Aranjuez

The train doors hiss open at Aranjuez station and something immediately feels different. The air carries a faint sweetness—strawberries ripening in nearby fields—rather than Madrid's diesel tang. Forty-five minutes south of Atocha, you've dropped 300 metres in altitude and stepped into what was, for three centuries, the Spanish court's pressure valve against courtly suffocation.

A Palace That Faces the River, Not the Road

Most royal residences announce themselves from hilltops. Aranjuez Palace turns its back on the town and gazes instead at the Tagus, which performs a lazy S-curve here wide enough to reflect the building's salmon-pink façade. The Bourbons chose this floodplain deliberately; spring temperatures arrive two weeks earlier than in Madrid, and the river provided both defence and a ready-made reflecting pool for their architectural vanity project.

Inside, the palace compresses three centuries of royal whim into surprisingly walkable quarters. The Throne Room's ceiling frescoes took fourteen years to complete—longer than some monarchs lasted—and the Arab Room's horseshoe arches feel transported from Granada's Alhambra, which they essentially were. The famous Porcelain Cabinet, its walls entirely lined with Royal Factory ceramics, demonstrates what happens when absolute power meets interior-design Pinterest boards.

Yet it's the separate Casa del Labrador, tucked deep inside the Prince's Garden, that stops visitors mid-stride. Built as a garden pavilion, its interior rivals Versailles for gilded excess—only here, everything's crammed into four rooms rather than spread across a palace wing. English tours run once daily at 15:25; arrive twenty minutes early or you'll be listening to Spanish explanations while British school groups hog the good viewing angles.

Gardens That Reward the Wrong Shoes

The Prince's Garden stretches two kilometres from palace gates to river weir, and most visitors underestimate the walk. What looks manageable on the tourist map becomes a forty-minute stroll past fountains, follies and what must be Spain's most under-employed team of gardeners. The formal Parterre Garden near the palace offers tidy French geometry, but the Prince's Garden goes full English landscape—deliberately wild, with olive groves and cypress avenues that frame views of the palace like oil paintings.

Bring trainers. The paths are gravel, the distances deceptive, and the café halfway along closes without ceremony during low season. Those who persist reach the riverbank where rowboats drift past and locals fish for carp with the patience of people who've never commuted on the C-3 line.

A Town That Refuses to Be a Museum

Aranjuez should feel like a heritage theme park—palace, gardens, UNESCO designation, the lot. Instead, it's stubbornly alive. The morning market on Plaza de Abastos sells those famous strawberries (fresas) from April through June, stacked in punnets that actually taste like the fruit is supposed to. White asparagus appears in season too, mild enough to convert even the vegetable-sceptical when served simply with mayonnaise.

Local restaurants lean heavily on the huerta (market garden) produce. Menestra de verduras—a stew of artichokes, peas and beans—tastes like someone distilled spring into bowl form. The roasted lamb provides ballast for palace-weary walkers, though most kitchens shut abruptly at 15:30. Miss this window and you're on crisps until evening service begins.

Evenings belong to the river. Families stroll along the Tagus promenade while teenagers practice skateboard tricks beneath the plane trees. The Theatre Royal Carlos III, built in 1768, still programmes concerts and plays; its baroque interior provides a suitably grand setting for everything from Mozart to Spanish indie bands who've presumably made it.

Practicalities Without the Pain

Getting here requires minimal effort. Cercanías trains depart Madrid's Atocha every thirty minutes; the 45-minute journey costs €4.05 each way, making it cheaper than a central Madrid taxi. From Aranjuez station, it's a fifteen-minute walk straight down Calle de la Reina—taxis refuse the fare, so don't bother trying.

Palace tickets work better online; the on-site machines crash with monotonous regularity. Sunday afternoons offer free palace entry, but you'll queue longer than the Caja Madrid savings line in 2008. Monday everything shuts—palace, churches, most restaurants—so don't plan your visit then unless you enjoy photographing closed doors.

The town's flat layout suits pushchairs and mobility scooters, though the Prince's Garden's gravel paths test wheelchair motors. Summer midday heat can be brutal; visit gardens early or late, and carry water—the fountains look refreshing but aren't for drinking.

Seasons That Actually Matter

Spring transforms Aranjuez into its best self. Strawberry stalls line the roads, palace gardens bloom sequentially (tulips first, then roses, then summer bedding), and temperatures hover in the low twenties. The Tren de la Fresa runs weekends between April and June, using restored 1850s carriages for the Madrid journey while staff dressed as period conductors serve strawberries and cream. It's touristy but delivers exactly what it promises—nostalgia with decent catering.

Autumn brings golden light and fewer crowds. The plane trees along Paseo de la Reina turn butter-yellow, and the Prince's Garden empties enough to hear leaves crunch. Winter can be sharp—this is still Castilian plateau country—but the palace interiors feel cosier when outside temperatures drop.

Summer requires strategy. Shade exists in pockets, and the palace's air-conditioning struggles with coach-party body heat. Arrive early, siesta through the fierce afternoon in one of the riverfront cafés, then resume exploring as shadows lengthen.

The Return Journey

The 22:30 Cercanías back to Madrid marks the night's official end. Miss it and you're looking at seventy euros for a taxi, assuming you can find one. Most visitors file onto the platform clutching strawberry punnets and palace guidebooks, suddenly conscious that Madrid's neon feels harsher after a day among royal fountains and river breezes.

Aranjuez doesn't shout for attention. It simply continues its four-century routine of growing vegetables, maintaining gardens and providing Madrid with breathing space. That the routine happens to include a palace, UNESCO status and strawberries worth the train fare is almost incidental. Almost.