for certainty at the private Albergue Don Camino. Both fill by three in the afternoon during May and September. The smart money phones ahead from Carrión de los Condes, six kilometres back. Everyone else sits on the church steps comparing blisters until the doors open at two sharp. Showers are hot, sheets are provided, but bring cash—there’s no card machine and the nearest ATM is in Carrión. Lights-out is ten; anyone rustling plastic bags after ten-thirty is counselled with Spanish frankness.

Roast Lamb and Other Meseta Fuel

Supper options are limited to two mesones and a bar that doubles as the bus-stop waiting room. Mesón de los Templarios prints a bilingual menu that flatters to deceive: the three-course menú del día is £12 and starts with sopa castellana—essentially cabbage, paprika and enough pig fat to waterproof boots. The main choice is lechazo, suckling lamb slow-roasted in a wood-fired oven until the flesh submits at the touch of a fork. British palates expecting mint sauce may find it bland; ask for ajo (garlic) or pimientón (smoked paprika) to cut the richness. Vegetarians get eggs and potatoes, usually in the same frying pan. Wine comes in half-bottles; water is preferable at midday when the mercury brushes 38 °C.

Walking Onwards, or Not

Most visitors leave after breakfast, boots clacking towards the next village before the sun climbs above the bell tower. Those with time to spare can follow a six-kilometre loop south along an irrigation ditch to the ruined Ermita de la Virgen del Valle, favourite of storks and the occasional marsh harrier. The path is flat, unsigned and shadeless—carry at least a litre of water and start early. In winter the same route turns to porridge after rain; Wellington boots recommended.

Drivers have more options. Ten minutes east lies Frómista, whose eleventh-century church of San Martín is a textbook of pure Romanesque geometry—worth the detour even if you can’t tell a capital from a cappuccino. Head west and you reach Carrión de los Condes, large enough for a supermarket that stays open through siesta and a cash machine that actually works. Both villages sit on the regional bus line that links Palencia and Sahagún; two services a day, timetables designed more for hope than certainty.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April and late-September give you daylight walking weather without the furnace blast of midsummer. The village fiesta around 15 August triples the population and halves the chance of a bed; it also supplies the only night of the year when you can dance in the plaza until the Guardia Civil suggest bedtime. Winter is quiet, occasionally magical when snow dusts the wheat stubble, but temperatures drop to –8 °C at night and the municipal hostel closes from December to February. If you must come then, ring the ayuntamiento in Carrión first—someone will lend you a key, but they like to know your surname first.

Last Orders

Villalcázar de Sirga offers no souvenir shops, no audio guides, no craft-beer taproom. What it does provide is a crash course in meseta life: wind that never quite drops, stone that has absorbed eight centuries of footfall, and a church bell that still calls time louder than any phone alert. Stay an hour or stay a night; just don’t expect the place to entertain you. Entertainment here is self-service—sit on the church step, wait for the light to turn the stone gold, and listen to the fields rustle like an audience settling down. When the bells strike eight, join the pilgrims shuffling towards whatever menu is chalked on the door. Tomorrow the path will still be there, straight as a ruler and every bit as forgiving.