Fuenmayor

The thermometer on the bank at the edge of Fuenmayor flashes 35 °C at three in the afternoon, yet the air feels lighter than in Logroño twelve kilometres away. At 433 m, the town sits just high enough for a breeze to skim across the Ebro valley, rattling the vines that run right up to the stone houses. There is no dramatic crag or castle keep, only the long, steady climb of the Cantabrian sierra turning purple to the south. The view is the sort British walkers associate with Piedmont or southern France—except the wine here costs three euros a glass, not eight.

Stone, Sandstone and Subterranean Cellars

Most visitors arrive by accident, detouring off the N-232 to avoid Logroño ring-road traffic. The first impression is workmanlike: tractors parked on verges, pallet lorries stacked with green bottles, and the faint sour-sweet smell of grape must drifting from extractor vents. Look closer and the sandstone façades show the tooling marks of sixteenth-century masons; iron balconies have been repainted so many times the railings look hand-forged. The grid of streets is small enough to cross in five minutes, yet every other doorway hides a stone staircase dropping into a calado—an underground gallery hacked out for wine barrels. Some are signposted “bodega”, many are not; if the door is ajar and you can smell damp earth and oak, you have probably found one still in use. Ring first, or you will be sent politely away.

The Iglesia de San Esteban squats at the geometric centre, its Renaissance tower a useful compass point when you emerge from underground disorientated. Inside, the nave is wider than expected, the stone columns whitewashed during some austere century and never repainted. Donations go into an old tobacco tin; light a five-cent candle if you feel guilty for gate-crashing. English-speaking sacristan José María lives opposite at No. 14—ring his bell and he’ll unlock the choir for a two-euro tip, pointing out where the 1974 Rioja earthquake cracked the apse.

Wine Without the Theatre

Fuenmayor does not do “experiences”. There is no miniature train shaped like a grape, no piped flamenco in the tasting room. What you get is a family member who has probably driven the forklift that morning, pouring three wines while the dog scratches outside. Bodegas Vallemayor, on the eastern edge, offers a weekday visit at noon for €12: barrel sample of the new vintage, a glass of citrus-peel white made from Tempranillo blanco, and a 2016 reserva that tastes of leather and dried thyme. Book by WhatsApp the night before; if harvest is in full swing you will be asked to turn up at 07:00 instead, handed secateurs and sworn at in Spanish if you snip the wrong shoots. Payment is cash only—there is no card machine because the mobile signal struggles with the metre-thick walls.

Sunday is trickier. The cooperative sells wine in bulk from a tap room, but the volunteer pourer may have gone to lunch. Bring a five-litre demijohn if you want the house red at €1.90 a litre; otherwise wait until Monday and buy bottled stock from the supermarket on Plaza de España.

Where to Eat When the Tractors Park for Lunch

Spanish families travel for chuletón, a T-bone that covers the plate and arrives bleeding. Restaurante Alameda, halfway down Calle Mayor, fires theirs over vine cuttings; the house menú del día is £14 and includes a half-bottle of crianza. Start with roasted red-pepper soup—smoky, sweet, no chilli heat—then pork secreto, a marbled cut from behind the shoulder that grills like steak. Pudding is custard with a splash of PX sherry; ask for it “sin alcohol” for children and they will substitute honey. Tables fill at 14:00 sharp; arrive at 13:45 or reserve by phone (they answer in Spanish only, but “dos personas, dos de la tarde” usually works). Vegetarians get a plate of pisto—Spain’s answer to ratatouille—plus the same wine, so nobody feels penalised.

Monday is bleak: both recommended restaurants close, as does the wine museum. The only option is Bar Alhondiga, where the croquetas come from a freezer bag and the coffee is lukewarm. Pack sandwiches or keep driving.

Walking Off the Rioja

Paths strike out between the vineyards, flat enough for trainers but dusty after May. A thirty-minute loop south-east brings you to the ruins of the San Millán hermitage; stone benches face west, ideal for evening light when the sierra glows copper. Take water—there are no fountains and summer shade is zero. Cyclists can follow the signed “Vías Verdes” track that starts behind the sports pavilion; it follows an old railway for 7 km to Navarrete, dead straight and car-free, perfect for families towing a toddler seat.

Winter is a different proposition. Night frosts glaze the vines, and the mist rolling off the river can linger until noon. Temperatures hover around 6 °C, colder than Logroño because the ground radiates heat upwards. Roads stay clear—snowploughs are unnecessary—but the short daylight compresses activity into two slots: bodegas at 11:00, long lunch at 14:00, then everything shuts until the next frost.

Beds for the Night (or the Lack of Them)

Fuenmayor has no hotel. British motor-homers praise the free aire behind the polideportivo: flat gravel, fresh-water tap, grey-water drain, no height barrier. Weekends are quiet except when the five-a-side league finishes at 22:00 and players rev motorbikes. For walls and a shower, the nearest accommodation is a converted manor in nearby Cenicero (ten minutes by car) or the parador in Santo Domingo de la Calzada, thirty minutes south. Logroño’s old-town hostels start at £50 a double, but you lose the dawn-in-the-vines effect.

When to Turn Up—and When to Leave

April and late September give you 22 °C at midday, vines either neon green or flaming red. Harvest in early October means grape lorries thundering through at 25 mph; tasting rooms squeeze in Spanish hen parties and the smell of diesel mingles with fermenting juice. Weekenders should book everything—restaurants, bikes, even the sacristan—or accept a slow drive to the next village. August is oven-hot; walking is tolerable only before 10:00 or after 18:00, when the sandstone walls release stored heat like storage radiators. December fiestas revolve around a street barbecue of morcilla and chestnuts; charming if you speak Spanish, opaque if you do not.

Getting There Without the Slow Train

No rail link means bus or car. Autobuses Jiménez runs six services Monday-Friday from Logroño’s Estación de Autobuses (€1.65, twenty minutes). Saturday timetable drops to three; Sunday there is none. Hire cars take the N-232 east; exit at kilometre 446, swing under the flyover and you are instantly among vines. Petrol is cheaper than in the UK, but watch the speed camera at the 50 km/h entry sign—fines start at €100 and the local police have a new handheld laser.

Fuenmayor will never make the front of a glossy brochure. It offers instead the small honesty of a place that makes wine because the banks once refused loans for anything else. Stay for the three-glass lunch, buy a bottle that cost less than the airport bus, and leave before the tractors start the afternoon shift.