Lapuebla Labarka (Lapuebla de Labarca)

The church bell strikes eleven and the square empties instantly. By the time it finishes chiming, the only sounds left are distant clinking from the winery across the street and a tractor grinding through the vineyards that press against every wall. Lapuebla Labarka doesn't do lingering goodbyes; when the working day calls, even the old men shuffle off their bench and disappear.

This is Rioja Alavesa at its most concentrated: 850 inhabitants, three proper streets, and Tempranillo grapes staring through every window. Technically the village sits in Álava province, not the Basque Country proper, yet the siesta shutters still slam shut at two o'clock and every second surname begins with "Z". The British visitors who make it this far—usually after a morning tasting in Laguardia ten minutes up the road—tend to ask the same question: "What exactly are we meant to do here?" The honest answer is: very little, and that's the arrangement.

Morning: walking before the sun climbs

Start early, especially outside May–October when midday heat can flatten the place. From the tiny Plaza Mayor a lattice of farm tracks spreads into the vines like spokes; pick any one and within five minutes the village is reduced to a terracotta smudge between green waves. The signed "Ruta del Vino" loops south for 5 km through three bodegas, but shorter unofficial spurs cut back after twenty minutes, handy if you've forgotten water or a hat. English signage is non-existent—look for white arrows painted on stones—and after rain the clay sticks like treacle to anything less than proper walking boots.

Carry a few coins. Halfway along the ridge old Manolo keeps an honesty table stacked with last year's wine and vacuum-packed chorizo. He weighs purchases on 1950s scales and writes the total in pencil on a paper napkin. No one checks; the system has run since 1998 without a single short-changing incident, or so he'll tell you in rapid Spanish while topping up your glass.

Lunch: when the village wakes up

Spanish timetables rule. Bars begin filling around 13:30; by 14:00 every table outside Bar Baztán is taken and the frontón wall echoes with card-slapping. The menu is chalked on a scrap of hardboard and rarely changes: patatas a la Rioja (mildly spicy potato stew), lamb chops cooked over vine cuttings, and the local answer to bubble-and-squeak called pochas—white beans folded with pepper and morcilla. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and salad; vegans should bring supplies.

Wine arrives in plain glasses, not fancy stemware. Order crianza and you'll pay €2.20; reserva adds forty cents. Resist the urge to swirl and pontificate—this is Tuesday lunch for farmhands who need to climb back on a tractor by four. Prices stay sensible because the clientele refuses anything else: three courses with coffee hover around €14, cash only, and the nearest ATM is back in Laguardia. Bars close the moment the last diner leaves; don't expect coffee at 16:30.

Afternoon: cellars and shutters

Serious tasting happens underground. The village counts fourteen registered wineries; only three accept drop-ins, and even they prefer 24 hours' notice by email. Family cellars such as García Urbina open their doors if you knock politely, but language is the gatekeeper—no Basque required, yet a smattering of Spanish oil proceedings. The standard tour includes a walk between stainless-steel tanks, a quick explanation of carbonic maceration, and three generous pours while standing on a slippery cement floor. Bottles bought on site run 10–20% cheaper than British retail, but remember Ryanair's cabin limit if you're flying home hand-baggage only.

Monday is dead day. Both restaurants shut, the bakery pulls its grille, and the lone taxi driver heads to Vitoria for his own break. Arrive then and you'll share the square with a handful of retirees and a very confused spaniel. Book accommodation elsewhere and treat Lapuebla as a Tuesday-to-Sunday detour.

Evening: when the light turns amber

Photographers should reappear an hour before sunset. The Ebro lies 4 km south, close enough to funnel evening cloud that ignites above the Sierra de Cantabria. Vines glow copper, stone walls blush pink, and swifts dive between telephone wires. It's the closest the village comes to self-conscious beauty, and it lasts roughly twelve minutes. Bring a jacket—even July evenings can dip below 18°C once the sun slips behind the ridge.

Supper choices are limited to two restaurants and the bar of the Hotel-Arbeiza. Portions remain agricultural; splitting dishes raises eyebrows but is permitted. Locals dine late—21:00 is early—yet kitchens will serve foreigners at 20:00 if asked nicely. The hotel's wine list stretches to 120 labels, heavy on nearby vintages, and they stock two Riojas by the glass that rarely appear abroad: a peppery Graciano and a silky Maturana. Expect to pay €24-30 for a bottle that retails at £35 in the UK.

Seasons: timing the trip

September–mid-October is harvest. Tractors hauling gondolas of grapes clog the narrow entrance road, and the air smells like grape juice beginning to ferment. Colours shift daily—yellow, ochre, scarlet—making short walks ridiculously photogenic. Book accommodation early; Laguardia's boutique hotels fill with northern Europeans chasing the same palette.

April–May offers wildflowers between rows and daytime temperatures hovering around 22°C. Rain is possible; pack a light waterproof. You may meet only a dozen other visitors all day, and bodega owners have time to talk.

Mid-June–August is hot, often 36°C by 14:00. Sightseeing shifts to 07:00-12:00 and resumes after 18:00. Many cellars close Saturday afternoon in July; plan morning tastings. On the plus side, bars stay open until 23:00 and the Saturday morning market expands to six stalls, selling local Idiazabal cheese and chorizo cured in wine.

November–March is low season. Days are short, vines are skeletal, and mist pools in the valley. Several wineries refuse visitors until the new year. Come now only if your priority is fireplace-centred cocido stews and €65 double rooms in Laguardia.

Getting there—and away

No rail line reaches the village. The easiest route is to fly into Bilbao, collect a hire car, and drive south for 75 minutes on the A-68 and A-124. Roads are quiet outside Logroño's ring, but watch for sudden 50 km/h limits that fund local policing. Parking is free on the broad southern approach; ignore sat-nav attempts to thread you into allettes barely wider than a Ford Fiesta.

Public transport exists but demands patience: ALSA runs one daily bus from Logroño (45 min), continuing to Vitoria. It departs Logroño at 07:15 and leaves Lapuebla at 18:10—fine for a day trip if you don't mind retracing your steps. Sunday service is cancelled.

The honest verdict

Lapuebla Labarka offers no cathedrals, museums, or Instagram props beyond the vines themselves. Come for slow mileage through orderly Tempranillo blocks, for wine priced like water, and for the novelty of being the only foreigners in the bar. Stay two nights and you'll recognise every villager by voice; stay four and they'll start waving before you reach the square. Expect any longer and the limited menu, patchy English, and deathly Monday closure may begin to grate. Treat the place as a decompressing chamber between bigger Rioja towns, arrive with a phrasebook and a sense of idle curiosity, and the village will reward you with the sort of low-key authenticity guidebooks usually promise but rarely deliver.