Laguna de Cameros

The thermometer in your hire car drops ten degrees in the final twenty minutes. As the LR-250 corkscrews above the Cidacos gorge, pines replace poplars and the Riojan plain dissolves into a ripple of stone-roofed hamlets. Laguna de Cameros appears suddenly: a tight cluster of slate and timber balanced on a ridge at 1,050 m, its single church tower poking through a layer of early-morning fog that looks remarkably like a woollen blanket someone forgot to shake out.

With barely a hundred residents, the village functions less like a destination and more like a viewing platform. Walk to the far end of Calle Real and the ground falls away; oak and beech woods spill down to the river, while across the valley the Sierra de Cameros rolls off in successive blue ridges. On clear nights this high perch also buys you stars—serious stars. The area forms part of a Starlight Reserve, so take binoculars even if you’re usually indifferent to astronomy. Orion seems close enough to snag on the church weathervane.

What passes for a centre

There isn’t one. A small triangle of rough paving in front of the Iglesia de la Asunción acts as bus stop, meeting point and sunset grandstand. The church itself is a calm jumble of Romanesque doorway and later Gothic additions; inside, 17th-century retablos glitter dimly when the caretaker remembers to unlock the door. If it’s closed, knock at the house opposite—someone will usually track down the key within five minutes. That casual courtesy extends to the handful of permanently inhabited houses: expect to be greeted with a cheerful “Buenas!” even if you’re obviously a stranger clutching an OS map.

Architecture buffs should lower their expectations. Laguna’s charm lies in its uniformity: thick masonry walls the colour of storm clouds, wooden balconies sagging under geraniums, the occasional glassed-in gallery that catches the winter sun. No single building demands attention, yet the overall effect—especially when the stone glows amber at dusk—is quietly photogenic.

Walking without the crowds

The GR-93 long-distance trail skirts the village, so you can step straight from your breakfast onto a way-marked path. A gentle 45-minute loop leads south-east to the dinosaur footprints: three Cretaceous sauropod tracks pressed into a tilted limestone slab 300 m from the last house. Children like the treasure-hunt aspect; adults appreciate the surreal thought that a 30-tonne reptile once strolled where sheep now graze.

Serious hikers use Laguna as a staging post for the five-hour ridge walk to Torrecilla en Cameros, but shorter routes abound. Head west along the farm track signed “Prados de Silva” and you’ll reach a string of meadows bordered by wild cherry. In late May the grass is flecked with orchids; by October the same slopes flare bronze and copper, a slow-motion firework display that lasts weeks rather than seconds. Mobile reception is patchy beyond the last cottage, so screenshot the route the night before—there’s no café to ask directions and the only locals you’ll meet are on tractors with no time to chat.

Food that forgives the altitude

Altitude sharpens appetites, and Riojan mountain cooking is built for the job. The single bar-restaurant, Casa Curro, opens at eight for coffee and doesn’t bother with a written menu. Instead, the owner reels off what his wife is cooking: usually patatas a la riojana (a mild stew of potato, chorizo and pimentón), chuletón al estilo riojano (a T-bone that arrives rare unless you specify medium), and queso camerano, a tangy goat cheese that tastes of thyme and brush. House red comes in half-bottles because, as the landlord shrugs, “nobody’s driving far.” If you’re vegetarian, ask for setas a la plancha in season—wild mushrooms gathered under the strict regional limits that keep picker and forest happy.

Prices feel stuck in the last decade: a three-course lunch with wine hovers around €14. Dinner is nominally served until ten, but once the last steak leaves the kitchen the lights go off. Stock up beforehand if you’re prone to late-night crisps cravings; the nearest shop is a 20-minute drive down a road that ices over after dark from December to March.

When to come, when to stay away

May and late September deliver warm days, cool nights and an almost criminal silence broken only by cuckoos. August brings fiestas—processions, brass bands, a foam party in the tiny square—but also the only time you’ll struggle to park. British August visitors tend to split into two camps: those who relish hearing Spanish spoken around them rather than English, and those who panic when they realise the cash machine is 18 km away. Come prepared with euros and a full tank; the village has neither bank nor petrol pump.

Winter is a different story. Daytime temperatures scrape 8 °C, nights hover just above freezing, and the sun drops behind the western ridge shortly after four. The landscape turns monochrome, beautiful but austere. Walking paths become muddy streams; without snow chains you may be stuck for a day or two. Locals light their wood stoves at dusk and retreat behind thick doors: hospitality is genuine but not effusive, and strangers wandering the lanes after dark are viewed with mild suspicion. If you want solitude and star-filled skies, February can be magical—just bring boots with tread and a sense of self-sufficiency.

A place that knows its limits

Laguna de Cameros will never be a weekend break for everyone. There’s no lake despite the name, no souvenir shop, no morning yoga on the village green. What you get instead is altitude, space and a ringside seat to one of Spain’s emptier mountainscapes. Stay a single night and you’ll leave with a pleasant memory; stay three and you start to synchronise with the rhythm—bread van at ten, church bell on the hour, dogs barking at foxes after midnight. Book a week and you may find yourself checking Rightmove for stone barns, then remembering that the nearest hospital is an hour away on switchback roads.

Drive out at sunrise, the valley fog pooled below like milk in a saucer, and it’s hard not to feel you’ve stumbled onto something private. Just don’t tell the world. Laguna is small, and the world might not fit.