San Esteban de Gormaz

The church door creaks open at San Miguel to reveal twenty-four weathered columns and a gallery that predates Magna Carta. Outside, the Duero River glints 854 metres below, and apart from a retired teacher unlocking the porch, the plaza is empty. This is San Esteban de Gormaz in early May: warm enough for shirtsleeves, cold enough to see your breath at dawn, and quiet enough that the loudest noise is storks clacking on the ruined castle tower.

Most British travellers race past the Soria turn-off on the A-2, bound for Segovia's aqueduct or Salamanca's golden stone. That single decision keeps this small Castilian town mercifully free of coach parties. What remains is a working village of 3,000 where butcher's vans still toot their horns at breakfast time and the evening paseo is a shuffle of grandparents, prams and leashed terriers rather than a parade of selfie sticks.

Romanesque Without the Crowds

Two twelfth-century churches sit within five minutes of each other, both unlocked, free and usually deserted. San Miguel's south portal is a crash-course in medieval symbolism: lions devour men, serents coil around columns, and a farmer looks remarkably fed-up with his plough. Bring a torch – capitals on the shady north side are easy to miss. Nuestra Señora del Rivero stands higher up the hill; the climb is short but steep on cobbles polished smooth by eight centuries of sandals and, more recently, budget trainers. From the tiny arched window over the apse you can follow the Duero's lazy S-bend west towards the wine country of Aranda.

Between the churches the old town tumbles down a narrow ridge. Manor houses carry coats of arms chipped by wind and Civil War bullets; one façade still shows the pockmarks of a 1936 machine-gun post. The medieval bridge, rebuilt after floods in the 1500s, is now traffic-free. Stand here at sunset when the stone warms to the colour of burnt biscuits and swallows skim the water – it is the closest the village comes to a postcard, yet even in August you'll share it with no more than a handful of Spanish motor-cyclists.

A Castle That Lets the Sky In

Little more than a broken keep and fragments of wall survive of the fortress that once guarded the Christian frontier. The ticket booth never happened, the explanatory panel blew away years ago, and safety rails are non-existent: peer over the parapet and you survey the same Duero plain that worried tenth-century sentries. Wear shoes with grip; the rubble is loose and the drop sheer. On hazy days the river disappears into heat shimmer; after rain the entire valley smells of wet thyme and you can count the poplars one by one.

Wine, Lamb and the Lunchtime Curfew

San Esteban sits at the eastern lip of the Ribera del Duero, so Tempranillo is cheaper than water and usually better. The local co-operative sells young crianza from a side-street garage; turn up with an empty plastic five-litre flagon before 11 a.m. and they'll fill it for €12. If you prefer labels, drive fifteen minutes to the boutique bodega of Ars Vel, where English-speaking Beatriz dishes out tapa-sized cubes of roast lamb to soften the tannins.

Lamb is religion here. Lechazo arrives at table in a clay dish, half a milk-fed shoulder bronzed by a wood-fired clay oven. The meat is mild – closer to spring chicken than Welsh mutton – and portioned for sharing. Vegetarians get patatas a la importancia, slices of potato in a gentle saffron-egg sauce that tastes like nursery food given a Spanish passport. Kitchens open at 14:00 sharp and close by 16:30; attempt to order at 15:55 and you'll be waved away with the phrase "el horno ya está frío" (the oven is cold). Supper does not restart until 21:00, so plan accordingly or stock up on the local sheep-milk cheese and a loaf of pan de pueblo.

Flat Walks, Sharp Wind

The riverbank path heads both east and west for easy, level kilometres beneath poplars and irrigated allotments. Cyclists can follow quiet tarmac lanes through wheat and barley that ripple like North Sea surf when the meseta wind gets up. In April the fields turn luminous green, in July they bleach to pale gold, and by October great rolls of straw dot the horizon like discarded Swiss rolls. Summer temperatures touch 38 °C; the air is dry but shade is scarce, so carry more water than you think civilised. Winter, on the other hand, is surprisingly brutal: night frosts are common, the wind slices straight from the Gormaz Pass, and the castle can be closed on safety grounds after snow. If you want green hills and comfortable hiking, target the last two weeks of April or mid-October.

Getting There, Getting Fed, Getting Beds

No train line reaches the village. The closest Hertz desk is at Soria, 45 minutes west on the SO-20, or at Burgos airport, an hour and three-quarters north. Roads are empty, petrol stations less so – fill up before you leave the A-2. Monday is still the traditional closing day; even the bakery shutters stay down, so arrive on Sunday when families pour in from surrounding farms and the main square hums with prams and political debate.

Accommodation is limited to two small hotels and a handful of village houses let to Spanish weekenders. Prices hover around €70 for a double, breakfast usually extra. In August the place doubles as a medieval stage set for a weekend market; rooms sell out six months ahead. If you strike out, base yourself in El Burgo de Osma twenty minutes west – prettier, pricier, but with plenty of beds and a cathedral chapter house that puts most Oxford colleges to shame.

Cash remains king. Many bars still run tabs on a chalkboard and look baffled at contactless cards; the nearest 24-hour ATM is inside the petrol station on the main road, though it eats foreign cards for sport. Bring euros and a phrasebook: outside the winery, English is rarely heard.

When to Bail Out

San Esteban de Gormaz will never dazzle in the way Seville or Barcelona can. A wet Tuesday in February feels desolate: cafés empty, river path muddy, castle dripping. If you need museums, nightlife or souvenir shopping, keep driving. What the village offers instead is a slice of rural Castile that has not been repackaged for export. Sit on the bridge at dusk with a bag of fresh almonds, watch the sky turn from brass to violet, and listen to the river sliding past poplar trunks that were saplings when El Cid rode this way. Then decide whether to stay for the lamb or head back to the motorway.