Today began with what I considered a tactical triumph worthy of a minor Spanish conquest: I remembered to change the alarm from 6:00 a.m. to 7:15 a.m., thereby avoiding waking the entire hotel with the standard Apple chime, that modern bugle call of the sleep-deprived traveller. I was heading once again down to Atocha station for another excursion south of Madrid, and after yesterday’s dangerous encounter with practically every delightful breakfast pastry shop the city had to offer, I decided to take precautions. This meant moving with purpose, avoiding eye contact with pastry, and reminding myself that not every Bocadillo is a personal challenge…so I got the Metro. Even getting the nearest Metro at Tirso De Molina felt faintly ceremonial. As you descend into the foyer, there are beautiful blues and whites giving everything a cool, translucent glow, there is no mistaking where you are. You could not be in Birmingham New Street put it that way.

You are unmistakably in Spain, where even a Metro station looks as if someone considered adding a tiled shrine, then thought, yes, go on then. Spanish mornings also have a more leisurely rhythm than British ones. London at rush hour feels like the evacuation of a collapsing empire; Madrid felt more like everyone had agreed to arrive eventually, but not in a panic.

It was only about three stops to Atocha, so no great drama, and after ten minutes I arrived. Atocha station is enormous, with different levels of departures and different types of trains: local trains, medium-distance trains, and then the long-distance high-speed trains, which look as if they might casually invade France before lunch. Since Toledo is only about forty minutes away, I assumed it would be a local train. This was my first mistake. I went to one gate and was told, very firmly, that no, it was downstairs to the left. My pronunciation of Toledo was also corrected….. not ‘Tol-eee-doh, but ‘Tol-ay-Doh’, silly me. Downstairs I went, only to discover that “left” is a philosophical concept. Did he mean left as you face the trains, left as you flee from them, or left in the ancient Castilian sense of “wander helplessly until conquered by signage”? I spent a good twenty minutes marching around the vast station like a lost conquistador searching for the New World, except my empire consisted of one small backpack, a ticket, and rising uncertainty. Eventually I found the correct departure point and discovered that, despite the short journey, Toledo was indeed served by the fast train. Boarding a fast train in Spain is a very different experience from boarding one in the UK. For a start, I am not entirely convinced we have fast trains in the UK in the European sense. We have trains that occasionally develop mild enthusiasm. In Spain, it is more like boarding an aircraft: security, bag checks, x-ray machines, and a general sense that everyone has agreed not to sprint down a platform like extras in a disaster film….like at Paddington.

Like France, reservations are compulsory, which I think is a marvellous idea. It prevents the Paddington-style stampede that happens the moment a platform is announced, when perfectly respectable adults suddenly behave as if the last lifeboat is leaving. Instead, we waited in a departure lounge until our platform was called, and then performed a civilised Spanish saunter to the train. No elbows. No panic. No man in a gilet attempting to overtake a pensioner with a wheelie case. It was all deeply reassuring.

The train itself, like the French trains, was excellent: modern, icy cold, comfortable, and equipped with all the amenities you could want, including chargers, tables, and the faint suspicion that Britain has been messing about for decades. As we left Madrid, we soon reached about 170 miles an hour. The journey is roughly the equivalent of me getting a train from where I live in Cornwall to Exeter, except the journey to Toledo took around thirty-five minutes, whereas in the UK the same distance would involve ageing visibly, losing faith in infrastructure, and possibly changing at a station with a broken vending machine and a pigeon.

Thirty-five minutes later we arrived in Toledo, and what I had not expected was that the station would be even more impressive than yesterdays. The interior hall is extraordinary: stained-glass windows, Moorish tiles, ornate details, and the kind of craftsmanship that makes you wonder why our stations so often look like they were designed during a power cut. Imagine Plymouth having a station like Toledo…. Walking outside, it was just as impressive. There must be a reason Spain built stations like this, but whatever it is, I approve. If you are going to arrive somewhere, you may as well do it through a building that looks prepared to host a royal surrender.

Being a mad dog and Englishman, I decided to walk up to the town. Toledo is essentially a fortified city on a hill, surrounded by the river Tagus, a little like Durham but much hotter and with considerably more history of people trying to take it by force. The walk from the station to the bridge was relatively flat, which lulled me into optimism. Once over the bridge, however, things became serious. I passed a pharmacy thermometer at 10:00 a.m. reading 28 degrees, which felt less like a temperature and more like an official warning from the Spanish inquisition. Getting into the centre of Toledo is basically an extended negotiation with steps. For a good thirty minutes you wind your way upwards through stone lanes, past walls that have seen emperors, armies, and now small groups of wide-eyed tourists in sandals asking where the toilets are. By the time I reached the main square, I had been thoroughly conquered by gravity. Unsurprisingly, the square was full of seats, tour guides, and visitors staring about them as if expecting a knight in armour to pop out from behind a postcard rack.

I had been to Toledo before, about thirty-six years ago, when I was an art student on a trip to Madrid. I vividly remember wandering around the streets (trying to find a good bar) and visiting the Alcazar. The Alcazar is an incredibly impressive building and has been involved in more battles than seems sensible for one structure. When I visited decades ago, I remember it being pockmarked with bullet holes from the Spanish Civil War and looking rather battered. Now it appears that a great deal of money has been spent on it, and it has been transformed into a vast military museum for €5, which felt like excellent value if you enjoy corridors, weapons, uniforms, and the occasional sense that Spain has never thrown away a sword. Inside were guns, swords, suits of armour, costumes, maps, medals, and enough martial memorabilia to equip a small but very determined empire. After about an hour of walking around, I decided to leave, which turned out to be more complicated than entering. The place is full of doors and corridors, and finding the exit became like an episode of The Crystal Maze, if the prize at the end was simply sunlight and a cold drink. I half expected a man in a breastplate to appear and tell me I had failed the challenge and must remain with the artillery collection.

Then it was time to wander around town. As an ancient hilltop fortified city, Toledo is similar to many others around Europe: winding streets, steep hills, sudden steps, and corners that appear to have been designed specifically to confuse invaders and modern tourists alike. I find places like this fascinating. What is particularly impressive about Toledo, however, is the sheer number of souvenir shops they have managed to fit into one town. I reckon every other shop was selling something that could either go on a fridge or start a medieval uprising. The souvenirs were astonishing: swords, knives, axes, maces, helmets, shields, and I am fairly sure there was probably the odd cannon tucked behind a rack of tea towels. How people get these through security on the train is beyond me, especially as there is a sign clearly saying that carrying them is not allowed. I can only assume people arrive by car and leave with the boot full of medieval weaponry, ready to lay siege to the ring road when they get home. The wide-eyed tourists seemed especially taken with the swords, possibly imagining themselves as noble conquistadors, though mostly looking like they would struggle to open a packet of crisps with one. By lunchtime I was hungry. I have a golden rule when travelling: never go to a restaurant with pictures of food outside. It has served me well. Pictures of food usually mean three things: one, it is touristy; two, it is probably a rip-off; and three, the meal may arrive looking as if it has itself endured a siege. Just off the beaten track I found a great little restaurant downstairs in a vaulted cellar. I was the only person there, and I did that awful thing of walking in and then realising I could not walk out because the owner had given me such a warm welcome that leaving would have required the cold-heartedness of a minor tyrant. There was nothing to worry about. He produced a simple Spanish menu at great prices, and I ordered straight away. Lunch was one of the most Spanish meals I have had: very simple, nothing fancy, but utterly delicious – calamari, two eggs, and a salad. The man seemed genuinely pleased that I had come in, and we started chatting about Toledo. I asked him what was best to see, as it had been a while since my last visit. He was impressed that I had been thirty-six years ago and said it was now a very different place. Back then there were tourists; now, he said, it felt as though the city had been placed under blockade by them. Looking outside at the steady advance of hats, cameras, and guided groups, I could see his point.

I spent the afternoon winding my way up hills, down steps, and through narrow streets, doing my usual thing of looking upwards. Once your eyes rise above shopfront level, there is always interesting detail: old balconies, carved stone, strange little windows, and doorways that hint at how important a house once was. In a place like Toledo, even the doors look as if they have opinions about history. I found myself by the main cathedral and immediately recognised the square beside it as the place where, as an art student, we had gathered to sketch all those years ago. It looked different from how I remembered it. I think there used to be a large fountain, but that had gone, replaced by a long bronze pond-like sculpture with some kind of river running through it. At first glance it looked like a rectangular trough of pond weed, but it turned out to be art, so I immediately upgraded my judgement and nodded thoughtfully. It would have been rude not to sit down and sketch, as I had done thirty-six years before. I did not have much time, so I quickly threw something onto paper, got the paint out, and was immediately surrounded by tourists who seemed to think I was some kind of modern Monet. This was flattering but deeply inaccurate. The other thing I remember about that art trip vividly was my friend being pick pocketed within 5 mins of arriving in Madrid. We popped out of the Metro and he was immediately propositioned by a women who rubbed his buttocks- which he loved….until he realised she had nicked his wallet.

It was seriously hot. Every time I put water onto the paper, it dried almost instantly, as if the sun had decided to critique my technique. Sketching in that kind of heat is difficult, especially when a circle of wide-eyed visitors is peering over your shoulder, possibly expecting you to produce a masterpiece, or at least a souvenir they could buy along with a sword.

I continued wandering, stopping every so often to sit down and drink water. I dread to think how much I got through, but it must have been around five litres, and I still felt like a raisin. Eventually I decided to take a slow walk back down to the station, knowing it would probably take forty-five minutes or so to wind my way back. Every so often I passed little groups of Japanese, American, and European tourists following a guide with a small flag held aloft. I always chuckle when I see those groups. They look like cheerful infantry units on a cultural campaign, marching through the old city in search of shade, toilets, and the next fact about El Greco. The flags bob along above them like standards in a peaceful conquest of gift shops. I stopped at the end of the impressive bridge because I wanted to do a quick sketch of the townscape, with the Alcazar rising at the top. Again, it was so hot that you could not spend long sketching without shade, so I sat on the wall and took five minutes to capture the scene. I think we did the same exercise when I was at art college, so it was lovely to repeat it all these years later, even if this time I was less young romantic artist and more middle-aged man trying not to melt into his sketchbook.

Then it was back to the station. I waited about half an hour for the train, and the journey back was uneventful but very fast. The train quickly reached speed as the barren landscape south of Madrid whizzed by at about 170 miles an hour. Back in Madrid, I caught the Metro to the hotel, dumped my things, and rested my feet for a while before heading out in search of food. After a day of castles, conquests, and tourists under banners, I felt I had earned dinner.

One of my absolute favourite places to eat in Madrid is slightly strange, which is probably why I like it so much- Casa Caracoles. It is only about a ten-minute walk from my hotel and is a small taberna that specialises in snails. Behind the bar sits a giant pot of them, bubbling away with chorizo, various cuts of smoked pork, and a broth that looks as if it has been simmering since the reign of Philip II. It is utterly delicious. As it was relatively early by Spanish dining standards – around 7:00 p.m., practically breakfast – I was able to get in while there were only a few people in the bar. The man behind the bar immediately began pouring me a beer, which was extremely tempting, but as I am still trying to be relatively healthy, I asked for sparkling water instead. I am not sure whether he respected the discipline or pitied the tragedy. When you are properly thirsty, there is nothing better than very cold sparkling water, so I ordered that, a bowl of snails, and some bread. The snails were delicious. It is a real no-frills place, with the floor scattered with paper napkins from people mopping up snail and chorizo juice, probably because half of it ends up on their shirts. It is the sort of classic Spanish bar where the pot never truly empties; they just keep topping it up, like a culinary empire expanding one ladle at a time.

After this, I walked back up towards Plaza Mayor to seek out my next course of delights. By then Madrid was absolutely heaving. Although it was Friday night, Madrid seems busy every evening, and at weekends it becomes impressively alive. Every outside table was full, every pavement had people spilling across it, and everywhere there was the hum of conversation. We say pubs are part of our culture in Britain, and they are, but in Spain you really understand how cafés and tabernas are woven into daily life. People do not just go out; they occupy the streets with the confidence of an advancing army, only armed with beer, tapas, and excellent shoes. I went again to the Mercado de San Miguel, which is always a good option when you cannot decide what you want. One of the stalls I love there sells little tapas for a few euros each: different types of fish on small pieces of toast, salt cod, anchovies, sardines, and other magnificent little marine declarations. I bought a plate of about eight, found a stool, and watched the world go by. It is a wonderfully funny place because it is a mix of locals, tourists, food pilgrims, and people staring at octopus as if it has personally insulted them.

There were many wide-eyed tourists wandering around, clearly not knowing what half the food was and being mildly horrified by the odd octopus tentacle poking out of a sandwich. You could almost see the internal struggle: curiosity, fear, hunger, and the dawning realisation that Spain had conquered them not with swords but with seafood. Then there is the modern invasion force: bloggers and Instagrammers. The moment anyone produces a selfie stick or tripod, you can see the stallholders’ backs go up. They must get an awful lot of it. There is only so much posing a man slicing ham can endure before he begins to dream of the old days, when invaders at least had the decency to carry shields. Afterwards I wandered through the streets of central Madrid, sitting down every so often for a drink, an ice cream, or simply to watch the city perform. Madrid must be one of the best places in the world for people-watching, especially on a Friday or Saturday night. You can sit in the warm evening air and watch hundreds of people streaming past: friends meeting, families strolling, tourists consulting maps with the seriousness of military commanders, and couples leaning over tiny tables as if the entire world has narrowed to wine, conversation, and the next plate of something delicious.

By the end of the evening I felt Madrid had staged its own gentle conquest. Toledo had offered the fortified walls, military museums, and swords in every shop; Madrid countered with snails, tapas, sparkling water, and streets full of life. Between the two, I had been thoroughly defeated, but in the best possible way: sunburnt, full, footsore, amused, and very happy to have surrendered.