Ekora (Yécora)

The church bell strikes eleven and the only other sound is a tractor shifting into gear somewhere beyond the stone houses. Ekora—Yécora on Spanish maps, Ekora in Euskera—doesn't announce itself. It simply exists, a cluster of ochre stone and terracotta roofs perched at 557 metres above sea level, where the Cantabrian breeze meets the Rioja Alavesa plateau. At this altitude, mornings arrive sharp and clear, the air thin enough to make the first climb from the car park feel like a gentle reminder that you've left the coast behind.

A Village That Fits in a Glance

Ekora's population hovers around 5000, though you'd never guess it from the quiet. The village spreads along a single ridge, its streets fanning out from a rectangular plaza where the frontón wall shows decades of pelota scars. There's no tourist office, no gift shop, no medieval gateway to pose beside. Instead, you'll find a functional village that happens to be beautiful when the light hits just right—usually the golden hour before siesta, when stone walls glow amber against deep blue skies.

The altitude matters here. Summer temperatures sit five degrees below Logroño's valley heat, making evening walks pleasant even in July. Winter tells a different story: when snow dusts the Sierra de Toloño to the north, Ekora's narrow lanes can ice over by mid-afternoon. The village isn't remote—Laguardia lies 12 minutes by car, Vitoria-Gasteiz 35—but weather can close the regional roads faster than you'd expect. Spring and autumn offer the sweet spot: mild days, vineyard colours shifting from bright green to rust red, and the annual migration of cranes passing overhead.

Stone, Wine and the Spaces Between

Ekora's church dominates the skyline, not through height but presence. Built from the same limestone as every house, it anchors the village like a geological feature. The doors stand open only during services—Saturday evening and Sunday morning—revealing interior walls washed white against dark wooden pews. Step inside and you'll notice the temperature drop immediately; thick stone walls maintain a constant coolness that predates air conditioning by several centuries.

Wander beyond the church and the village reveals its working nature. Stone houses double as wine cellars, their ground-floor doors wide enough for tractors. Metal grilles protect tiny windows at street level, while first-floor balconies hold firewood stacks and the occasional bicycle. This isn't staged rusticity. Ekora's residents still make wine, still grow vegetables in back plots, still hang laundry across internal courtyards where grape vines provide summer shade.

The surrounding landscape operates on similar principles. Vineyards checker the slopes below town, each plot separated by dry-stone walls built without mortar. These walls, some dating to the 18th century, create a patchwork that changes colour dramatically throughout the day. Morning light turns the vines silver-green; afternoon sun deepens everything to emerald; dusk brings purple shadows that make the entire valley look like a bruise. Photographers arrive for this magic hour, though most leave disappointed—the best viewpoints require a 20-minute walk up muddy tracks where Wellington boots prove essential.

Walking Without a Route

Ekora rewards those who abandon the concept of "must-see" lists. Start at the plaza, note the bar that's open (there's usually one, rarely the same two days running), then pick any street that slopes downhill. Within five minutes you'll reach the village edge where asphalt gives way to dirt tracks. These caminos lead through olive groves and abandoned threshing circles, eventually climbing to ridges that reveal the entire Rioja Alavesa spread below.

The walking is gentle but requires preparation. Tracks become impassable after rain—clay soil sticks to boots like wet cement, making each step heavier than the last. Proper footwear matters more than fitness levels. Carry water; there's no café culture here, no kiosk selling overpriced bottles. What you get instead is space: the chance to walk for an hour without seeing another person, hearing only your breathing and the occasional hawk circling overhead.

Winter walks offer their own rewards. Frost patterns on stone walls create natural art galleries. Bare vines reveal the brutal pruning that each plant endures—stumps cut back to what looks like torture but promises next year's harvest. On clear days, the Pyrenees appear as a white锯齿 on the southern horizon, close enough to count individual peaks.

The Wine That Doesn't Shout

Ekora sits within the Rioja Alavesa DOCa, though you'd never know it from village life. No bodegas offer tasting sessions, no shops sell branded keyrings. The wine happens behind closed doors, in family cellars where production methods predate modern marketing. Ask at the bar (if it's open) and someone might produce a bottle from their cousin's vineyard. Expect to pay €8-12 for something that would cost £25 in a British specialist shop.

The local preference is for tempranillo aged in American oak, though younger winemakers experiment with French barrels and longer maceration periods. These conversations happen organically—never forced, always in Spanish or Euskera depending on the speaker's preference. Attempting either language earns immediate respect; fluent English speakers are rare outside the larger towns.

Food follows similar principles. The village's single restaurant opens only at weekends, serving lamb chops cooked over vine cuttings and vegetables that taste like they were picked that morning (they were). Menu del día costs €14 including wine. Vegetarian options extend to tortilla and little else—this is farming country where meat remains central to diet and economy.

When to Come, When to Leave

Ekora works best as a pause rather than a destination. Arrive mid-morning when residents complete daily errands and the bar serves coffee to men who've been up since five. Stay for lunch if the restaurant's open, otherwise plan to eat in Laguardia where options multiply. Allocate two hours maximum for wandering—any longer and you'll start recognising the same faces, creating expectations of conversation that language barriers might frustrate.

Avoid August when Spanish holidaymakers fill every house and the plaza becomes a car park for vehicles that barely fit between walls. November brings olive harvest and the chance to watch ancient trees shaken by mechanical arms, their fruit raining onto nets spread like giant picnic blankets. February means pruning—entire families working through rows of vines, their secateurs clicking in rhythmic unison.

The village offers no accommodation, no evening entertainment beyond whatever's showing on the bar's television. This isn't oversight but honesty—Ekora knows its limits. Stay overnight and you'd hear the church bell mark every hour, feel the isolation that mountain villages maintain even in our connected age. Better to visit, absorb the slower pace, then drive to Laguardia or Vitoria where hotels provide the infrastructure that Ekora deliberately lacks.

Leave before siesta ends, when shutters remain closed and streets empty except for cats sunbathing on warm stone. Take the road south and Ekora disappears quickly, its stone walls blending into hillside until only the church tower remains visible. That's the village's real gift: not memories of spectacular sights, but the sensation of time stretching slightly, of breathing deeper, of remembering that places exist where life continues regardless of who's watching.