Alcalá de Henares

The 7.15 a.m. Cercanías from Madrid Atocha carries the usual load of commuters, but by the time it reaches Alcalá de Henares the carriages empty and the soundtrack changes. Mobile ringtones are replaced by cathedral bells that have rung since 1513, and the morning coffee comes in proper ceramic cups, not cardboard. At platform 2 you are 35 kilometres from the capital, yet the air feels thinner, the light yellower, and every second shopfront claims some link to a writer who died penniless in 1616.

A university that still marks homework

The first thing you notice is students everywhere. They sprawl on the steps of the Colegio de San Ildefonso, argue over photocopies beneath its Plateresque façade, and use the 500-year-old university gates as bike racks. Entry is free before 10 a.m.; afterwards the porter charges €2 and insists you whisper. Inside, the patios smell of orange peel and floor wax. Look up: the carved medallions of Isabella and Ferdinand are rubbed shiny where generations have reached for luck before exams. The Paraninfo, the cherry-wood theatre where Cervantes prizes are handed out each April, is unlocked only for guided tours at noon; if the door is ajar, slip in and sit at the back – the acoustics turn a cough into a cannon shot.

Round the corner, the cathedral tower leans 1.3 degrees off vertical thanks to a 16th-century miscalculation. The tilt is too slight for selfies but enough to make bell-ringers complain of sea-sickness. Inside, the Gothic vaults are painted wedding-cake white, partly to cover fire damage, partly because the local bishop liked the brightness. Drop €1 in the box and the sacristan will switch on the altarpiece lights for exactly 90 seconds – long enough to notice that one of the painted saints has a wristwatch, added by a mischievous restorer in 1963.

Tapas by tribunal

Calle Mayor, Europe’s longest arcaded high street, runs straight from Plaza de Cervantes to the old city gate. The stone benches under the arches are occupied by retired men who read the papers aloud to each other; step around them and you will be offered a free tapa whether you want one or not. The protocol is rigid: order a caña (small beer), accept whatever arrives – perhaps a saucer of migas, breadcrumbs fried with chorizo – and leave the napkin on the floor when you finish. Failure to litter is taken as criticism of the kitchen.

Indalo Tapas (number 83) keeps 30 metal trays on the counter at all times. The croquetas change flavour according to the cook’s mood: yesterday squid, today morcilla, tomorrow yesterday’s leftovers reinvented. A drink costs €3.40 and the second tapa is always larger than the first; by the third you are family and they ask why British beer is so sweet. Vegetarians should head for Rusty Grill round the corner – printed English menu, chip-butty-style tostas, and waitresses who will warn you that the grilled peppers “might be a bit spicy for northern lips”.

Cervantes without the waxworks

Don Miguel’s reconstructed birthplace on Calle Mayor is free, closes at 2 p.m., and smells faintly of candle smoke and old paper. The curators refuse to install talking mannequins; instead you get a 16th-century inkwell, a desk the size of a tea tray, and a recording of Don Quixote read by a Spanish actor who sounds as if he is swallowing gravel. Children are handed a quill and invited to deface a sheet of parchment – results are pinned on the wall, creating a constantly changing exhibition of juvenile graffiti in Latin.

Opposite, the Corral de Comedias still functions as a theatre. Wooden benches, no heating, and a painted ceiling that leaks when the wind is easterly. Performances start at 8 p.m. sharp; arrive late and you must wait in the yard until the interval, whatever the weather. Tickets €12–18, cheaper than Madrid, and the ushers let you bring in plastic cups of wine purchased from the plaza kiosk.

River paths and brutalist angels

If the tapas become oppressive, follow the signposts marked “Senderos del Henares”. Five minutes from the cathedral the tarmac stops, the river widens, and you are among poplars and nightingales. The path is flat, paved, and popular with pregnant women pushing prams at considerable speed; step aside or be mown down. After two kilometres the city’s newest piece of public art appears: six concrete angels, three metres tall, embedded in the old wall. Locals call them “the fallen aeronauts”; visitors either photograph them obsessively or cross to the opposite bank. Either way, the council has installed a vending machine that dispenses cans of beer at €1.50 – possibly the only riverside gallery in Spain where you can drink while you contemplate.

When to come, when to stay away

Spring and autumn give you 20 °C afternoons and students in T-shirts. In July the thermometer hits 38 °C by eleven o’clock; museums become refugee camps and the cathedral’s stone pillars sweat. Winter is quiet, days finish at 6 p.m., and the arcades shelter old men playing cards for centimo coins – atmospheric but chilly. Monday is shutdown day: only the bakery and the Irish bar open, and even the swifts disappear.

Trains back to Madrid run every 15 minutes until 11.30 p.m.; after that you are stuck unless you fancy the night bus that smells of crisps and university heartbreak. If you miss the last train, the Hotel Cisneros on the main square offers small rooms with views of the bell tower – every quarter hour you will know exactly how long you have been awake.

Alcalá works best as a slow-motion day out. Arrive early, loaf, eat, read a chapter of Quixote on a bench, and catch the 7.30 p.m. service home. You will have walked less than five miles, spent under forty euros, and returned with the odd sensation that Madrid, not Alcalá, is the provincial town.