Viniegra de Arriba

The lane ends where the goats begin. One moment you’re climbing through sweet-chestnut forest, the next the tarmac narrows to a single stone track and the only traffic is a herd of blond goats clattering downhill with bells the size of teacups. That is your first hint that Viniegra de Arriba does not do things the modern way.

Fifty-four residents, one proper street and a church tower that doubles as the mobile-phone mast (coverage dies the instant you switch engine off) make this the highest village in La Rioja. At 1,182 m it sits a full half-kilometre above the famous vineyards of the Ebro valley. Down there they fret about tempranillo vintages; up here they worry about whether the snowplough will make it through before the bread runs out.

Stone, Slate and Silence

Houses are slate-roofed, chestnut-beamed and built for winters that can start in October and loiter until May. Because plots are tiny, builders went upwards: three-storey cubes huddle against each other like climbers sharing body heat. The colour palette is grey stone, black slate and the occasional blood-red balcony – no pastel Andalusian prettiness here. Windows are small, shutters stout; the architecture says “keep the heat in, the wolves out”.

There is no centre to speak of. The road peters out by the 16th-century church of San Andrés, whose bell whines every quarter-hour across empty threshing circles now used as car parks. Walk fifty paces further and you are on a sheep path that climbs straight into the Sierra de la Demanda. The village feels accidental, as if a handful of mountain barns decided to socialise and never broke up the party.

What Passes for Action

The day starts when Bar La Vega raises its roller shutter – any time between 09:30 and 10:30 depending on how long owner Marisol spends feeding her hens. Coffee is €1.20, croissants come frozen-then-oven-warmed, and the house speciality is a chuletón (T-bone the size of a laptop) that needs 24-hours’ notice and preferably two customers. If the bar is shut, the only other calories in the settlement are the wild blackberries that drip over the stone walls in late August.

Walkers arrive with print-outs from the Spanish federation website: a 14-km loop to the Laguna de San Andrés, another to the spring of the Najerilla river. Both start politely enough on forest tracks, then turn into rocky staircases where you will meet more wild boar footprints than humans. The pay-off is proper high-mountain scenery – heather, rowan and the odd griffon vulture circling at eye-level – without the crowds that clog the Pyrenees. In autumn the beeches combust into copper and bronze; locals call it “nuestra versión barata de Nueva Inglaterra”.

Calendar of the Curious

July 22: Magdalena fiesta. One brass band, one priest, one sack of bread rolls that are carried round the church, blessed and then hurled from the balcony to squealing children. After dark the plaza becomes an open-air ballroom where grannies dance a paso doble with teenage grandsons until 02:00. Visitors are handed a glass of sangría the moment they pause; refusal is viewed as suspicious.

November 30: San Andrés proper. The goat herd is blessed, the priest hands out medallions that smell of candle wax, and everyone disappears indoors before the first flurries arrive. Snow can cut the village off for two or three days, an event treated with the same nonchalance Londoners reserve for a light drizzle.

The Honest Season Guide

Spring arrives late and in a hurry. By mid-May the nights still dip to 6 °C, but the days are cloudless and the cowslips run riot along the verges. This is the sweet spot for fair-weather hikers: you get the flowers without the July weekenders.

August is warm at midday (28 °C) but the altitude keeps nights chilly; bring a fleece for the 11 p.m. terrace session. Spanish families occupy second homes, so the bar stays open all week and you might even find a queue – three people constitutes a queue here.

October is mushroom month. Locals set off at dawn with wicker baskets and the furtive expressions of bank robbers. Foreigners can join a guided foray run by the Rioja tourist board (€35, includes insurance and a tasting menu in the bar). Expect a polite but firm inspection of your basket on the way out; poaching someone’s ceps is a hanging offence.

November to March is serious. The LR-435 from Viniegra de Abajo twists above the snowline and the final kilometre becomes a toboggan run. Chains are sensible, a thermos of coffee essential. If the weather turns while you are up top, the village school – closed since 1978 – is still kitted out with blankets and a calor-gas heater for stranded motorists.

Cash, Fuel and Other Minor Details

There is no ATM, no petrol station and no shop. The nearest civilisation is Viniegra de Abajo, 7 km down the hill, where a single pump serves diesel and the baker opens at 07:00. Fill up before you climb; the road signs warning “Proximidad de niebla y placas de hielo” are not joking.

Accommodation is limited to four self-catering cottages booked through the village association. Expect stone walls half a metre thick, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that works until everyone switches the kettle on. Prices hover around €90 a night for two, minimum stay two nights at weekends. Breakfast ingredients – eggs, honey, chorizo – are left on the table by someone’s aunt; payment is via an honesty jar.

Mobile coverage is patchy even by Spanish standards. Vodafone dies entirely; Movistar limps along if you stand on the church step and face north. Download an offline map and screenshot your booking confirmation before you leave the main road.

When You Have Had Enough

Ninety minutes is plenty to circle the lanes, photograph the goats and drink a coffee. Stretch it to half a day by adding the river-walk: follow the paved track past the last house, drop 200 m through holm-oaks to the Urbión where trout flick like silver commas in the black water. There is a flat rock perfect for a picnic; the only sound is the river and the occasional clonk of a cowbell echoing off the gorge.

If the silence starts to feel oppressive, Logroño’s tapas street is 75 minutes away by car. Descend through the pine plantations, watch the thermometer climb ten degrees and reward yourself with a glass of chilled white Rioja – proof that you have re-entered civilisation.

Viniegra de Arriba will not change your life. It will give you a morning of clean air, a church bell that still marks the hours, and the agreeable sensation that, for once, your phone cannot interrupt. Turn up with a full tank, a half-full wallet and zero expectation of souvenir magnets and you will understand why the 54 people who live there have stopped apologising for the lack of everything else.