Castejón

The first thing you notice is the wind. It rolls across the flat vega, rattles the poplars along the bank and whips the river into tiny white crests that disappear as quickly as they form. Castejón sits 250 km from the sea yet feels coastal: same wide sky, same salt-free breeze, same sense that the town is anchored to water even when the water itself is out of sight.

River Time

Follow Calle San Miguel downhill and the tarmac suddenly stops. A dirt track picks up, ducks under the railway embankment and delivers you to the Ebro’s edge. Here the river is broad, muddy and unshowy—more Humber than Henley. A five-kilometre loop heads upstream to the old boat port, then cuts back through reed beds alive with nightingales in April. Cyclists use it too; the surface is firm enough for hybrids, though you’ll dodge the occasional tractor tyre print. There are no cafés, no ticket machines, no interpretation boards. Bring water because once the path leaves the irrigation channel there isn’t a tap for three kilometres.

Anglers stand thigh-deep at first light, flicking spoons for bass and the occasional sea trout that has wrong-turned up from the delta. A day licence costs €8 from the tobacconist on Plaza de España; if the shop is shut, the bar next door will sell you one with your cortado, provided you ask nicely and pay in cash.

Brick, Not Stone

Castejón grew rich on vegetables, not monuments, and the architecture shows it. Houses are rectangular, built from local brick that turns ochre at sunset. The exception is the Iglesia de San Miguel, whose square tower pokes above the roofs like a lighthouse in a wheat ocean. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees; the stone flags still bear the grooves of farmers’ boots worn down over centuries of Sunday processions. Mass is at 11:00, but the doors stay open all morning for anyone who wants silence rather than scripture.

Walk the grid of streets between 13:00 and 14:00 and you’ll hear shutters rattling down. Shops reopen at 17:00; supermarkets shut altogether on Saturday afternoon. Plan accordingly—there is no 24-hour garage, and the nearest out-of-hours tobacconist is in Tudela, twenty minutes away by car.

Lunch that Understands Dietary Requirements

British vegetarians usually expect to survive on tortilla and goodwill in rural Spain. Castejón is the surprise exception. Chill-Outdoor, run by a Dutch couple who arrived for the cycling and never left, lists separate vegan, gluten-free and dairy-free menus in English. The goat-cheese salad arrives without the goat cheese if you ask; the vegetarian paella is cooked in its own pan to avoid cross-contamination. Even the cider is labelled “suitable for coeliacs”. Prices hover around €12–14 for a main, cheaper than equivalent dishes back home and served by staff who will warn you that the wind has picked up while you were eating.

If you prefer something closer to Spanish default mode, Bar Obispo does a three-course menú del día for €11 that starts with artichoke hearts and ends with arroz con leche thick enough to stand a spoon in. They’ll swap the jamón for roasted peppers if you ask before 14:00; after that, the kitchen is too busy to tinker.

A Flat Playground

The surrounding landscape is a chessboard of asparagus rows and wheat blocks interrupted only by concrete irrigation channels. Cycling here is gloriously undemanding: 30 km north on the CV-310 to Fontellas gives you a riverside picnic spot and a return leg with the wind at your back. Mountain bikers will be under-challenged; road riders can rack up 100 km without seeing a hill. Bring a spare tube—thorns from the chopo trees are vicious, and the only bike shop is in Tudela.

Drivers often use Castejón as a cheap overnight stop for Senda Viva theme park, 18 km away. The park is decent if you have children under twelve; otherwise, head south to the palace at Olite, a twenty-minute drive through plantations of almond that bloom white in February and look burned by July.

When to Turn Up, When to Leave

April and late-September are the sweet spots. Temperatures sit in the low twenties, the river path smells of fennel and the town’s single cash machine hasn’t yet run dry. In July the mercury touches 38 °C by 14:00; the square offers zero shade and the Ebro path becomes a dust bowl. August is quieter than you’d expect—many locals flee to the coast—so restaurants keep odd hours and the evening breeze feels like someone aiming a hairdryer at your face.

Winter is crisp, often sunny, and almost empty. The church heating switches on only for services, so if you want to sit inside bring a coat. On still nights the mist settles over the vegetable plots and the town smells of compost and wood smoke; it’s atmospheric, but you’ll need the car—buses drop to two a day and the cycle path turns to cloying mud.

Getting Here, Getting Out

No one arrives by accident. Fly to Zaragoza with Ryanair or BA, pick up a hire car and head north on the A-68 for 75 minutes. Trains from Barcelona or Madrid stop at Castejón de Ebro station—confusingly, that’s three kilometres away in a different province. A taxi to the village costs €10 if you pre-book; otherwise you’ll wait an hour while the driver finishes his lunch.

Leave time for one last river walk at dawn before the drive back. The water will be flat, the wind asleep and the only sound the clank of irrigation pipes waking the fields. No souvenir stalls, no selfie stations—just a working town happy to let you watch while it gets on with growing tomorrow’s dinner.