Tormantos

The church bell strikes noon and the only reply is a dog barking two streets away. At 609 metres above the Riojan plain, Tormantos sits high enough for the air to feel thinner, cleaner, and just a degree cooler than down on the N-120. From the single bench on the tiny plaza, you can see wheat and vines roll eastwards until they merge with the foothills of the Demanda range. The village ends where the combine harvesters turn; beyond that, it’s all sky and soil.

A grid you can draw on the back of an envelope

Twenty-four short stone lanes, most of them narrower than a London parking space, form a perfect rectangle. You can walk the lot in twelve minutes, pause to read every ceramic street name, and still be back before the kettle would boil in your Airbnb. Houses are dressed in ochre plaster the colour of biscuit, edged with brick corners that have darkened to the shade of strong tea. Iron balconies hold geraniums in faded olive-oil tins; every third doorway leads to a private bodega dug into the hill—cool, arched cellars where locals once trod their own grapes. The doors are locked now, but brass plaques announce the year each cave was cut: 1789, 1843, 1921. You’re welcome to peer, not to wander in.

Halfway along Calle San Roque the parish church lifts its square tower, a makeshift patchwork of Romanesque, Gothic and 19th-century brick. Inside, the alabaster altar glints only if the caretaker remembers to switch the lights on; otherwise you’ll make do with streaks of sun falling through the clerestory onto pews polished by 800 years of Sunday best. The door is kept shut with a hook the size of a shepherd’s crook—lift it gently; if it’s locked, the key-holder lives opposite at number 18 and rarely refuses polite visitors who speak slowly.

Out among the peppers and the silence

Leave the last house behind and the world widens instantly. A gravel lane runs ruler-straight between plots of white asparagus, the soil ridged like a corrugated roof. To the north, the Cantabrian mountains float on the horizon; southwards, the land drops 200 metres in three kilometres, a slow-motion landslide of vineyards that ends at the Ebro. In April the furrows glow green; by late July they’ve turned the colour of burnt sugar. Walk fifteen minutes and Tormantos shrinks to a Lego cluster, its church tower the only piece you can still name.

This is cereal-country footpaths, not mountain hiking. Maps are unnecessary: follow any track for 30 minutes, turn 180 degrees, and the village reappears. The only hazard is exposure—there isn’t a sycamore to hide under. Morning walks are pleasant even in August; midday is masochistic. Bring water, a hat, and £2 in coins for the honesty box outside the Huerta de Tormantos preserve shed. Inside, jars of flame-roasted piquillo peppers sit next to artichoke hearts bottled in local Arbequina oil. They’ll upgrade a picnic from standard to saintly.

When the village remembers it has visitors

Population 201, census 2023. On ordinary Tuesdays you’ll share the streets with more pigeons than people, but numbers swell on 16 August for the fiesta of San Roque. The village absorbs 2,000 extra bodies without visible strain: trestle tables appear on the football pitch, a sound system the size of a Transit van belts out Spanish pop until 4 a.m., and the single bar—open only at weekends the rest of the year—imports two extra staff from Logroño. It’s friendly chaos, but if you came for the quiet, book elsewhere that weekend.

The rest of the year, social life centres on the sociedad at the top of the hill. The door looks private, yet push it after 7 p.m. and you’ll find half a dozen men arguing over cards and a woman behind the counter who will pour you a caña for €1.20. There’s no written menu; ask for “pimientos de Tormantos con huevo” and she’ll disappear into the kitchen next door, returning with a plate of sweet peppers blistered on an iron plancha, crowned by a single runny egg. It’s the village’s only culinary claim to fame, and the reason the name occasionally surfaces on pintxo routes in Logroño 45 minutes away.

Getting here (and why you’ll need wheels)

No train, no bus, no taxi rank. The nearest public transport hub is Santo Domingo de la Calzada, 12 km south on the Burgos–Logroño line. ALSA coaches stop there hourly; from the station forecourt you can ring Radio Taxi Santo Domingo (+34 941 341 344) and pay roughly €18 for the hop to Tormantos. Easier still, pick up a hire car at Logroño airport—an hour’s drive on the A-12 and N-120, then a final three-kilometre switchback on the LR-123. Roads are gritted in winter, but if snow is forecast carry chains; the last climb faces north and shade lingers until noon.

Petrolheads should note: once inside the village, streets taper to 1.8 metres. Park on the concrete apron by the cemetery and walk the final 200 metres; locals leave tractors in neutral, a hint that wing mirrors are fair game.

Where to sleep, eat, and reboot

Tormantos has no hotels, campsites, or formal accommodation. The sensible base is Santo Domingo, where the Parador occupies a 12th-century pilgrim hospital and double rooms start at £110 including breakfast. Closer still, the three-room Posada de San Millán in nearby Cirueña charges £65 and will hold a table at Los Colmenares in Cuzcurrita, a Michelin-listed restaurant that understands both vegetarianism and gluten-free diets in flawless English. Phone ahead—there are only eight tables, and half are taken most nights by Rioja wine reps entertaining export buyers.

If you’re self-catering, stock up in Santo Domingo before you drive up the hill. The village shop closed in 2018; the nearest supermarket is a Spar 9 km away, and it shuts on Sunday afternoons with the devotion of a cathedral city.

The honest verdict

Come for the hush, the high-plateau light, and the realisation that Spain still contains places where Google Street View last passed in 2012. Don’t come expecting interpretive centres, gift shops, or even a cash machine. Tormantos rewards the curious, the patient, and anyone content to swap spectacle for space. Stay two hours and you’ll have seen it all; stay until sunset and the sky turns the colour of garnet, the stones glow, and you’ll understand why 201 people still call this rectangle home.