Mendavia

The clock on the tower of San Juan Bautista strikes noon, yet the square stays in shadow. At 360 m above sea-level Mendavia sits just high enough for the river fog to linger until the sun clears the cereal ridges. By then the tractors have already rumbled back from the fields, leaving behind the earthy smell that tells you this is working Spain, not the coast.

A Town That Smells of Soil, Not Sun-Cream

British number-plates appear here only by accident—usually drivers following the A-12 south who decide a coffee break beats motorway services. Guidebooks give the town twenty-seven reviews, the same number Londoners lavish on their local curry house. That scarcity is the point: come before the coaches do.

Start in the compact centro histórico. Houses are built from honey-coloured limestone that turns amber at dusk, but there are no souvenir stalls, just a single hardware shop selling hoes next to mobile-phone covers. The 16th-century Palacio de los Marqueses de San Adrián squats behind iron gates; knock and the caretaker may let you into the courtyard to admire the family coats of arms worn smooth by wind from the cierzo, the chilly north wind that keeps summer highs a tolerable 29 °C—three degrees cooler than Tudela downriver.

Opposite, the parroquia mixes late-Gothic ribs with a Renaissance retablo whose gold leaf still flickers when the lights are switched on for evening Mass. Opening hours are pegged to actual worship; turn up at random and the doors will be locked. Ask in the bar opposite: the owner keeps the key in a coffee tin.

Flat Roads, Big Skies

Mendavia’s geography is horizontal. The Ebro slides past 4 km away, and the valley floor has been combed into ruler-straight market-garden plots. Artichokes, piquillo peppers and the famous white asparagus grow in such neat rows they look planted by a draughtsman. Two signed footpaths loop into this ocean of loam: the shorter (5 km) reaches the ruined ermita of San Gregorio, the longer (12 km) follows an irrigation ditch to the ruined hilltop watch-tower of El Castillar. Neither offers thigh-burning climbs; instead you get lark-song, the squeak of a wind-pump, and views that stretch to the Sierra de Cantabria—snow-dusted in winter, hazy lilac in July.

Take water and a hat. The paths are exposed; the only shade is an occasional poplar hedge planted to stop the soil blowing away. After heavy rain the clay sticks to boots like cold Christmas pudding; in August it turns to dust that powders your shins. Spring is kinder: storks return to their chimney-top nests in February, and by April the artichoke fields look like silver-green artillery shells lined up for inspection.

How to Eat Like a Local, Not Like a Tourist

Thursday is market day. Stallholders set up on the Paseo de la Constitución at eight, pack away by two. You can buy a kilo of piquillos for €6—half the London deli price—and tins of asparagus the diameter of a wine bottle. The latter appear on every lunch menu in town, served cold with a dollop of mayonnaise that Navarrese insist is homemade (it usually is).

Restaurants are few and priced for farmers, not visitors. Try Casa Sarasa for menestra, a buttery dice of artichoke, pea and asparagus that tastes like springtime stew. A half-portion feeds one greedy adult; a full ración satisfies two. Steak lovers should book the chuletón at Asador Iriarte—an on-the-bone rib for two that arrives sputtering on a heated tile, £28 a kilo, roughly half what you’d pay in Leeds. Vegetarians survive by ordering judías verdes (green beans) and the excellent local rosado; the wine list rarely exceeds eight bottles, all from family bodegas within 20 km. Phone ahead at weekends: if a christening party bags the last table, nowhere else will be open.

When the Sun Drops, the Town Belongs to Its Inhabitants

Evenings follow a slow drumbeat. Pensioners shuffle to the plaza for the paseo; teenagers circle on bicycles whose frames have outlasted three sets of tyres. British visitors sometimes misread this as “nothing happens.” That’s the attraction. Sit on the stone bench outside the church, listen to the swifts, and you will hear not a word of English—liberating or isolating, depending on your mood.

If you crave nightlife, Logroño’s tapas street is 35 minutes south by car. Mendavia itself has one late bar, La Contraseña, open until 02:00 at weekends. Inside, locals play mus, a Basque card game whose rules shift with every round; newcomers are welcome but language is strictly Spanish. Order pacharán, a sloe-anise liqueur, poured over ice and tasted rather than knocked back. It tastes like cough mixture mixed with Ribena—oddly moreish.

Practicalities Without the Bullet Points

Arrival is simplest by hire car. From Bilbao airport take the AP-68, peel off at Lodosa, follow the NA-6310 for 11 km. The single-track railway that once linked the town to Pamplona closed in the 1980s; the station is now a private garage. ALSA buses still run, but the Thursday service from Estella arrives at 22:15—too late for dinner, too early for bed.

Parking is free on the ring-road; ignore the subterranean car park whose barrier has been broken since 2019. Bring cash: the only ATM runs dry on Friday afternoons when vineyard workers cash their cheques. Sunday lunchtime shutters come down; if you haven’t booked a menu del día, buy bread, cheese and tomatoes in the morning and picnic by the river.

Accommodation is limited to two small options. Hostal Rural Villa de Mendavia offers fourteen spotless rooms from €55 a night, including a garage for bicycles. The newer Aparthotel Ebro has kitchenettes—handy if you plan to cook the market produce. Both places let you store hiking boots in the boiler room, a courtesy you won’t find in larger cities.

The Honest Verdict

Mendavia will never compete with the Camino or the Cantabrian coast. A morning and an afternoon suffice to see the monuments, walk the artichoke loop and eat asparagus three ways. Treat it as a breathing space between wine regions—an antidote to postcard Spain where waiters still ask “¿Qué tal?” because they mean it, not because the manager told them to. Come in May when the Ebro mist lifts by coffee time, or in October when storks gather before flying south and the first fires of vine prunings scent the evening air. You will leave with soil on your shoes, ajar of piquillos in the boot, and the agreeable sensation of having been somewhere the British haven’t yet added to the tick-list.