Mansilla de la Sierra

The church bell still hangs in its stone arch, twenty metres above what used to be the square. When the reservoir drops in late summer you can stand underneath it, look up, and realise the only thing holding the tower upright is memory and dry mud. Mansilla de la Sierra is two villages in one: the whitewash-and-balcony settlement that survives today, and the older stone settlement that re-emerges when the water retreats. One is alive, the other is simply present.

The drowned quarter

For most of the year the ghost town is exactly that – submerged, invisible, a rumour. The Embalse de Mansilla was finished in 1960 to regulate the Najerilla river and generate power for Logroño’s growing wine industry. Villagers were relocated upslope; houses were left intact, right down to the coat hooks. Now, when the autumn draw-down begins, entire streets surface like wreckage from a slow-motion shipwreck. Cobbles reappear first, slick with silt; then doorways, their paint blistered into psychedelic swirls; finally the chapel of Santa Catalina on its knoll, reachable by a causeway of cracked earth.

The effect is quietly theatrical. You park at the water’s edge (no ticket booth, no audio guide, just a cattle grid and a hand-painted sign telling dog owners to bag it) and pick your way across the reservoir bed. The mud is ankle-deep in places; trainers will be ruined, so bring the old pair you use for gardening. By mid-October you can walk the full length of Calle Real, noting the iron rings where farmers tethered mules, the stone basin where women once washed blankets. When the wind blows, loose shutters bang against empty frames – the only percussion in a soundtrack of lapping water and distant tractors.

Archaeologists call it “controlled ruination”; locals call it “the visit”. No one polices the site, so respect is self-imposed. Take photographs, not tiles. The water rises again around Christmas, erasing footprints and restoring silence.

Life at 950 metres

The new village, reached by a final 12 km of switchbacks from the N-120, sits above the flood line. At 950 m it is already 300 m higher than Haro’s vineyards, and the air proves it: even in July you may wake to 12 °C. The handful of streets forms a crooked T-shape; you can walk from one end to the other in four minutes, slightly longer if the mayor’s sheep are blocking the road. Houses are rendered rather than timber-balconied, giving a utilitarian feel closer to a Pyrenean ski hamlet than to Rioja’s stone-built wine towns. Colour comes instead from geraniums, from the blood-red canyon walls across the reservoir, and from the sheer saturation of sky.

Services are proportionate to 52 permanent residents. Bar Alcampo opens at 08:00 for coffee and churros, closes once the last tractor leaves, and may or may not reopen for dinner – ring ahead rather than risk it. The shop is a vending machine in the plaza that dispenses tinned beans, Rioja crianza and fire-lighters. Anything fancier requires a 35-minute drive to Nájera, so stock up before you leave the lowlands.

What the village lacks in boutique charm it repays in immediacy. Farmers still drive cattle through the streets at dawn; the parish priest unlocks the church only when he sees visitors waiting; the evening conversation is broadcast via bench gossip rather than Wi-Fi. Phone signal is patchy enough to make offline maps essential.

Walking the demanda

Altitude turns a modest stroll into cardio. Paths strike directly uphill from the last lamppost, entering beech woods that smell of wet iron after rain. Within twenty minutes the reservoir looks like a puddle and the modern village a Lego set. Waymarking is sporadic – stone cairns, the occasional daub of yellow paint – so download the free tracks from the Rioja tourism board before you set off. Three routes repay the climb:

• Ruta de la Nava: 7 km loop through sheep pastures to a spring where shepherds fill plastic jerrycans. Allow 2½ hours, plus stops to watch vultures overhead.
• Senda del Embalse: flat, follows the old irrigation channel along the reservoir rim. Best at golden hour when the drowned church glows amber.
• Pico San Millán: serious 1,000 m ascent to the 2,131 m summit, taking 4 hours up, 3 down. Snow lies in north-facing gullies until April; carry a jacket even in August.

Autumn is peak season for colour and for fungal treasure hunts. Wild mushrooms are regulated: carry only the recognised wicker basket, use the village scales to weigh your haul, and never touch the white ones with the greenish hue – the hospital is an hour away.

When to come, when to stay away

The ruins are visible roughly from mid-September to mid-November, though a wet spring can keep the water high until Christmas. Come too early and you will see only a grey lake and a few roof ridges poking through like broken teeth. Come too late and the rising water turns the site into a muddy lagoon reachable only by kayak. Check the weekly reservoir bulletin published online by the Ebro hydrographic confederation; anything below 65 % capacity means streets are walkable.

Winter brings proper mountain weather. The LR-113 is salted but not pampered: after heavy snow the Guardia Civil close the last 6 km and you’ll need chains. Accommodation shuts down too – only the six-room Hostal La Casona stays open, heated by a wood-burning stove that doubles as the owner’s pride and joy. Spring (April–May) delivers orchids along the reservoir lip and the satisfying contrast of snow on the peaks and blossom in the valley. Summer is warm, rarely hot, yet weekends swell with Logroño families who monopolise the barbecue spots and leave cigarette ends in the shallows. Visit mid-week if you can.

The bottom line

Mansilla de la Sierra is not a destination for tick-box tourism. The modern village is plain, the mobile signal unreliable, and the single café may be shut for communion wine inventory. Yet the payoff is singular: a place where you can breakfast among living villagers, spend the morning walking through their submerged former homes, and picnic above both, listening to nothing louder than bees and the creak of a church bell that no longer rings. Bring sturdy shoes, a sandwich, and a sense of impermanence – the water always returns.