Puente la Reina

The first thing that hits you is the backpacks. Even at 8 a.m. they're everywhere—leaning against stone doorways, lined up outside the bakery, strapped to Germans having coffee on the church steps. Puente la Reina doesn't just sit on the Camino de Santiago; it is the Camino, the exact spot where the French and Aragonese routes stop flirting and commit to the same path westward. Population 2,944, altitude 365 metres, and a thousand years of footfall have worn the cobbles smoother than any council pavement programme could manage.

The Bridge That Named the Town

Cross the six-arched Romanesque bridge and you understand why medieval engineers got the credit. Built in the 11th century—before Navarra had motorway tolls—it still carries every pilgrim over the Río Arga. Walk halfway, turn back, then scramble down to the riverbank for the proper view: the whole 110-metre length reflected in water that can be a brown torrent in April or a polite trickle by August. Either way, the photo works better from down here; upstairs you only get parapet and sky.

Morning light is kinder before ten o'clock, once the August sun climbs the thermometer past 32 °C and the stone turns into a giant storage heater. Spring and autumn visitors win twice: mild air and liquid gold evenings that make the sandstone glow without the sweat. Winter is quiet, sometimes snowy, but buses still run—unlike the summer swimming pool which shuts the day schools go back.

One Street, Two Churches, No Rush

Calle Mayor runs straight for 300 metres, just enough time to notice the details if you dawdle. Start at the Iglesia del Crucifijo: spare, cool, a single 14th-century cross that pilgrims touch for luck. No baroque excess here; the building feels like a pause rather than a performance. Staff tolerate rucksacks but will shoo you out if you try to film.

Carry on and the portada of Santiago church jumps out—Romanesque carving worth the neck-ache. Capital scenes show pilgrims with sticks, scallop shells and the sort of thigh muscles most of us lost after university. Inside you get the opposite mood: plain walls, flickering candles, the occasional snore from someone who started in Roncesvalles at dawn. If the door's locked, wait ten minutes; the key-holder lives two doors down and usually reappears with shopping.

Between the churches the street shrinks to shoulder-width. Nobles' coats of arms jut out like Tudor pub signs—look for the one with two lions doing gymnastics. The Palacio de los Patriarca sits half-way up, stone the colour of digestive biscuits, now council offices where you can pick up a free town map and ask where to eat without being sold an overpriced pilgrim set menu.

What to Eat When the Boots Come Off

Menus are written for walkers: calories first, aesthetics second. The classic menú del peregrino lands salad, trout, half a bottle of rosado and a crème caramel for €12–14 almost everywhere before 4 p.m. Pimientos de Padrón arrive blistered and salty—Spanish roulette for the one that bites back. If you can't face tripe, avoid callos; the sauce is luscious but the texture reminds school-dinner veterans of overstewed liver. Vegetarians survive on pochas (fresh white beans) and the daily vegetable scramble the kitchen whips up when pressed.

Sunday and Monday catch visitors out: half the restaurants close, but the two pilgrim cafés by the bridge stay open because walkers don't do weekends. There is no left-luggage office; Hotel Jakue will store your bag for €2 if you smile nicely—essential if you want to cross the bridge unencumbered and explore the river path.

Beyond the Cobbles: Vineyards and Pools

Turn south at the bridge, follow the tarmac for five minutes and municipal gates reveal the outdoor pool (entry €3, pilgrim discount if you still smell of camino). Locals treat it like a British lido on the only hot Saturday of the year—music, crisps, inflatable sharks—so bring earplugs if serenity is required. The water is mountain-cold even in July and the changing rooms smell exactly like the ones you remember from 1993.

For quieter legs, the signed Camino Natural del río Arga heads both directions along the flood-plain. North leads towards Zuriain through poplars and small-holdings; south meanders past vegetable plots and a solar farm that looks like a lake of blue panels. Either way you meet more herons than hikers, and the flat gravel suits anyone who has already climbed the Pyrenees this week.

Getting There, Getting Out

No railway line ever reached Puente la Reina. From the UK fly to Bilbao or Biarritz, then ALSA bus to Pamplona (1 hr 30). From Pamplona's bus station platform 9, La Tafallesa line 840 runs every hour, 24 km, €2.55, and drops you outside the 12th-century church in 35 minutes. Last return is 20:30—miss it and a taxi costs around €35.

Drivers should ignore the sat-nav siren song of "shortest route" through the old town; the bridge is pedestrian only and Calle Mayor barely fits a donkey. Use the free car park signed on the NA-111 as you enter from the east, two minutes' walk to everything.

Accommodation ranges from €12 dorm beds to €90 doubles in the former monastery. July fiesta week (Virgen del Puy, around the 14th) books out months ahead; brass bands parade at 3 a.m. and fireworks echo off stone like gunshot. Great fun if you came for noise, less so if you need sleep before walking 24 km tomorrow.

Worth the Detour?

Puente la Reina delivers exactly what it promises: a medieval river crossing that still works, food that understands hunger, and the cheapest history lesson you'll get in northern Spain. Stay two hours and you'll photograph the bridge, stamp your credential, eat lunch and leave happy. Stay a night and you'll notice the way evening light turns the stone walls honey-coloured, how swallows replace pilgrims in the sky at dusk, and why people who meant to pass through end up booking a second night. Just remember to top up cash on Calle Mayor—there are no ATMs for the next three days' walk west, and even medieval bridges can't span that gap.