Rasillo de Cameros (El)

At 1 100 m the air thins enough to make you notice your breathing, especially if you’ve driven straight from Logroño’s tapas bars. El Rasillo de Cameros appears suddenly after the last hair-pin: stone houses shoulder-to-shoulder, a single elm spreading over the square like a parasol, and beyond the rooftops the glitter of the González Lacasa reservoir – a slash of silver that English visitors keep comparing to Ullswater on a bright March morning.

Stone, Timber and the Sierra Clock

Local builders still follow the Cameros rule-book: walls a metre thick, Arab-tiled roofs steep enough to shrug off snow, and wooden galleries jutting south to steal winter sun. The result is a settlement that looks older than it feels. Washing flaps from first-floor rails, a cat naps on a Ford Transit roof, and someone’s broadcasting Radio Rioja from a kitchen window. Walk slowly – the gradients demand it – and you’ll spot the practical touches British conservation officers dream of: cart-height doorways, external staircases that double as firewood driers, and tiny vegetable plots fenced with bedsteads.

There isn’t a “must-see” monument; the listed ensemble is the village itself. Start at the elm, planted in 1620 and still shade-throwing, then drift up the lanes that spiral towards the parish church. The tower is square, almost defensive, and the stone has gone the colour of weathered Cotswold. Circle the building and the valley floor drops away: a patchwork of beech, oak and the odd bright square of alfalfa that from here looks suspiciously like a Yorkshire dale turned upside-down.

Lakes, Beeches and a 12-Kilometre Cardio

If you arrive with children, the reservoir wins them instantly. Kayaks and pedalos can be hired at the small pebble beach (€10 for 30 min; cash only). The water is bracing even in July – think Lake Windermere without the jet-skis. A 4 km track skirts the western shore, flat enough for buggies and lined with wild mint that smells when you crush it.

Behind the village the Sierra de Cameros rises another 600 m. The most straightforward footpath heads south-east to the ermita of San Cristóbal, a two-hour round trip through beech woods that flame copper in late October. The route is way-marked but steep; trainers suffice in dry weather, yet after rain the clay grips like Cumbrian gloop. Carry a light – dusk arrives early once the sun slips behind the ridge.

Birders pack binoculars: crested tits, short-toed treecreepers and, if you’re lucky, a golden eagle sliding along the thermals. Spring migrants arrive late up here; don’t expect swallows before mid-April.

What You’ll Eat and When You’ll Eat It

Meal times are non-negotiable. Lunch finishes at 15:30, dinner not served before 21:00. Both bars post identical menus because the cook is the same woman, Mari José, who alternates kitchens depending on the day. Try the trout from the dam, pan-fried with serrano shards – mild, flaky, no fiddly pin-bones. Vegetarians get patatas a la riojana; ask for it “sin chorizo” and she’ll swap in roasted piquillo peppers without raising an eyebrow. Pudding is usually pears poached in Rioja; the alcohol boils off, leaving a claret-coloured syrup even teetot grandmothers approve.

Breakfast is harder. The bakery opens at 08:00 but runs out of croissants by 08:45. After that you’re on toast rubbed with tomato and olive oil – delicious, but don’t expect marmalade.

Fiestas, Silence and the Cash Problem

Mid-July brings the feast of San Cristóbal. Locals decorate tractors, 4×4s and one pristine 1983 Seat 127 with paper flowers then crawl uphill to the chapel behind a brass band. Visitors are handed wine in plastic cups; refusal is taken as personal insult. Accommodation is booked months ahead by returning emigrants from Bilbao, so if you hate fireworks and communal singing, choose a different week.

August’s Virgen de las Nieves is quieter: a single evening procession, bagpipes (yes, really) and an outdoor supper of roast goat that stretches past midnight. Temperatures drop to 12 °C even then – bring a fleece.

Practicalities are blunt. The village shop closes for siesta 14:00-17:00 and shuts completely on Wednesday afternoons. Plastic is treated with suspicion; the nearest ATM is a 25-minute drive to Torrecilla en Cameros, and it swallowed my Halifax card first go. Fill the tank before you leave the N-111 – the final climb drinks petrol and the lone pump in the next valley only takes Spanish debit cards.

Winter White-Outs and Summer Breathing Space

Snow arrives unpredictably between December and March. The council grades the LR-333 within hours, but a sharp frost turns the last kilometres into a bobsleigh run. Chains are rarely checked by police, yet without them you’ll slide backwards towards the reservoir quicker than you can say “hire car excess”. Conversely, July and August deliver day-long sunshine 5 °C cooler than Logroño; Spanish families retreat here to escape the city heat, so expect Saturday supermarket queues but plenty of paddling space on weekday mornings.

Spring is the sweet spot: orchards of almond blossom below the snow-line, migrant birds tuning up, and hotel prices still at low-season rates. Autumn runs a close second – the beech woods rival any New Forest colour-chart – but rural fire-risk can close forest tracks overnight, so check the regional website before setting off.

Leaving Without the Gift-Shop Bag

El Rasillo won’t sell you fridge magnets. What it does offer is a working mountain village where the loudest noise after 23:00 is the stream gurgling under the road. Walk the lanes at dawn and you’ll meet an old man carrying a scythe, murmuring “buenos días” as if he’s known you since primary school. Climb the ridge at dusk and the reservoir turns bronze, the same colour as a pint of best bitter held to the light. It isn’t spectacular, and that is precisely the point. Come prepared – cash, fleece, sensible shoes – and you’ll understand why the handful of Brits who find it tend to re-book on the drive back to the airport.