Cervera del Río Alhama

The first clue that you’ve left the famous Rioja wine plain behind is the temperature drop on the car thermometer. By the time the road tips into the Alhama gorge it shows five degrees cooler than Logroño, 50 km north. Olive trunks replace tidy trellises, the air smells of wild thyme instead of fermenting must, and the GPS altitude ticks past 500 m. Cervera del Río Alhama sits at 534 m, high enough for vultures to cruise at eye-level yet low enough for almonds to ripen. Locals like to say they live in “La Rioja’s balcony”; visitors usually mutter “thank God for that breeze” and reach for the water bottle.

A Village that Still Runs on Footsteps

Cervera’s population of 2 273 is spread across a saddle-shaped ridge above the river. Stone houses line streets just wide enough for a tractor and a dog; anything bigger triggers a traffic jam that lasts until someone reverses. The rhythm is agricultural: the grain store opens at seven, the baker sells out by nine, the main bar fills with farmers discussing rainfall while they knock back short coffees stronger than Yorkshire tea. Tourism exists, but it’s incidental. On a weekday in May you might share the entire riverside path with one retired teacher and her spaniel.

Start at the Iglesia de San Gil Abad, the sandstone tower that has doubled as the village compass since the 1500s. Romanesque arches carry a later Gothic roof, the result of a 17th-century rebuild after a lightning strike. Inside, the altarpiece still smells of beeswax; outside, the plaza is just large enough for a game of petanca and a municipal bench that faces the sun at 11 a.m. sharp. From here every street slopes either to the river or to the cemetery, making lost wandering almost impossible.

Downhill lanes narrow until the stone walls feel like book spines; peer over the wrought-iron grill of number 14 Calle Nueva and you’ll see a 19th-century espadrille workshop where a retired couple twist esparto grass into soles. They don’t advertise, but if the door’s ajar you can buy a pair made to measure while you wait—€18, cash only, 24-hour turnaround.

What the River Adds, the Hill Keeps

Five minutes below the church the Alhama slips between poplars and reed beds. A 4 km signed loop follows the inside bend, flat enough for pushchairs and sensible sandals. Kingfishers flash turquoise in early spring; by June the water shrinks to a string of emerald pools where teenagers leap from flat rocks. The path ends at an old flour mill whose wheel stopped turning in 1967; swallows now nest in the axle holes.

For a stiffer walk, cross the medieval pack-bridge and climb the goat track behind the cemetery. Twenty minutes of calf-burning switchbacks reach the castle ruins—really a single tower and a waist-high perimeter wall. The reward is a 180-degree sweep: olive terraces grid the opposite slope, the river glints like polished pewter, and on clear days the Moncayo massif floats 80 km south like a paper cut-out. Griffon vultures use the thermals here; bring binoculars and you can distinguish the pale leading edge on their eight-foot wingspan.

Summer hiking needs timing. Daytime highs can top 35 °C in July, so start at dawn or wait until the sun drops behind the ridge. Carry at least a litre of water—there are no fountains after the village edge. Winter is gentler: crisp air, empty paths, almond blossom in February. Snow falls perhaps twice a year, just enough to close the mountain access for a morning and send children sledging on baking trays.

Lunch at Plaza Speed

Back in the centre, Plaza Mayor measures 40 paces across. Café Toño occupies the ground floor of a former town hall whose stone balcony once held Franco’s microphone. Order the chuletón for two (€38) and you’ll receive a Flintstone-sized beef rib, flash-grilled so the inside stays raspberry. Chips arrive in a separate basket, thick-cut and salted like seaside fare. If red meat feels reckless after the climb, the patatas a la riojana deliver gentle paprika warmth without chilli heat; vegetarians get roasted piquillo peppers stuffed with mushroom crumbs.

White-wine drinkers can swerve the region’s famous reds: local cooperatives bottle a pale Vino Blanco de Cervera from Malvasía and Viura grapes. It tastes of green apple and mountain herbs, costs €12 a bottle in the shops, and won’t stain your teeth before the afternoon stroll. Pudding might be an espadrille-shaped almond biscuit from the pottery workshop on Calle San Francisco—crisp outside, chewy marzipan within, the edible equivalent of suede.

Shops observe the classic siesta: bolted doors from 14:00 until 17:00. Plan accordingly—bring fruit or expect dessert at the bar. Most businesses prefer cash for bills under €20; the nearest ATM is inside the Caixa bank, which closes at 14:30 on Saturdays and doesn’t reopen until Monday.

Using Cervera as a Base, Not a Blink

The village works best as a two-night pause rather than a day-trip tick. Stay longer and you can string together half-day drives that dodge the busier Rioja wine circuit. Fifteen kilometres south, the Iron-Ag e site of Contrebia Leucade sits behind a padlocked gate; ring the tourist office the previous evening (they answer WhatsApp in English) and a guide will appear, unlock, and give a free tour of stone walls older than the Roman invasion. Twenty minutes west, Arnedillo’s thermal pools bubble at 38 °C—outdoor baths where you can soak under poplars while red kites circle overhead. Bring flip-flops; the gravel riverbed bruises tender British feet.

Back on the road, the C-126 winds through 12 km of corkscrew bends to reach the UNESCO-listed canyon of Cañón de Río Leza. Park at the Mirador de Villoslada and you’ll look down 400 m of pink limestone where Egyptian vultures nest in caves the size of beach huts. Mobile signal dies halfway down the track, so screenshot the walking route before you leave the village.

Getting There, Getting Fed, Getting Gone

No railway comes within 40 km. Fly to Bilbao, Zaragoza, or Biarritz—each sits roughly 90 minutes away on fast motorways followed by mountain roads. Car hire is essential; the last 12 km into Cervera twist like a dropped ribbon, but surfaces are smooth and passing bays frequent. Petrol is cheaper at the supermarket pumps in Calahorra on the A-68; fill up before the final climb.

Accommodation is limited to half a dozen small guesthouses. Casa Tierra is the pick: three rooms carved into a 17th-century mansion, beams blackened by centuries of hearth smoke, Wi-Fi that actually reaches the bedrooms. Weekends in May and October sell out to bird-watchers; book ahead or arrive mid-week for an empty terrace and €70 double rooms that include a breakfast of local honey thick enough to stand a spoon in.

Leave time for the Friday market—six stalls that spread across the plaza from nine until one. You can buy a whole Serrano ham leg (€65), a rope-soled souvenir, and the week’s gossip in a single circuit. By Saturday afternoon the square is quiet again, the river murmurs louder than the traffic, and the thermometer drops those five degrees that first welcomed you. That’s the signal to lace up your new espadrilles and walk the ridge path once more before darkness folds the village into the gorge.