Click here to read the previous post, Adjusting to Life in Spain: Authentic Spanish Slang
My feet were itching to travel again, so this weekend I decided to head out into the wild unknown! For me, that is. I found a little town called Buitrago del Lozoya. The draw? Small town, medieval ruins, surrounded by nature. I was looking forward to a quiet, relaxed weekend getaway surrounded by ancient castle ruins and hiking paths.
Buitrago del Lozoya is a historic town of 1,973 inhabitants located approximately 80 km north of Madrid. Nestled at the foot of the mountain range Sierra de Guadarrama and encircled by the Lozoya River, it’s known for its well-preserved medieval architecture, notably a defensive wall surrounding the village and the 15th-century Castillo de los Mendoza (Mendoza Castle, or the more colloquial name for it, Castle of Buitrago del Lozoya).
That was all I needed to know. Well, that and how to get there without a car. I packed my bag and looked up the bus route. According to Google Maps, I needed to take Line 5 on the Metro to Avenida de América Transport Hub, and from there take the Burgo De Osma intracity bus, which stopped in Buitrago del Lozoya.
But when I got to the Avenida de América Transport Hub, I couldn’t find the bus going to Burgo De Osma. There were three levels in this transport station: metro trains (within the city of Madrid), intracity buses (within the community of Madrid, not unlike a province), and long-distance buses (within Spain).
Since Buitrago del Lozoya is within the community of Madrid, I knew that it was an intracity bus, but I couldn’t find it in the hub. I asked a bus driver and he told me to take the metro, line 6, a circular route FYI. Nope. Then I asked a transport hub worker and he told me to go up to the long-distance bus level. Nope. I finally asked another worker who helpfully looked it up on his phone and showed me exactly what I needed to do.
First, I was in the wrong fucking transit hub. Google Maps had sent me to the Intercambiador de Avenida de América, but where I needed to be was the Intercambiador Exterior Plaza de Castilla, about 4 km (2.5 miles) north. It was a 9-minute metro ride. (Note to self: For intercity travel Maps pretty good, but for intracity travel, it leaves a lot to be desired.)
From there, I had to take the ALSA #191 intracity bus. ALSA (which stands for Automóviles Luarca, S.A.) is a huge regional, national and international bus company in Spain. Once in the correct bus station, I easily found 191, then anxiously (since nobody seemed to know anything, I still wasn’t 100% sure this was the right bus) stood in line for about twenty minutes.
I had actually thought of just giving up and going home. This was the first trip I was making all by myself. I’d been to Galicia with friends, a small town in Extremadura with a friend, a pueblo in the province of Toledo with a friend, and El Escorial, just north of Madrid, with a friend. But this was the first time I was maneuvering the public transport system without a native guide. Needless to say, I get anxious easily. But I thought of the non-refundable hotel I’d reserved for two nights, and that gave me the motivation to keep going.
Just to make triple sure, when I boarded the bus, I asked the driver if it went direct to Buitrago del Lozoya, and upon hearing “Yup” I fully relaxed. Then I attempted to pay the fare with my debit card. “Solamente efectivo,” said the driver, which meant “cash only.” I froze for a moment. After all the obstacles I’ve overcome to get on this damn bus you mean to tell me I’m thwarted by cash?? Thank fucking god I had money on me (which I don’t usually). I paid the €5.10 and took a seat.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, we arrived at the small town.
The first thing I noticed was: all the fucking people!! My first mistake (okay, at this point I guess I’m on the fourth or fifth) was assuming that I was the only one interested in and traveling to this historic town—and on the weekend, no less! There was a group of screechy teen tourists (school trip?) parading down the main street, tons of families with hyper tots and bored preteens meandering through the historic ruins, and hordes of people seated at all the outdoor tables along Calle Real.
Shit. My expectations had just butted up against reality. I had been hoping for a relaxing weekend in a quiet pueblo. (Note to self: Next time do better research! Why do I always think I’m the only one who knows about a particular town—or restaurant or anything??)
Five minutes later I approached the front door of the hotel I’d reserved, Hotel La Beltraneja. Holy cow. I actually double checked the address because it looked like it was part of Castillo de los Mendoza. But, yes, it was the hotel.
The view to my left while standing in front of the hotel:
The hotel door was locked, so I pressed the “reception” buzzer. No one answered. An icy wind was clawing at my neck, and I pressed the buzzer again. Still no answer. Putting aside my fears of speaking Spanish on the phone (it’s hard enough trying to understand rapidly spoken Spanish, but over the phone it’s near impossible), I called the phone number on the sign out front, and almost instantly a voice answered. I told him (in Spanish) my name, that I had a reservation, and that I was standing out front.
“Ah, Selena!” said the chipper voice. “Algodemasiadorápidoparaentender.” (Somethingtoofasttounderstand.”)
“Perdón, un poco más despacio, por favor. No hablo español muy bien.” (“Sorry, a little slower please. I don’t speak Spanish very well.”)
“¡Disculpa!” (“Sorry!”) he said, and then repeated himself exactly as fast.
But I did manage to pick up “¡Ya voy!” (“I’ll be right over!”).
A moment later a lovely young man appeared and let me in. Since there is no lobby or reception desk in the hotel, each guest receives their own access code, both to the building and their room. The room was great. And suddenly, all my “fucks” faded away (sorry for the overabundance of profanity in this blog, but it’s an honest representation of my experience-to-feelings ratio).
The room had a medieval castle feel—note drawbridge chains on chair:
But all the comforts of the modern era—incredible shower, central heating, mini fridge:
I threw my backpack down on the bed and immediately headed out for a drink to shake off the obstacle-y day. However, since mealtimes run on a pretty tight schedule in Spain—comida (lunch) from 2-4 p.m. and cena (dinner) from 9-11 p.m.) or you get arrested and thrown in jail—at this time of day (late afternoon), most places were closed.
I finally walked past Taberna la Villa, a little bar at the north end of the village. There were a few tables outdoors, but seeing a woman in a parka hunched over her glass of beer furiously smoking a cigarette for the heat that each inhalation provided, I opted to go inside. It was empty and the owner greeted me enthusiastically. I took a seat and ordered a vermut de grifa and torreznos.
By the way, this is how I know I’m becoming Spanish: I eat torreznos, which are a Spanish delicacy made from pork belly and include the skin and a layer of fat and sometimes a bit of meat. They're typically marinated, then slow-cooked or cured, and finally fried to get that crispy skin and juicy interior. These torreznos were the most delicious I’ve had so far.
Source: Campo Grande
I chatted with the owner for a bit, who suggested I visit the Museo de Picasso (Picasso Museum) here in Buitrago. He told me about the town, some of which I had to look up afterwards, since I didn’t understand everything he said.
Some sources believe that the name Buitrago is of Celtic origin, but the town clearly has an Arabic past, as evidenced by parts of the medieval wall that still surround it. “Around 1085, King Alfonso VI conquered the Kingdom of Toledo, to which Buitrago belonged, encouraging its repopulation and converting it into an area primarily devoted to livestock raising. Around the 14th century, the town was granted as a lordship to the Mendoza family, although it was in the 15th century that Buitrago reached its peak under the leadership of Don Íñigo López de Mendoza, the First Marquis of Santillana.”
I passed through the Arco del Piloncillo (Piloncillo Gate) on Calle Piloncillo, which provides access to the Puente del Arrabal (Arrabal Bridge), a medieval bridge that crosses the Lozoya River. “The Arco del Piloncillo was constructed between the late 14th and mid-16th centuries. Before that time, there was likely no access through Calle Piloncillo, as evidenced by the foundation of an earlier defensive wall that would have blocked entry.”
I climbed up the steps and walked along la murdalla (the wall). “The Adarve Bajo de la Muralla refers to the lower walkway of the medieval defensive walls encircling Buitrago del Lozoya. This section runs parallel to the Lozoya River, which was used as a natural defensive barrier. Because of this strategic advantage, the Adarve Bajo was built to a height of approximately 6 meters and a thickness of about 2 meters, and it notably lacks towers or bastions. This contrasts with the southern and southwestern sections of the wall, known as the Adarve Alto, which are more fortified and include various defensive features.”
By the time I headed back to my hotel, it was dark:
…and part of the castle was lit up like a discoteque:
The next morning, I sat at an outdoor table at La Tahona Panadería for breakfast. When the waitress came out to take my order, I asked for a carta (“menu”).
“¿Qué?” she said.
“¿Un menú?” I suggested.
“¿Huh?”
“Sabes, ¿una lista de comida?”(“You know, a list of food?”) I said with incredulity.
“Ah,” she finally said. “Tienes que entrar y mirar la vitrina.” (“You have to go in and look at the display case.”)
Ok, no problem. But seriously, she didn’t understand “carta” or “menú”?? Anyway, I had a delicious café bombón and croissant con jamón y queso.
Then I walked towards Mirador el Pinarcillo (Pinarcillo Viewpoint), in the south part of town right along the river. Just as I approached the river, still in the village, an older man carrying a book and a baguette approached me and asked (in Spanish) if I knew how deep the river was. I told him I had no idea, he threw out a couple of metric guesses, I told him I was not super familiar with metric measurements (sorry, my Canadian peeps, but it’s been 24 years!!), he asked me where I was from, I gave him the “recently from the U.S. but originally from Canada” schpiel, and that opened up a conversation that lasted twenty or thirty minutes. He told me his name was Benjamin and at first I understood about 90% (extremely impressive for me) of what he said, but the longer we talked the more my comprehension took a nose dive.
Cerebrally exhausted, I finally bid him adieu and off I went. The weather was perfect, the view was beautiful and I enjoyed strolling along the river’s edge.
I reached the Mirador el Pinarcillo, which was just a bench under a tree overlooking the river, the hill and the town. I sat down, relaxed and took in the sights and sounds (birds, wind, occasional dog bark).
Then I headed to the north part of the village where there was another vista point, Mirador de Buitrago, only this time up in the hill, so a bit of a hike.
Even with Google Maps, the path was super hard to find. Or, rather, I could see the path, but not the way to access it. My explorations took me along the highway where I could look down and see the dirt path, but the only way to get there would be to jump off the highway, break a leg, and roll off the slope into the river. I turned around and headed back towards the village and passed a couple walking on the highway’s shoulder. They asked me if I knew how to get to the path (phew, I’m not the only one!), and when I said no, they thanked me and optimistically kept going.
I passed a group of people getting out of their car, and decided to take Benjamin’s advice to rely on technology less (twice now on this trip it had led me astray) and connect with people more. So I asked them in Spanish if they knew how to access the path. They stared at me blank-faced (probably wondering why I didn’t just google it), shrugged and said no. I finally found the entrance (my god was it hidden far out of sight), and got my hike in.
From the Mirador de Buitrago I got a great view of the town below:
I kept hiking up the hill and deeper into the sparse woods until I came across a group of the biggest cows and bulls I’ve ever seen. They all stopped eating grass and looked at me, so I turned around.
Back down in the village, I stopped at La Bodeguilla for a cerveza and croquetas de jamón. I sat outside until I was nearly blown right across the terrace from the strong and icy wind, and then went inside the tiny bar and stood at the counter. Shortly after, I retired to my hotel room.
My second and final morning here, I took the bar owner’s advice and went to the Museo de Picasso – Colección Eugenio Arias.
The sign above says “Each work of art that Picasso has graced me with represents a moment of life, of emotion, of friendship.”
Apparently, Picasso paid his barber and close friend, Eugenio Arias, with paintings and other artwork of his over their 26-year friendship from 1948 to 1973.
When Arias died, he gifted his collection to the town (hence why it’s named after him). The collection includes drawings, lithographs, ceramics, posters and books, many with personal dedications.
I went for another lovely walk by the river, enjoyed a chocolate y churros in town, and eventually made my way to the bus stop. This time it was extremely easy, as there was only one bus stop in town and the only bus that came by was the 191. Still, I asked the driver if she went direct to Plaza de Castillas in Madrid and she said yes.
So I sat down, took out my book, and enjoyed the two-hour ride back to the big city.
Click here to read the next post, Adjusting to Life in Spain: [TBD]
Note: All photos taken or created (using DALL-E) by Selena Templeton, unless otherwise noted.
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