Munilla

The bakery van beeps at 09:30 sharp. By half past ten the only sound in Munilla is a tractor reversing somewhere near the olive grove. At 791 m above the Cidacos valley, the village air is already warm in May, but still cool enough to walk without breaking a sweat. This is not the postcard Spain of flamenco and orange-tree squares; it is a working grain village where stone houses face north to dodge the sun and most door keys sit under flowerpots because nobody bothers to lock up.

A map you can memorise

Munilla’s centre is four streets that meet at the 14th-century church of San Miguel. Climb the narrow tower stair (mind the pigeon droppings) and the reward is a 360-degree platform: caramel wheat on three sides, a rumple of Iberian hills to the south, and the red roofs below like loose change spilled on a green cloth. Bring sandwiches; the terrace railing is the perfect picnic height and you will probably have it to yourself.

The village perimeter takes twenty minutes on foot. Adobe walls bulge like well-fed sheep, iron balconies sag under geraniums, and every second doorway reveals a grain store smelling of last year’s barley. Number 14 on Calle San Pedro has a 19th-century bread oven still black with soot; the owners will show it to you if they are in from the fields. There is no ticket office, no interpretation board—just knock.

Walking without a Garmin

Leave by the upper track sign-posted “Hayedo de Santiago” and within five minutes the tarmac gives way to a stony lane between dry-stone walls. The beech wood arrives suddenly: a cool, cathedral hush forty-five minutes from the church door. Autumn turns the canopy copper around the third week of October, coinciding neatly with British half-term and the brief spell when Spanish schools descend for nature worksheets. Come in late September and you may share the forest only with jays and the odd local gathering mushrooms.

Beyond the beech, paths fan out along the Cidacos escarpment. None are strenuous; gradients top out at 250 m. A circular route south to the abandoned hamlet of Villarroya adds ninety minutes and finishes at the village fountain where the water tastes faintly of iron. Maps are available from the albergue on Plaza Mayor—photocopied, A4, free. GPS works until the first canyon, then the signal dribbles away, which is another way of saying you are allowed to get happily, briefly lost.

Food when the bar is actually open

Munilla keeps no published opening hours. Bar La Plaza raises its shutter when the owner finishes feeding his chickens and closes when the last customer leaves—usually before eleven. Inside, a single tapa sits under a glass dome: potato and mild chorizo stew, €2 a portion. If the bar is dark, drive ten minutes to Enciso where Asador Casa Ramón will sell you a kilo of charcoal-grilled rib-eye (chuletón) big enough for two hungry walkers, €36. Vegetarians are limited to roasted piquillo peppers and sheep’s cheese drizzled with local honey, but that combination, plus a glass of crianza, is hardly a punishment.

There is no shop. Stock up in Arnedo before the final 15-minute climb: bread, tomatoes, tinned tuna and a bottle of Rioja alavesa that costs €4 in the supermarket and three times that in a restaurant. Sunday travellers should know the bakery van is the only fresh food source; miss it and you are on packet crackers until Monday.

Where to sleep (and why it isn’t a hotel)

Accommodation is the 24-bed albergue municipal on the square. It is clean, heated, and costs €12 including sheets, but it is still a youth hostel: lights out 23:30, kitchen closes at 22:00, and you are expected to mop the floor before departure. British visitors who arrive expecting a rustic B&B are politely redirected to Arnedo, where Hotel Bed4U offers parking and Wi-Fi for €55, but loses the dawn silence that makes Munilla worth the detour. One compromise is to rent Casa Joseph, the only village house with a British owner; three nights minimum, weekly rate €350, bookings through the albergue warden who acts as unofficial letting agent.

Seasons and how they change the road

Spring brings green wheat and lambs that escape through fence holes. Daytime temperatures hover around 18 °C—perfect for the beech loop—though nights drop to 7 °C, so pack a fleece even in May. Summer is hotter than most of La Rioja because the surrounding plateau radiates heat; 35 °C at three in the afternoon is routine, but the altitude means you can still sleep under a duvet once the sun dips. Autumn is the photographers’ window: barley stubble turns the valley gold, and the first mists rise like slow steam from the Cidacos river. Winter is when you discover whether your hire-car contract covers snow chains; the LR-382 from Arnedo is cleared after falls, but not immediately. If the forecast mentions “cierzo” (the local northerly wind) expect minus five and a wind-chill that peels lips.

The things Munilla does not do

There is no artisanal olive-oil tasting, no pottery workshop, no Saturday market. Mobile reception on Vodafone and EE vanishes inside stone houses; WhatsApp works from the church steps if you stand on the left side. The village does not pretend to be anything larger than its population of 109, and that honesty is part of its appeal. Come for a night and you may leave after breakfast; come for three and you find yourself recognising the dogs by name and timing your walk to coincide with the bakery van’s horn.

Munilla suits travellers who prefer their Spain without commentary. Bring good shoes, a paperback for the evening, and a sense of how to entertain yourself when darkness falls at ten past nine. If that sounds like effort, stay in Logroño and visit the cathedral instead. If it sounds like freedom, the church bell is already counting the hours for you.