Santurdejo

At 761 metres, Santurdejo sits high enough for the air to feel thinner, cleaner, and—on still mornings—cold enough to make a British visitor check the date. The village hangs above the valley floor like an afterthought: one church tower, two dozen stone houses, and a scattering of agricultural sheds that look as if they were dropped from a great height and landed in roughly the right order. From the single road in, the view slides west across cereal stripes and splashes of tempranillo until the land buckles into the distant Sierra de la Demanda. On paper the population hovers around a hundred; in practice you might meet three of them, or none, depending on the hour and the season.

What the Altitude Changes

Height matters here. In July the thermometer in Logroño can nudge 38°C; Santurdejo, 35 km away by winding mountain road, often stays five degrees cooler. The difference is enough to turn a sweaty midday slog into a tolerable stroll, provided you remember the basic rule: move before eleven or after five. Even in May the night temperature can dip to 6°C, so that fleece you nearly left in the car suddenly becomes essential. Winter brings proper snow roughly one year in three; the asphalt is cleared quickly, but the last 4 km from the N-120 can still resemble a bobsleigh track. Chains live in most local boots from December to March.

The village itself is built on a slight ridge, which means every lane tilts. Park at the entrance—there is room for six cars beside the stone bus shelter—and walk. Anything wider than a Renault Clio will scrape drystone walls that have been leaning since the 1700s and see no reason to straighten up now.

A Walk That Lasts Exactly Twenty-Nine Minutes

Start at the church, Iglesia de San Torcuato, locked unless the sacristan is expecting a funeral. Its bell wall is the tallest thing for kilometres, so tall that swallows orbit it instead of over-flying. From the porch, head downhill past the old school—boarded since 1987, playground still striped with fading hopscotch—then bear right along Calle de los Barrancos. The tarmac gives out after fifty metres; continue on packed earth between stone cottages roofed with curved terracotta, half of them restored to weekend standards, half still wearing their original plaster like tired make-up. You will pass one occupied house with a green 1950s door, a brass knocker shaped like a lion, and a scent of woodsmoke even in August. Knock if you like; the owner, Julián, sells eggs at cost price and enjoys trying out the single English sentence he knows: “Very good size, two euro.”

The lane peters out into a farm track. Turn left, follow the irrigation ditch for ten minutes, and you reach a crest where the ground drops away into a shallow ravine. This is the moment to stop: the village roofs line up like broken teeth, and the late-afternoon sun ignites the wheat so it looks electrically yellow. Photographers sometimes set up here; everyone else simply stands until the chill reminds them to move.

Wine Without the Theatre

La Rioja’s grand bodegas—Marqués de Riscal, López de Heredia—lie forty minutes north, all titanium curves and cathedral-sized cellars. Santurdejo’s approach is smaller, cheaper, and less reliable, but also friendlier. Ask inside the Bar Casa Antonia (opens 7 a.m. for tractor drivers, closes when the last person leaves) and they will telephone Jesús in the next valley. He farms six hectares of tempranillo, produces about 6,000 bottles a year, and is usually happy to open the tin garage he calls a winery. Tastings are poured into whatever glasses are clean; the 2019 crianza costs €7 a bottle, cash only, and you will almost certainly leave carrying more than you intended. Ring ahead on +34 941 12 34 56—if no one answers, try again after the evening news.

The Downsides, Listed Plainly

• Shade is scarce: there are three plane trees in the plaza and a single overhanging balcony on Calle Nueva. Mid-summer visitors without hats suffer.
• Opening hours are theoretical: the village shop closed in 2014; bread arrives in a van at 10:30 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays and sells out in twenty minutes.
• Mobile reception vanishes: inside the church, EE drops to SOS; outside, you may get one bar of Movistar if you stand on the picnic table.
• Accommodation is non-existent: the nearest hotel is in Santo Domingo de la Calzada, 14 km down the mountain. Rural houses appear on Airbnb, but listings are withdrawn when owners’ children need a weekend retreat. Book early, confirm twice, and bring a print-out of the address because Google mis-places the postcode by two kilometres.

Getting There Without a Car (and Why You Might Still Hire One)

From the UK, fly to Bilbao, collect a hire car, and drive 90 minutes south via the A-68 and LR-123. Public transport exists but demands patience: take the bus from Bilbao to Haro, change for Santo Domingo de la Calzada, then phone the Tuesday-only taxi that shuttles to Santurdejo—€12 if four people share, €30 if you are the only fool travelling. The driver, Pilar, doubles as local gossip correspondent and will happily recount whose olive trees were pruned too aggressively last week.

With wheels, the region opens into a daisy-chain of similar settlements, each 200–300 metres lower and a degree warmer. Combine Santurdejo with lunch in Cuzcurrita de Río Tirón (castle tour, €6, weekends only) and an evening glass in San Vicente de la Sonsierra, whose hilltop cemetery faces a vertical wall of vines. Without wheels, you are effectively stranded at dusk.

When to Cut Your Losses

Spring—mid-April to late-May—remains the sweet spot: green wheat, almond blossom lingering in the valleys, and night temperatures that do not require thermal underwear. Autumn runs a close second, especially during the vendimia (grape harvest) when the air smells like fermenting fruit and every passing tractor risks splattering purple juice across your shoes. August is hot, shadeless, and eerily quiet; half the houses are shuttered while owners work coastal relief jobs. December can be magical if snow arrives, but it can also be a muddy, drizzly prison if the weather stalls on the wrong side of the mountains.

Final Word

Santurdejo will not change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no souvenir shops, no epiphanies at sunset. What it does provide is twenty-nine minutes of honest walking, a church bell that still marks the hours, and a farmer who will rinse out last year’s Riesling bottle to fill with young red wine that costs less than a London coffee. If that sounds like enough, go. If you need more, keep driving towards the brighter lights of Haro—just remember to fill the tank before the mountain climb, because the next petrol station is closed on Sundays, and Monday opens late.