Oion (Oyón)

The church bell strikes midday and every bar stool on Plaza Mayor is taken by men in berets who still greet the barman by his first name. This is the first clue that Oion—spelled Oyón on the road signs—has not rehearsed anything for visitors. The second clue is the price of a coffee: €1.20, unchanged since before the pandemic, and half what you will pay 25 minutes away in Bilbao.

At 480 m above sea level the village sits just high enough for the air to feel scrubbed, but not so high that the vines struggle. They surround the houses in neat Lego-block rows, sewing the settlement into the fabric of Rioja Alavesa rather than perching it on a ridge for photographs. The Sierra de Cantabria rises immediately behind, topping 1,300 m, so mornings can start with a cool Atlantic breeze even when Logroño, 12 km south-east, is already sweating through a 30-degree July dawn.

A place that works for a living

Five thousand people live here year-round, a figure that doubles when the university term sends children back from Logroño and Vitoria. That permanent population means the butchers' shops still sell morcilla by the gram instead of by the vacuum-packed souvenir, and the weekly Friday market is aimed at neighbours who need a new colander rather than at tourists hunting for tea-towels emblazoned with cartoon grapes.

Start at the plaza, ignore the instinct to hunt for "sights", and simply listen. The frontón (Basque pelota wall) echoes with ball thwacks from seven in the morning; by ten the metal shutters roll up on Casa Junco supermarket and the bakery sells out of napolitanas; at eleven the first bottle of white is uncorked in Bar Lago. Nothing here is choreographed, yet everything is on schedule.

The parish church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción keeps the same rhythm. Its 16th-century doorway is worth a glance—look for the mason's mark carved upside-down on the left capital—but the real attraction is the side door that may, if you are lucky, stand open for the 12:30 Mass. Step inside and you will see the velvet-draped throne used by the local cofradía during harvest festival, proof that religion and wine still share a pew.

Stone, vines and the spaces between

Leave the centre along Calle Mayor and the houses quickly thin out. Within three minutes tarmac turns to farm track and the sound palette swaps chatter for cicadas and the metallic click of guy-wires in the breeze. These are working vineyards, not footpath garnish, so keep dogs on leads and resist the selfie-on-a-tractor temptation. A 25-minute circuit westward brings you to the ruined watch-tower of Cerro de la Mota; from its rubble you can survey the Ebro valley and understand why this modest bump was considered strategic in the 11th century.

If you would rather someone else did the navigating, Bodegas Carlos San Pedro opens its fermentation room on weekdays at noon. The visit lasts 40 minutes, costs €8 and includes a glass each of crianza and white aged in American oak. English is spoken if you email first; otherwise expect rapid-fire Riojan Spanish and a written crib sheet. Payment is still cash-only, so bring notes—no one will thank you for fishing 20 cent coins out of your pocket in front of a row of 30,000-litre tanks.

What to eat when you are tired of tapas

Rioja Alavesa is not pintxo territory; portions arrive on plates, not perched on bread. Start with patatas a la riojana, a smoky stew of potato, chorizo and piquillo peppers that tastes like campfire comfort food. Follow it with chuletillas—thumb-sized lamb chops grilled over vine cuttings that flame for ninety seconds and arrive still spitting. The local answer to dessert is torrija, a slab of fried milk-soaked bread doused in honey wine; think bread-and-butter pudding with a hangover. A two-course menú del día in Bar Asador Oion is €14 and includes half a bottle of house red, which means you can be well fed and slightly tiddly for the price of a London sandwich.

Getting there, staying there, leaving again

Oion is easy to reach and hard to reach at the same time. There are no direct international flights, and British Airways' willingness to fly to Logroño dried up years ago. The smoothest route is to land at Bilbao before 11:00, collect a hire car and cruise south-west on the AP-68 for 90 minutes; tolls total €13.50. Biarritz is an alternative if you favour French supermarkets for picnic supplies, but the mountain pass over the Pyrenees can close in winter fog.

Public transport exists, sort of. A Renfe regional train trundles from Madrid to Logroño in three hours; from the station one solitary bus continues to Oion at 14:15. Miss it and a taxi costs €10. Do not attempt to walk: the N-232 is a dual carriageway used by artics carrying 30 tonnes of Tempranillo, and the hard shoulder disappears without warning.

Accommodation is thin on the ground in the village itself—there is one hostal above a bakery, clean but facing the morning delivery lorries—so most visitors sleep in neighbouring Laguardia, eight minutes away by car. Hotel Calle Mayor occupies a 17th-century mansion there and has doubles for €95, including access to an underground spa that smells faintly of grape extract. If you are celebrating, push on to Elciego where Frank Gehry's titanium wave at Hotel Marqués de Riscal will set you back €350 a night, plus whatever you pay for the priviledge of minibar Rioja.

When to come, and when to stay away

Spring brings almond blossom and daytime highs of 18 °C, perfect for a 12 km hike along the Camino de Santiago detour that links Oion with the wine village of Leza. Autumn is harvest season: the landscape turns copper, tractors block the lanes and every courtyard smells of grape must. It is also the only time bodegas will let you watch grapes being tipped into the de-stemmer, but you will share the spectacle with coach parties from Bilbao—book tastings at least a week ahead.

Summer is hot; 35 °C is routine and the stone walls radiate heat long after sunset. Plan any walking for dawn, then retreat to a dark bar for consecutive cañas. Winter is the locals' favourite season, when mist pools in the valley and the sierra occasionally wears a snow collar, but grey days shrink the village's colour palette to stone, sky and not much else. Come now only if you like empty roads and log fires; several restaurants shut for the whole of February.

The bottom line

Oion will never compete with the postcard villages of coastal Spain, and it has no intention of trying. What it offers instead is a calibration point: an ordinary place doing an honest job of growing wine, raising children and hanging washing across the balcony without wondering how it looks on Instagram. Spend a morning here and you will leave feeling that you have eavesdropped on a working corner of Spain rather than visited an open-air museum. Just remember to fill the petrol tank before the siesta starts—at 14:00 sharp the only thing moving is the shadow of the church tower, and even that very slowly.