Medina del Campo

The brick walls of Castillo de la Mota rise 35 metres above wheat fields that stretch, dead flat, to every horizon. From the battlements you can see the town's terracotta roofs, the Gothic tower of San Antolín, and—on a clear winter afternoon—the snow-dusted peaks of the Sierra de Gredos 80 km away. At 720 m altitude the air is thinner than coastal Spain; in July it knocks the edge off the heat, in January it adds a knife-sharp chill that makes a wool coat feel sensible rather than theatrical.

Medina del Campo owes its size—21,000 inhabitants, big for rural Castile—to something most visitors have never heard of: the Fairs of Medina. Between the 15th and 16th centuries these markets handled the wool cheques that financed half of Europe. Italian bankers set up temporary counting houses beneath the arcades of Plaza Mayor; Flemish agents bargained for merino fleeces; Portuguese merchants paid with silver brought west from Seville. The money dried up long ago, but the stone coats-of-arms carved onto mansion façades still brag about it.

A Castle That Once Held Kings for Ransom

La Mota is not a toy fort. The outer wall encloses seven hectares, the keep contains a 142-step spiral staircase, and the parapet walkway is wide enough for two carts to pass—handy when Isabel of Castile was besieged inside in 1475. English-speaking guides run twice daily (11:00 and 16:30, €7) and worth the extra euro because the audioguide rattles off dates without context. Ask instead why the castle well is 140 m deep or how a Welsh mercenary, Sir Hugh John, ended up governor here in 1492. Interior rooms are mostly bare, so the visit is about scale and views rather than tapestries. Close the outer gate and the wind off the meseta whistles exactly as it did when prisoners rattled their chains.

Downhill, the Royal Testamentary Palace displays the four-metre parchment on which Isabel dictated her will. Even if Latin contracts make your eyes glaze over, the building itself—a hybrid of brick and local red stone—shows how Castilian architects patched together whatever materials the wool boom could pay for. Admission €3; joint ticket with the castle €8.50. Doors shut 14:00–16:30, plan around it.

Plaza Mayor Without the Sangría Circuit

Spanish squares fall into two camps: theme-park pretty or still-used messy. Medina's is the second. Under the granite arcades butchers slice morcilla next to mobile-phone shops; old men play cards at 10 a.m. while mothers push buggies to the Saturday market. Order a café con leche at La Colonial (corner of Calle Amaniel) and you will pay €1.30, roughly half the price on Salamanca's Plaza Mayor 50 km away. The Collegiate Church of San Antolín forms the north side; step inside to see the Flemish-imported altarpiece that cost 2,000 ducats in 1548—small change to a wool broker, a fortune to a shepherd.

Outside, follow the bronze scallop shells set into the pavement: the local council has way-marked a 2 km loop, the Ruta de los Palacios, that passes six 16th-century mansions. Most are now flats, so you gawp at Renaissance portals while someone upstairs hangs laundry. The contrast feels more honest than a perfectly restored but empty museum street.

Food That Prefers Lamb to Chorizo

Medina restaurants assume you have driven in from Valladolid for lunch, so they serve hearty. Lechazo—milk-fed lamb slow-roasted in a wood-fired oven—dominates weekend menus. A quarter portion at Asador de la Villa (Calle Santiago 22) feeds two modest appetites for €24 and arrives with nothing more than a green salad and a jug of local Rueda white. Vegetarians do better with judiones, giant butter beans stewed with saffron and scraps of jamón; the flavour is gentle, closer to a cassoulet than to fiery Andalusian stews. Pudding choices are limited: either torrija (Spanish eggy-bread soaked in wine and cinnamon) or tarta de chicharrón—yes, a cake made with pig fat. Order coffee instead; it arrives in separate glasses of milk and espresso, so you can mix to taste.

Evening tapas happen along Calle Amaniel and Calle del Peso. Try the pincho moruno, mini pork skewers rubbed with cumin and served on crusty bread (€2). Bars open late by British clocks—don't expect dinner before 21:00—but the advantage is that you can still get a plate at midnight when the last AVE train from Madrid has disgorged its commuters.

Getting There, Staying Over, Escaping

Fly Ryanair Stansted–Valladolid (2 hrs), then ALSA coach to Medina (45 min, €4.50). If you miss the 21:30 return, a taxi costs €55—split three ways it hurts less than a roadside hotel. Trains exist but follow the slow regional line; bus beats them on both speed and price.

Within town everything sits inside a 1 km grid, so walking is fastest. A car helps only if you want to combine Medina with the Roman gold mines at Las Médulas (90 min west) or the pork-curing village of Guijuelo (75 min south). Winter drivers: the N-601 is routinely closed by drifting snow for a couple of days each February; carry blankets and water, phone coverage is patchy on the meseta.

Accommodation is scarce. The parador inside the castle has 18 rooms and charges €140–€160; book two months ahead for September's mediaeval fair. Otherwise Hostal Alba two streets back offers clean doubles for €45, though walls are thin and Saturday-night processions can rumble past until 2 a.m. Light sleepers pack ear-plugs.

When to Drop In, When to Dodge

April–May and late September give daytime sun (22 °C) and cool nights (8 °C) ideal for walking the walls. Holy Week processions, among Spain's oldest, pack the narrow lanes from Palm Sunday to Easter Monday; hotel prices rise 20% and bars run out of beer by 23:00. July and August are dry but surprisingly bearable thanks to altitude; still, most restaurants close the first fortnight of August while owners holiday on the coast. Winter is bright—six hours of sunshine even in December—but the wind can slice through denim. If you come then, plan museum visits for the afternoon when temperatures nudge 10 °C and castle staff light braziers in the guardrooms.

Leave time to sit on the plaza steps at dusk. Swifts wheel above the streetlights, church bells count the hour, and the evening coach back to Valladolid rumbles out, half-empty. Medina del Campo will never match Segovia for selfie backdrops, yet the town's confidence feels intact. The wool merchants departed centuries ago; the place kept their bricks, their churches, and their habit of closing shop for siesta—whether or not anyone is watching.