Pinillos

The stone houses don’t so much sit on the hillside as grow out of it. At 1,050 m, Pinillos is already above the tree line that most British visitors associate with the Pyrenees, yet it lies only an hour’s drive north-west of Logroño’s tapas bars and tempranillo bodegas. One moment you’re winding through poplar groves beside the Ebro; the next, the air thins, the temperature drops five degrees, and the only sound is a cow bell carried on a wind that smells of resin and cold water.

This is the Sierra de Cameros, a ripple of slate and limestone that feels more Cantabrian than Riojan. Pinillos—population somewhere south of thirty on a good day—occupies a shelf that faces south-east, so the morning sun hits the roofs first and the evening shadows retreat early behind the ridge. Everything about the layout says “winter first, visitor second”: houses huddle shoulder-to-shoulder, doorways face away from the prevailing wind, and the single lane through the village is barely wide enough for a Land Rover Discovery, which is fortunate because that’s about the only thing that makes it up here when snow arrives.

Stone, Wood and the Smell of Woodsmoke

There is no souvenir shop, no interpretive centre, not even a bar. What you get instead is a five-minute walk that turns into forty-five because the masonry deserves attention. Granite quoins frame soft grey limestone; timber balconies are pegged, not nailed; roof tiles are held in place by the weight of winter snow that is expected, not hoped for. The parish church of San Andrés—locked unless the key-keeper hears footsteps—has a Romanesque capital reused as a holy-water stoup and a bell cast in 1838 that still rings the Angelus at noon. Above the altar, a polychrome wooden Christ wears real human hair, donated by village women during the 1938 famine. Nobody mentions it unless you ask.

Walk to the upper edge of the hamlet and the ground suddenly gives way. Below, the Leza valley unrolls like a green carpet with oak and beech woods stitched into the seams. On clear days you can pick out the white dish of the Observatory of Yebes, 40 km away on the plateau of Guadalajara. On hazy days—and there are plenty—the world ends at the next ridge and Pinillos feels like an island.

Footpaths without Signposts

The Camino Natural de la Sierra de Cameros passes above the village, but you won’t find yellow arrows. Instead, look for the double track used by local cattle farmers: it becomes a single track, then a faint line between heather clumps, and finally nothing at all. That is the cue to stop, check your map, and remember that phone reception vanishes halfway down the slope. A circular route south to the abandoned hamlet of Valdeperillo and back takes two quiet hours, gaining 250 m of height and crossing two fords that can be knee-deep after April showers. In May the hillside is speckled with wild peonies; in October the same slope smells of thyme and mushroom. Roe deer watch from the edge of the holm oak; wild boar diggings turn over the path like badly filled potholes.

Winter walkers should assume snow from December to March. The GR-93 long-distance path officially stays open, but the section west towards Montenegro de Cameros crosses a north-facing couloir that holds drifts until late April. Crampons are overkill; walking poles and waterproof gaiters are not. If the road from Villoslada is closed—a couple of weekends most years—park at the pass and walk the last 3 km. The village is prettier under snow anyway, and the silence is complete enough to hear your own heartbeat.

What You Won’t Find (and Might Miss)

There is nowhere to buy food, drink or postcards. The nearest petrol pump is 18 km back down the LR-250, and it closes at 20:00. Mobile data slows to 3G on a good day, so streaming is out. These omissions are deliberate rather than negligent: Pinillos never rebuilt its economy after the 1960s rural exodus, and the handful of returnees who restored family houses did so to escape, not to trade. Bring water, a sandwich and a full tank. If you hope for lunch in a village tavern, drive down to Torrecilla en Cameros where Casa Toni serves a three-course menú del día for €14 including wine, but only at weekends.

Evening accommodation is limited to three self-catering cottages booked through the regional tourism board. Expect oak beams, wood-burning stoves and electricity that falters if you run the kettle and toaster simultaneously. Prices hover around €90 a night for two, linen included. There is no hotel, no swimming pool, no yoga retreat. The stars—unpolluted by any town within 50 km—are the entertainment, and they switch on promptly after the church bell strikes ten.

Getting Here without Tears

Bilbao is the least painful UK gateway: a two-hour flight from Heathrow, then a two-hour drive south on the A-68 and A-12. The final 25 km from Logroño is on the LR-250, a mountain road that coils through hairpins and requires second-gear determination whenever snow chains lie in the boot. Car hire is non-negotiable; public transport stops at Villoslada de Cameros, 12 km below the village, and taxis refuse the climb when ice glints on the tarmac. In summer the same road rewards drivers with views across the Ebro gorge that rival anything in the Yorkshire Dales, only with added griffon vultures.

When to Cut Your Losses

Come in July expecting cool relief and you may still be disappointed: the sun is fierce at this altitude, shade is scarce, and the stone houses act like storage heaters. Conversely, an April weekend can deliver sleet driven sideways by a wind that has crossed the Meseta unchecked. The sweet spots are late May—orchids on the verges, daylight until 21:30—or mid-October when beech woods ignite into copper and gold and the first woodsmoke drifts from chimneys at dusk. If the forecast mentions “viento sur” (southerly gales), postpone: the road becomes a chute for airborne grit and the village itself hums like a tuning fork.

Parting Shots

Pinillos will not change your life, but it might recalibrate your sense of scale. An hour here is enough to establish that the world continues perfectly well without coffee-to-go, push notifications or artisan sourdough. Two hours, and you start measuring distance by how far a cow bell carries. Stay overnight, and the Milky Way feels close enough to snag on the church roof. Leave while the engine is still warm, and the place folds itself back into the hillside until the next curious traveller rounds the bend.