Zorraquín

The church bell strikes once, not because it's half past anything but because the rope still works and someone felt like pulling it. In Zorraquín, high on the southern shoulder of the Sierra de la Demanda, that's about as much ceremony as you'll get. Ninety-one residents, 871 metres above the Riojan plain, and not a single souvenir shop between the stone houses.

Walking into a Cooler Climate

Turn off the N-120 at Ezcaray and the road climbs 9 km through beech and oak. Even in July the temperature drops five degrees; by December you're in proper mountain weather. The village sits in a shallow bowl where three streams meet, which explains why the air smells of moss even when the rest of La Rioja is baking.

Parking is informal: find a gap before the last curve, squeeze against the stone wall, and walk. The streets are short enough that you can stand in the centre and see both ends at once. Houses are built from local grey limestone, timber balconies painted the dark green you see on French farm shutters. Nothing is "restored" in the glossy-magazine sense; walls lean, gates sag, and the effect is more honest than pretty.

Start at the plaza – a triangle, really – where the Iglesia de San Andrés keeps watch. The building is 16th-century, plain, with a single nave and a bell tower that doubles as the village timepiece. Inside, the altarpiece is oak, not gilt, and the priest's chair has a frayed cushion. Locals use the porch as a noticeboard: mushroom permits, hay for sale, a funeral next Thursday at eleven.

Tracks that Ask for Legwork

Three waymarked paths leave the upper edge of the village. The easiest follows the Arroyo de Zorraquín north for 40 minutes to a ruined water mill; after rain the water drums against the stones loud enough to drown conversation. Serious walkers link this to the PR-27 which climbs to the Picos de Urbión, but that turns a stroll into a 700-metre ascent and wants a full day.

Autumn brings the colour shift. Beech leaves move from green to copper in the space of a week, and the forest floor looks spray-painted. Mushroom hunters appear at dawn with wicker baskets and pocket knives; if you fancy joining them, buy a €3 daily permit from the Ezcaray town hall first. The guardia civil do check.

Winter is a different contract. Snow can fall from October onward, and the LR-113 is salted but never priority. Chains or winter tyres are sensible; without them you may spend the night in the village bar whether you planned to or not. When the white stuff settles, the same footpaths become cross-country ski routes—no lifts, no hire shop, bring your own kit.

Where to Eat and Sleep

There are two bars. Both open at seven for coffee and churros, close at three, reopen at seven-thirty, and shut definitively when the last customer leaves. Menú del día is €12–14: soup or salad, grilled pork with chips, yoghurt or flan. Wine comes in tumblers; ask for "vino joven" if you want the local tempranillo that hasn't seen the inside of an oak barrel.

For overnight stays, La Chota Marela has three rooms above the baker's old stable. Beams are original, Wi-Fi is patchy, and the shower is electric—treat it kindly or it goes cold. Price is €55 a night including breakfast (strong coffee, supermarket toast, homemade membrillo). There is no reception; the owner leaves the key under a flowerpot and trusts you to leave cash on the sideboard when you go.

Self-caterers should shop in Ezcaray before driving up. The village shop opens 10:00–14:00, 17:00–19:30, stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna, and not much else. There is no ATM; the nearest is outside the Ezcaray post office, 11 km down a road that feels longer after dark.

The Dinosaur Bonus Round

Five kilometres south on a forest track, signposted only from the hamlet of La Rasga, lies a limestone slab printed with three-toed theropod tracks. The site is unsigned and unfenced; you park on the verge, hop a cattle grid, and hope you brought walking boots not flip-flops. The prints are 120 million years old, measure 35 cm heel to toe, and disappear under fern fronds after wet weather. Visit early; by midday the light flattens and the tracks vanish.

What Can Go Wrong

Mobile signal dies in the valley bottom. Download an offline map before you leave Ezcaray and save your accommodation's GPS coordinates. The village water supply comes straight off the mountain; it's drinkable but heavy in limescale—kettle users beware. Finally, silence is taken seriously. If you arrive with a Bluetooth speaker and a stag-do mentality, expect polite but firm requests to turn it down, usually from a grandmother who could be anywhere between 45 and 75.

Pairing Zorraquín with the Wider Region

Staying here only makes sense with wheels. Logroño's tapas crawls are 55 minutes north-west; the monasteries of San Millán de la Cogolla 40 minutes south. On a clear day you can drive across the Puerto de Santa Inés to the wine village of Cuzcurrita, tour its medieval castle, and still be back for supper. Conversely, if the forecast threatens snow, don't push on to the Urbión lagoons—the road is the first to close and the Guardia won't risk a tractor to pull you out.

When to Clock Off

Spring and early June are the kindest months: daylight until nine, streams still running, and the bar terraces warm enough for a sweater. September rivals May for colour, but add mosquito repellent; the damp valleys breed them. August is hotter than you'd expect at this height—afternoons hit 34 °C—and Spanish families fill the self-catering houses, so book ahead. November to March is for the self-sufficient: bring boots, chains, and no expectation of nightlife. If that's your brief, you'll have the tracks, the forests, and perhaps the whole village to yourself.

Leave when the church bell strikes twice—someone's probably pulling the rope again—and drive down the hill with the windows open. Ten minutes later Ezcaray's streetlights appear, the temperature rises, and the sierra folds back into its own quieter time zone.