Pazuengos

The church bell tolls twice, though it's Thursday morning and nobody's funeral is scheduled. In Pazuengos, population twenty-seven, sound carries differently. Wind through the oak canopy creates its own percussion, and cowbells add irregular rhythm from pastures that begin where the stone houses end. This is conversation enough for a village where the nearest shop sits fourteen kilometres away down a switchback road that ices over by late October.

Stone Walls and Silence

Approach from Ezcaray and the LR-411 climbs through beech woods before depositing drivers at a ridge where mobile reception vanishes entirely. The village materialises as a tight cluster of slate roofs and timber balconies, none higher than two storeys, arranged around a church whose modest bell tower serves as both compass point and weather vane. Builders here worked with what the Sierra de la Demanda provided: limestone quarried from local outcrops, oak beams that darken to nearly black with age, and clay tiles curved just enough to shed winter snow.

Architecture enthusiasts might recognise the mountain typology—ground floors for livestock, external stone staircases, tiny windows set deep into metre-thick walls. Everyone else will simply notice how quiet it feels. No café terraces spill onto pavements; there aren't any. The single bar opens weekends only, and then sporadically depending on whether Concha, who holds the keys, is babysitting grandchildren in Logroño. Bring your own picnic, in other words, and carry out the wrappers.

Walking Without Waymarks

Official hiking routes don't exist here, which suits the resident wild boar population perfectly. Instead, a lattice of livestock tracks radiates from the church square towards high pastures where shepherds still practice transhumance. Follow the widest track south-east and within thirty minutes the village shrinks to toy-town proportions below, while the bulk of Monte San Lorenzo dominates the horizon at 2,262 metres. On crisp winter mornings this is snow-capped and dazzling; by July it's merely imposing, a useful landmark if afternoon cloud rolls in suddenly.

Navigation requires attention. Fog descends without ceremony, obliterating what locals jokingly call "the skyline"—three telecom masts on a neighbouring ridge. Print an IGN map beforehand; GPS signals bounce erratically between rock faces. Proper boots matter too. Paths alternate between red clay that cakes soles after rain and limestone scree that shifts underfoot. Neither rewards flip-flops.

Wildlife watching proves easier than route-finding. Dawn and dusk offer best chances of spotting roe deer at forest edges. Griffon vultures cruise thermals overhead most afternoons, their two-metre wingspans casting cruciform shadows. Bring binoculars but don't expect safari-style abundance; this is subtle country where a fresh set of hoofprints in mud constitutes excitement.

Four Seasons, Four Access Problems

Winter transforms Pazuengos into a place of short sharp days. Temperatures regularly drop below minus five between December and February, and the access road gets gritted exactly never. Local advice is unambiguous: if snow is forecast, descend to Ezcaray before dusk or prepare to stay put. Electricity cables still run above ground here; when they ice up, power cuts last until someone from the valley bothers to drive up with a generator.

Spring arrives late and brief. May sees wild cherry trees flowering in abandoned orchards, while cowslips push through limestone cracks. It's the prettiest month, largely because few visitors witness it. Come June, the first Spanish holidaymakers appear, clutching city expectations and leaving disappointed when they discover nowhere sells chilled rosé. They depart by teatime, freeing up verges for the handful of serious walkers who understand what they've come for.

Summer nights surprise first-timers. Even in August thermometers can read twelve degrees at 3 a.m. Pack a fleece regardless of daytime forecasts. Afternoon thunderstorms build over the Iberian plateau then break spectacularly across these ridges; the village has documented more lightning strikes per square kilometre than anywhere else in La Rioja. Watching storms roll in from a stone doorway feels cinematic, though photographers should note that metal tripods conduct electricity rather well.

Autumn brings mushroom hunters and wood smoke. Locals forage for níscalos (saffron milk caps) in October, though novices should hire a guide; confusing edible species with deadly galerina causes liver failure that no amount of Rioja wine will cure. The village's few permanent residents spend October weekends chopping oak for winter fires. Stacks of split timber appear overnight beside front doors, seasoning quietly until the first frost.

Practicalities for the Curious

Driving from Bilbao takes two and a half hours via the AP-68 and Logroño, then the winding LR-206 through Ezcaray. Fill the petrol tank before leaving the motorway; rural stations close on Sundays and during siesta. Public transport involves a twice-daily bus to Ezcaray, after which you're hitch-hiking up the mountain. Taxis from Ezcaray cost around €25 each way if you can persuade someone to make the journey.

Accommodation options are, predictably, limited. Two village houses rent rooms through a booking platform that rhymes with "hairbnb", though hot water depends on solar panels and reviews mention "characterful" plumbing. More reliable beds await in Ezcaray's Hotel Universal or the monastery-turned-hostel at nearby Cañas. Wild camping is technically prohibited within the natural park boundaries, though enforcement is relaxed if you pitch late and leave early, carrying everything out including toilet paper.

Bring cash. Card machines haven't reached an altitude where even 4G fears to tread. €20 covers parking and coffee down in Ezcaray; up here it might buy you a bottle of water from the solitary vending machine outside the church—when it's working.

Leaving Without Promises

Pazuengos doesn't court return visits. There's no artisan cheese to Instagram, no craft brewery taproom, no boutique selling reclaimed-wood coat hooks. What exists is older and simpler: the realisation that Spain contains places where geography still dictates terms, where twenty-seven souls maintain routines their grandparents would recognise, and where silence accumulates like snow in the hollows between ancient oaks.

Drive away at dusk and the village dissolves into forest, its church bell the last distinguishable feature against darkening hillside. Whether this constitutes tourism depends on your definition of worthwhile travel. Some will find the absence of things to do intolerable. Others will discover that doing nothing specific, in a landscape large enough to forget motorways exist, constitutes precisely the point.