Cihuri

The church bell strikes noon, yet no one quickens their pace. A farmer hoses down his tractor outside the only shop. Two elderly men pause their conversation to watch a red kite circle above the Roman bridge, its shadow sliding over stone that's borne traffic since the 12th century. This is Cihuri, population 161, where the traffic lights don't exist and the loudest sound at midday is ice clinking in a glass of young white Rioja.

At 480 metres above sea level, the village sits just high enough to catch the breeze that drifts across the Ebro valley. That altitude matters. Summer afternoons here run five degrees cooler than Logroño, the regional capital 45 minutes south. Morning mist clings longer too, burning off by ten o'clock to reveal rows of tempranillo vines marching towards the Sierra de Cantabria. Winter brings a different story: when snow blocks the LR-404, locals stock up on pochas beans and wait for the grader from Haro.

The Roman bridge demands precisely twenty minutes. Walk it twice – once for the photos, once to notice how the masonry changes colour when the sun shifts. Saturday lunchtime draws Spanish day-trippers who park haphazardly by the stone cross, so arrive early if you want the bridge without strangers in your frame. From its apex you can see the hermitage of Nuestra Señora de la Esclavitud, a white dot on the opposite hill. The three-kilometre vineyard path there takes forty minutes, longer if you stop to read the bronze plaque explaining how Cihuri's monks once rented their land in exchange for lamp oil and chickens.

Inside the village, calle Mayor narrows to shoulder-width in places. Sandstone houses wear their timber balconies like afterthoughts; one bears the date 1764 carved above a doorframe whose wood has turned silver with age. The church of San Martín de Tours anchors the highest point. Romanesque in origin, later architects grafted on a baroque tower that leans slightly west, giving the whole structure the air of someone listening to distant gossip. Step inside and your eyes need a moment. The single nave feels larger than it should, acoustics designed for plainchant rather than the recorded church bells that now mark the quarter hours.

Practicalities first: there's no cash machine. The nearest euros live in Haro, ten minutes by car along the LR-404, a road that corkscrews past bodegas whose names – Bilbaínas, Muga, Roda – appear on London restaurant lists. Cihuri's own shop, Ultramarinos Cihuri, opens when owner Marisol feels like it. Stock up on milk and Rioja before you arrive; the village won't starve you, but choice runs to tinned tuna or tinned tuna. Mobile signal drops to one bar by the hermitage path – download an offline map unless you fancy explaining directions to a Spanish farmer in broken GCSE Spanish.

Food happens on Rioja time. Lunch 14:00-15:30, dinner after 21:00, nothing in between except the bar at Bodegas Cihuri where locals play cards and ignore the clock. Try pochas de Cihuri, the local white haricot beans that taste like buttered chestnuts, or a chuletón rib steak grilled over vine cuttings. Portions dwarf British expectations; one T-bone feeds two easily. Ask for "poco hecho" if you like it rare – Spanish default runs closer to well-done. The house white, made from viura grapes without oak, drinks like a grassy Sauvignon and costs €3 a glass, less than a London coffee.

The village functions best as a base rather than a destination. Drive ten minutes to Haro for tapas crawling along Calle Laurel, or twenty to Santo Domingo de la Calzada where medieval pilgrims once bought indulgences and today's tourists buy overpriced garlic. Back in Cihuri, evenings smell of woodsmoke and fermenting grapes. Walk the lanes at dusk and you'll hear televisions through open windows, always the news, always too loud. A farmer calls his dog. The church bell counts to nine. Somewhere a cork pops.

Come in late April when the vines fuzz with new growth, or mid-October when leaves turn copper against dark green cypress. August works if you pace yourself – tour the bridge at eight, siesta through the heat, resume at six when shadows stretch across the valley. Winter empties the village further; some days you might share the streets only with the municipal street-sweeper and his radio. Snow rarely settles long, but the Sierra de Cantabria stays white-capped for weeks, a reminder that the Atlantic is closer than the Mediterranean.

Leave the car by the football pitch at the entrance – space for twenty, though you'll rarely compete for one. Don't block gates; farmers need tractor access and tolerance for tourists wears thin when they can't reach their vines. If you've overdone the Rioja, pre-book a taxi from Haro; there's no rank, and expecting to hail one is like waiting for a night bus in rural Yorkshire.

Cihuri won't change your life. It offers no epiphanies, sells no fridge magnets. What it does give is rhythm: the slow tread of someone who knows the grapes won't hurry for anyone. Stand on the Roman bridge at sunset when the village glows ochre and the only moving thing is a heron heading upstream. Then drive back to Bilbao airport, join the queue for overpriced sandwiches, and notice how quickly you forget what quiet sounds like.