It took one or two goes to get right. Max pushed the coin into the slot, and we started running; out of the tiny chapel, down the spiral staircase and across the battlements. We weaved around an ancient Arab well, rushed through the horseshoe arch and emerged breathless in the courtyard below. Way above us, the coin-operated Madonna turned slowly on her plinth, shifting her white gauze gaze over the rooftops of Trujillo and on across the plains of Extremadura.

There really is nothing like an old castle to fire the imagination, and this corner of south-west Spain has rather more than its fair share. The Moorish Castle with the revolving Madonna dominates the medieval town of Trujillo. From its imposing battlements, we wound down the carless cobbled streets to the monumental space of the Plaza Mayor.

Mid-afternoon is slow time in southern Spain, and the only sign of life was the Algida ice cream truck shuffling round the edge of the square. We hired a somnolent horse and trap for a ride around the plaza, doffing imaginary helmets as we passed beneath the equestrian statue of Francisco Pizarro. The Trujillo-born conqueror of Peru rode a horse that rather dwarfed our own more humble beast. After three short circuits, we dismounted outside the bar. The floor was a cut-price soft-play area, piled with receipts and napkins up to a small boy’s ankles. Before our small boy could dive in, we placed him on an outsize bar stool, out of reach of the debris and at eye-level with ten different tapas. Max scanned the glass cabinets, looking for tell-tale signs of green, the young male’s kryptonite. There was little cause for concern, though; this land-locked region has wonderful rabbit stews, breadcrumb and bacon broths, and hams and tortillas to die for, but green vegetables, nothing, nada.

After two days in Trujillo, we headed west to Cáceres, stopping along the way for an Arcadian picnic in a gnarled grove of evergreen oaks. We ate in full view of Ferdinand the Bull and a dozen of his bible-black friends. A dry stone wall provided the right kind of parental balance between picturesque and Pamplona-esque.

The old city of Cáceres was a joy. The medieval heart, locked away behind massive, towered walls, has been sealed to both time and traffic. The odd delivery van aside, we spent a day alone, running and hiding, walking and jumping through one of the finest medieval towns in Europe, scarcely able to believe that such a gorgeous place could be ‘terra incognita’ to tourists.

As in Trujillo, our hotel was an ex-monastery, now a government-run Parador overseen by beautifully uniformed and child-friendly bureaucrats. Though there weren’t exactly trampolines in the hall, there were long polished corridors for sock surfing and vast Moorish tiled baths to splash around in.

We spent another day divided between indolence and indulgence. We dunked sugary churros into bowls of steaming chocolate, doubled the audience for an impromptu flamenco recital and rubbed the shiny bronze toes of San Pedro de Alcántara. We indulged in the favourite catholic ritual of anglican children – lighting candles in the Cathedral. We even managed alternating shifts in the museum; one of us admired the Picassos and Miros, the other took a turn giving marks for acrobatics on the olive tree outside.

From the polished luxury of the Parador in Cáceres we headed north to the Monfragüe National Park. Monfragüe is one of the last truly wild corners of Western Europe, meaning tapas bars were as thin on the ground as the seldom seen Iberian Lynx. We weren’t exactly slumming it in our pool-side farmhouse, but if we wanted rabbit stew, we would have to kill it and skin it ourselves.

After a few days walking, riding and canoeing through the gorges of the River Tajo, we felt a little more like the tough ‘hidalgos’ of old Spain. We watched hundreds of vultures weaving cryptic messages across the sky. Our untrained eyes picked out bee-eaters, kingfishers, even azure-winged magpies – the better looking cousins of the black and white thieves back home.

From Monfragüe, our nearest dunkable pastry was a few miles further north in Plasencia. Though Cáceres gets the UNESCO plaudits, Plasencia was just as wonderful. After three long days in the wilderness, we hit humanity head on in the Plaza Mayor’s weekly market. We sniffed out a stall selling freshly made churros, and with sugar speckling our chins, climbed to the twin-headed cathedral to light another candle in praise of Spanish fast food.