Alesanco

The church bell strikes noon and the only other sound is a tractor ticking cool in the shade. Half-timbered houses the colour of burnt honey close in on a plaza no bigger than a tennis court. You have just parked—freely, because every street is a lay-by—and already walked the length of Alesanco without meaning to. Five minutes, maybe six. That is the first thing to know: the village is small enough to explore between two sips of coffee.

Stone, clay and tempranillo

Alesanco perches on a low ridge in Rioja Alta, twenty minutes north-west of Logroño. From the upper lanes the land falls away in folding terraces of tempranillo, each row clipped like a military haircut. The population is 481 on the ayuntamiento noticeboard; the vines must outnumber them a hundredfold. There is no grand monument, no gift shop, no soundtrack beyond the odd clank of a cultivator. What you come for is the ensemble: stone houses roofed in clay canal tiles, wooden balconies wide enough for a geranium and a dream, and a horizon that smells faintly of must whenever the wind turns south.

The 16th-century parish church of San Esteban dominates the skyline from every angle. You do not need to go inside—doors are hit-and-miss—to appreciate the chunky sandstone tower that sailors once used as a landmark on the Ebro, fifteen kilometres distant. Circle the building and you will spot a medieval grave slab repurposed as paving and a pomegranate carved above the side door, a reminder that this was once Aragonese territory. That is about as museum-like as Alesanco gets; the rest is lived-in and scuffed in the best possible way.

Walking without waymarks

Footpaths peel off the last street as if the village has grown tired of tarmac. They are farm tracks, not signed trails, so take the one that heads east past the red letterbox and keep the tower at your back. Within ten minutes the wheat stubble crackles underfoot and larks reel overhead. The gradient is gentle, the reward disproportionate: a seesaw view of the Sierra de Cantabria snow-dusted on clear mornings, then the Oja valley sliding towards Nájera like a rumpled green carpet. None of it is wilderness—tractors chug below and every second hectare has a hunter’s platform—but the sense of space is generous. Wear trainers, not flip-flops; the clay hardens into ankle-twisting ruts after rain.

If you crave something longer, string together the PR-205 that links Alesanco with nearby Azofra. The full loop is 12 km across vineyards and takes three unhurried hours, but there is nothing to stop you turning round when the cuckoo stops calling. Spring brings fennel waist-high along the verges; autumn smells of crushed grape skins and wood smoke. Mid-July is visually dull: leaves hang dusty and the landscape flattens under white light. Start at dawn or save your legs for evening when the low sun ignites the stone.

Where to eat (and when)

Food is Riojan by the book: roast lamb, potatoes chunked into chorizofat, and wine served in short glasses because bottles waste time. Bar Zenón, the only bar on the main plaza, opens at 07:00 for truckers’ coffee and closes when the owner fancies. A toasted bocadillo of local goat’s cheese costs €3.20 and tastes like a mild Cheddar—safe territory for children who flinch at strong flavours. If you want a sit-down meal you need to book ahead; there is one restaurant inside the village and it keeps sporadic hours. Otherwise drive ten minutes to Nájera for menestra de verduras, a gentle vegetable stew that doubles as a vegan main if you remember to ask “sin jamón”.

Shops observe the old siesta without apology: 14:00–17:00, sometimes longer if the temperature tops 35 °C. There is no cash machine; fill your pocket in Nájera before you arrive. The little supermarket re-opens unpredictably after siesta, so buy breakfast oranges and UHT milk the night before or you will be drinking black coffee with the tractor drivers.

Wine, but not on the doorstep

Alesanco itself has no bodegas open to visitors—this is workaday farming country, not a theme-park cellar trail. The nearest outfit offering tastings is in Navarrete, a ten-minute drive towards Logroño. There, Bodegas Carlos San Pedro pours aged reservas in a 12th-century cave for €12 a head if you email first. Closer still, Fuenmayor has half a dozen houses within staggering distance of each other; harvest season in September books up with wine-trade crews, so reserve accommodation before you brag to Facebook about “doing Rioja”.

Should you arrive outside vintage weeks you will have the vines almost to yourself. Farmers still hand-pick the older plots, stacking yellow crates in perfect rows like Lego. Stop to watch and someone will offer a cluster straight from the bucket—sweet enough to make supermarket grapes taste like water.

Practical grit

Alesanco suits drivers. The village sits just off the A-12 Logroño–Burgos motorway, 75 minutes south of Bilbao ferry port and 90 from Santander. A right-hand-drive car will fit the lanes, but fold your mirrors before threading into the plaza; medieval architects did not plan for SUVs. A single weekday bus leaves Logroño at 14:30 and returns at dawn; miss it and a taxi costs €35. Mobile reception wobbles on Vodafone and EE—Movistar users fare better if roaming is enabled.

Parking is free everywhere; ignore Saturday morning when the plaza doubles as a vegetable market and every space is claimed by 09:30. Winter can bring a week of frost that turns the clay paths to pottery; come equipped or stick to the tarmac. Summer midday heat tops 38 °C—walk early, nap like the locals, emerge again at seven when the stone releases its stored warmth.

Stay, or just pause

There are two small guesthouses, both spotless, both cheaper than a Travelodge breakfast. Hostal Señorío de Alesanco has three rooms above the bakery; windows open onto pigeon-cooed eaves and the smell of rising dough at dawn. Casa Rural Arviza offers a two-bedroom cottage with a roof terrace wide enough for evening tempranillo and satellite-spotting. Neither has a reception desk—ring ahead. If they are full, Nájera has chain hotels and a municipal albergue for passing pilgrims.

Yet most British visitors treat Alesanco as a comma rather than a full stop: a place to break the long haul from Santander to the Mediterranean, stretch the legs, remind the children that Spain is more than motorway service stations. Stay an hour, stay a night, but do not arrive with a checklist. The village rewards aimless wandering: a carved coat of arms here, an alley that narrows until your shoulders brush the walls, the sudden view of vineyards sliding into the Ebro gorge. Then you drive away with dusty shoes and the realisation that somewhere between the ferry and the Costa, Spain still keeps a pocket of ordinary, working quiet.