Ventrosa

The sheep start moving at dawn. A hundred hooves clatter over stone, the only sound that cuts through the thin mountain air until the church bell tolls seven. From Ventrosa's single main street you can watch the flock descend past stone houses with timber balconies, the shepherd's whistle carrying further than seems possible at 1,050 metres.

This is La Rioja's high country, where the Sierra de la Demanda throws its weight around. The village sits above the tree line's daily drama: oaks giving way to beeches, then back again depending on which slope catches more sun. Forty-odd residents remain year-round. They'll tell you—with the blunt honesty that mountain weather breeds—that winter can lock the place down for days, that the road from Viniegra de Abajo turns lethal with black ice, that mobile signal dies completely by the upper pastures.

Yet walkers still come, mainly those nursing blistered feet on the Camino Francés. They've slogged up from Nájera's vineyards through 25 kilometres of switchbacks, trading Rioja's famous Tempranillo country for something harsher, cleaner. The village albergue opens Easter weekend, eight euros for a bunk, blankets included. No need to faff about with sleeping bags unless you're particular about your own pillow.

Stone, Wood and Whatever the Weather Allows

Construction here follows logic shaped by centuries of mountain winters. Houses hug the slope, their backs to the north wind. Walls rise from chunks of local limestone, thick enough to swallow sound. Wooden galleries jut from upper floors—practical porches for drying firewood, not quaint photo opportunities. Even the church follows the same restrained pattern: late Romanesque, small enough to heat on Sundays, its bell tower more functional than decorative.

Walk slowly. Notice how doorways narrow at the top, how iron hinges are hand-forged, how every timber balcony sags slightly under its own history. The village smithy closed in 1983; the tools hang in what passes for a municipal museum, open Saturday mornings if you ask at the bar. That bar doubles as grocery, post office and gossip exchange. They stock tinned tuna, local cheese called cameros, and Rioja wine from Badarán at three euros a bottle. The cheese tastes like Manchego's softer cousin, nutty rather than sharp. Buy some. You'll need it.

Walking Into Proper Silence

Ventrosa doesn't do gentle strolls. Every path heads either steeply up or alarmingly down. Take the track behind the church and you'll gain 200 metres in twenty minutes, lungs working overtime until the valley spreads below like a green carpet. The Najerilla river becomes a silver thread. Bilbao's skyscrapers sit 130 kilometres north-west on a clear day, though clear days are never guaranteed.

Autumn transforms these slopes into something almost violent. Beech leaves turn copper and gold, the colours so saturated they seem unreal. Mushroom hunters arrive in droves during October weekends, parking haphazardly wherever a tyre might grip. The locals have had enough. Last year someone blocked the Viniegra road with hay bales after finding strangers rummaging in private woodland. If you're set on fungi, learn the Spanish for "may I?" and carry proper documentation. The Guardia Civil patrols regularly, fines start at 300 euros.

Spring offers kinder walking temperatures, though weather changes fast. One April morning I watched hailstones bounce off my hire car at 9am, followed by sunglasses weather by lunchtime. The high pastures fill with wild crocus and the first shepherd's warnings about adders sunning themselves on warm rocks. Summer brings relief from Rioja's valley heat—Ventrosa stays ten degrees cooler than Logroño—but afternoon thunderstorms build quickly. Winter is serious business. Snow can fall any month above 1,200 metres. Chains or winter tyres aren't optional from November; they're survival equipment.

Food That Knows You've Been Climbing

The single restaurant opens at 1pm sharp, closes when the last pilgrim finishes eating. No menu del día here—it's menú del peregrino or nothing. Twelve euros buys soup thick enough to stand a spoon in, followed by a pork chop that would shame most British pubs. Chips come properly crispy. Wine arrives in a glass bottle with no label, usually drinkable, occasionally spectacular. Vegetarians get patatas a la riojana minus the chorizo if they ask nicely. The T-bone for two costs thirty euros and feeds three. Order it "hecho" unless you like your meat still moving.

Breakfast means coffee and toast at the bar, nothing more. They'll sell you a bocadillo to take walking—tuna or cheese, your choice—but don't expect fillings or fancy bread. This is fuel for mountain miles, not Borough Market. Evening meals happen only during fiesta week in mid-August, when Spanish families reclaim ancestral houses and every tortilla comes with generations of opinion about how it should taste.

Getting There, Getting Out

The drive from Logroño takes ninety minutes if you're lucky, two hours if you get stuck behind a timber lorry on the N-120. After Viniegra de Abajo the LR-113 narrows dramatically; meeting something coming the other way requires nerves of steel and occasionally reversing half a kilometre. Public transport exists on paper—a weekday bus to Viniegra, then a taxi you must book the previous day. Cost runs eighteen to twenty euros each way. Most walkers simply continue along the Camino; the next village with proper facilities lies six kilometres further west.

No ATM. No petrol station. The nearest cash machine sits in Ventosa village—similar name, completely different place—back down the mountain towards Santo Domingo de la Calzada. Fill your tank in Nájera and buy anything you can't live without. Mobile coverage flickers between providers; Vodafone disappears entirely above the village fountain. Download offline maps before you leave civilisation.

The Honest Truth

Ventrosa won't change your life. You won't find spiritual enlightenment or discover your authentic self. What you get is a mountain village that refuses to pretend it's anything else. The locals tolerate visitors because pilgrims have passed through for eight centuries, not because they crave your company. Some days the weather makes everything miserable. Other days the light turns the beech woods golden and you understand why people choose this hard beauty over easier living.

Come prepared. Bring layers, cash, and realistic expectations. Stay one night if you're walking through, two if you need proper mountain air in your lungs. Then move on, ideally before the weather decides you've outstayed your welcome. The Sierra de la Demanda sets the rules here; everyone else just visits.