We woke in our hotel in Irun feeling… well… a little fuzzy.

The well-earned glass of wine we’d gone looking for the previous evening had somehow multiplied into several glasses, followed by sangria, and finally a mysterious local digestif the owner insisted would “help the stomach.”

It tasted less like medicine and more like something the devil might serve after dinner.

“It is very good,” he assured us enthusiastically.

I wasn’t entirely convinced.

Still, it had seemed like an excellent idea at the time. After yesterday spent navigating cancelled trains, missed connections and assorted transport-related frustrations, sitting in a small Spanish bar eating tapas and chatting with the locals felt like exactly the right way to end the day.

Perhaps not the wisest decision when another long travel day awaited.

But then, the wisest decisions rarely become the memorable ones.

Or so I had confidently declared the night before.

At six o’clock the following morning, nursing a slightly thick head while trying to persuade myself that another coffee would solve everything, I was beginning to review that philosophy.

Never mind.

Onwards and upwards.

An hour later we found ourselves back at the station, fortified by strong Spanish coffee and a generous wedge of tortilla we’d picked up from a café on the way. It wasn’t exactly a gourmet breakfast, but it was warm, filling and did an admirable job of restoring a degree of optimism.

Our journey that day was thankfully straightforward. We boarded the train to San Sebastián, changed there, and continued south to Burgos, where we planned to spend the next week.

As the train slipped inland I rested my head against the window and watched northern Spain roll past.

The countryside was surprisingly green. Spring rains had transformed the fields into every shade imaginable, broken occasionally by tiny villages clustered around church towers and farmhouses that looked as though they had stood there for centuries. In another couple of months the landscape would no doubt be baked brown by the Spanish summer, but in late spring it was lush, peaceful and impossibly pretty.

After the previous day’s adventures, it was pleasant simply to sit still and let someone else do the navigating.

Eventually we rolled into Burgos.

Or at least we rolled into what appeared to be Burgos.

The station itself was brand new, all polished glass, gleaming steel and modern architecture.

Its location, however, was something of a mystery.

Instead of arriving in a bustling city, we stepped onto a platform surrounded by open fields. A few cows regarded us with what I interpreted as polite curiosity, although AP suggested they were probably wondering why anyone would build a railway station in the middle of nowhere.

There were no crowds.

No taxis.

Very little movement at all.

In fact, apart from us, the platform was almost deserted.

It all felt faintly surreal.

“You sure we’re in the right place?” AP asked, peering over his glasses.

“Of course we are,” I replied with considerably more confidence than I actually felt.

After all, trains generally have a habit of stopping where they’re supposed to.

Don’t they?

“Hmm.”

It was not an encouraging “hmm.”

“Come on then,” he said, shouldering his pack and setting off with purpose.

I hurried after him, attempting the familiar backpacker’s dance of walking while simultaneously trying to fasten waist straps that had somehow twisted themselves into an impossible knot during the journey. Backpack straps possess an uncanny ability to behave perfectly until the precise moment you are trying to look competent in public.

We wandered around the station for several minutes before discovering a bus stop sign almost artistically concealed behind a concrete pillar.

Apparently someone had gone to considerable effort to ensure visitors wouldn’t find it too easily.

According to the timetable, a bus would arrive in thirty minutes and take us into the city.

And, rather wonderfully, it did.

Exactly on time.

Perhaps there was hope for public transport after all.

“See,” I said as we climbed aboard. “Told you we were in the right place.”

AP smiled.

“Luck,” he said. “Not planning.”

I chose not to argue.

Some victories are best accepted without discussion.

The bus dropped us on the edge of Burgos’ old town, much of which is pedestrianised.

AP consulted Google Maps.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s not far.”

Now, over many years of travelling together I have learnt that “not far” exists on a sliding scale.

At one end it genuinely means around a hundred metres.

At the other, it can comfortably stretch to two kilometres or more.

Unfortunately, there is absolutely no way of knowing which version you’re getting until you’ve already committed.

So off we went.

AP marched confidently ahead, phone held out in front of him like an explorer navigating by satellite rather than compass, weaving purposefully through narrow streets and ancient squares.

I followed behind with my backpack, trying to match his pace while quietly muttering observations that became progressively less charitable each time he announced, “Just around this next corner.”

After the fifth “next corner,” I became somewhat sceptical.

Eventually—somewhat miraculously—we arrived.

The apartment was lovely.

Bright, comfortable and perfectly located, it immediately felt like somewhere we’d enjoy living for a while.

After two long days spent almost entirely in transit, it was wonderful simply to unpack, make a cup of tea and stop moving.

Over the next few days we settled easily into Burgos’ rhythm.

Mornings began with coffee in one of the squares before wandering the medieval streets, exploring churches, admiring the magnificent cathedral and watching the steady stream of Camino pilgrims passing through the city. Burgos is one of the major stopping points on the Camino de Santiago, and there is something rather uplifting about sharing the streets with people who have walked hundreds of kilometres and still somehow look pleased about it.

Afternoons drifted into evenings, usually involving tapas and local Ribera del Duero wines.

Our favourite discovery was a small cidery barely a hundred metres from the apartment.

Like so many places in Spain, it took less than two visits before we were treated less like customers and more like regulars.

The tapas became slightly more generous.

The wine glasses were filled just a little higher.

There was always a smile of recognition as we walked through the door, and almost invariably a complimentary digestif would appear at the end of the meal without us having to ask.

Those small gestures are one of the things we love most about Spain.

Stay somewhere long enough, even if “long enough” is only a few days, and people remember you.

Everything was going wonderfully.

Until it wasn’t.

On Monday morning we were abruptly introduced to the local demolition schedule.

At precisely the moment we were contemplating a leisurely breakfast, the unmistakable scream of a concrete saw shattered the peace.

It appeared the building nearby was being demolished using the loudest methods modern engineering could devise.

If there were quieter options, they had clearly been rejected.

As if that weren’t enough, AP then managed to stub his foot on a raised floorboard in the apartment with such force that he almost removed his entire big toenail.

There was blood.

Quite a lot of blood.

There was colourful language.

Quite a lot of colourful language.

And there was an unscheduled visit to the local pharmacy where, thankfully, the pharmacist appeared entirely unfazed. I suspect damaged Camino feet are a regular occurrence in Burgos, although ours had been acquired without the inconvenience of walking several hundred kilometres.

Despite the unexpected soundtrack of power tools and AP’s newly bandaged foot, we carried on exploring.

We wandered through the old town, lingered over coffee in the plazas, admired the cathedral from every conceivable angle and continued our entirely unscientific research into Burgos’ tapas bars.

It seemed the sensible thing to do.

All too soon, our week came to an end.

With AP’s toe sufficiently repaired for gentle exercise, we shouldered our backpacks one last time and walked the couple of kilometres to the bus station for the coach to Madrid Airport, where the next stage of our journey awaited.

Mexico.

Looking back, Burgos wasn’t somewhere we’d expected to fall in love with.

It had simply been a convenient stop on the way south.

Instead, it became one of those places that quietly works its way under your skin.

No fanfare.

No grand moments.

Just a beautiful city, welcoming people, excellent food, wonderful wine and a week that reminded us why travelling slowly is almost always worth it.