From Ebro Valley, Castile
The mountains of Burgos were a stronghold of sheep farming and of hungry wolves. After walking along the edge of the cliff, I came across the stone walls of an old wolf hunting system. When a wolf was spotted, the locals would come up here and surround the wolf, pushing it towards this spot - a deep hole where it would run away into.

Times have changed. But whilst the sheep are almost gone and the wolves have retreated to the rough lands of the plateau, these little portals to the past open up rich stories to anyone curious enough to look for them.

From Frías, Castile
When is a city not a city? When it's basically a clifftop tumble of orange-roofed stone houses spilling down from a castle, perhaps? When it has fewer than 300 souls rattling around its streets, surely? When you can watch the sun slip away in utter peace below rolling green hills, right?

Not if that place is Frias. I present Spain's smallest city, as bestowed by King Juan II of Castile, he of a lively imagination and sense of humour, one presumes.

From Orbaneja del Castillo, Castile
The Ebro Valley is the definition of Empty Spain. Loss of local industry and the lure of the city drained the next generation, but there remains a tapestry of natural beauty and tiny stone villages, the most photogenic of which is Orbaneja.

For 340 days of the year it is blissfully quiet. During those few weeks when coach loads of tourists are disgorged onto its streets, Empty Spain feels deeply ironic.

Right place, right time. That's the trick.

From Burgos, Castile
With conservation efforts having boosted Spain's stork population and warmer winters encouraging them to eschew the annual Africa jaunt, nesting space is at a premium here.

As I watch one majestic adult circle above the great plains, I wonder where it'll lay its head tonight. Storks build their nests, up to 600kg in weight, everywhere. Priests have even waged divine wars against squatters in bell towers, worried that the weight will send the whole thing tumbling to the ground.

From Ebro Valley, Castile
As the sun threw its heat across the vast limestone plateau - or páramo in local parlance - I just can't place the scene. Where I'm standing now, in temperatures nudging into the high 20s, is each year transformed by the winter snow into a harsh landscape more akin to Siberia than Spain, as thermometers are sent tumbling all the way down to -20 degrees.

A perfect spot to film the famous snow storm scenes of Doctor Zhivago then. You'd have never guessed...