Iruña de Oca

The wind arrives first. It rolls across the Alava plateau, rattles the poplars along the Zadorra and meets you on the lane into Nanclares de la Oca with a blunt honesty no coastal breeze ever manages. There is nothing between here and the Sierra de Toloño to break its stride, so it carries the smell of wet earth, cut hay and—if you time it right—charcoal from one of the garden barbecues that dot the stone fences. Most visitors race past on the N-1, eyes fixed on Rioja vineyards further south. Those who peel off at junction 355 discover a municipality that functions less like a single village, more like a loose confederation of five quiet hamlets that never quite agreed on where the centre ought to be.

A Parish, a River, a Roman Ghost

Nanclares serves as the unofficial capital. Its single main street—Calle Mayor—runs for barely 400 metres yet still manages a butcher, a bakery that opens at 06:30, and a bar where the morning cortado costs €1.20 if you stand at the counter. The 16th-century church of La Asunción squats at the top of the rise, patched so many times that the stone changes colour halfway up the tower like a geological layer. Inside, the altarpiece is pure Baroque excess, but the cool darkness is welcome after the glare outside. On a bright July afternoon the thermometer on the plain can touch 36 °C; step through the porch and it drops ten degrees in as many seconds.

Three kilometres east, Trespuentes straddles the Zadorra itself. The river is modest here—more a confident stream than the broad waterway that reaches Vitoria—but it still powers a single, creaking waterwheel that hasn’t milled grain since the 1950s. Walk the riverside path upstream and you reach a row of medieval arches: the old pack-horse bridge that once funnelled wool and iron towards the markets of Castile. Today it’s a favourite spot for local lads to leap into the deepest pool, regardless of what the temperature says in spring.

Just beyond the bridge, a brown sign points towards Iruña-Veleia, the Roman town that gives the municipality half its name. Excavations started in the 19th century, stalled, restarted, and are now fenced off more often than not. If the gate happens to be open (check the Ayuntamiento website the night before; don’t assume), you’ll see fragments of house walls, a section of paved road and one rather fine milestone dedicated to Emperor Trajan. If the padlock is on, console yourself with the view: cereal fields radiate out like a beige ocean, broken only by the dark green stripes of pine plantations on the far ridge.

Walking the Grid

The plateau looks flat until you try to cross it on foot. Then you notice the subtle folds: dry valleys, abandoned quarries, sudden dips where melt-water has carved a miniature canyon. A lattice of farm tracks links the settlements, way-marked by the provincial council with discreet green-and-white posts. The most satisfying circuit starts at the sports pavilion in Nanclares, heads south to Ollávarre (population 212, one tractor per four inhabitants), then cuts east to Montevite before dropping back to the river. Total distance: 7.4 km. Total shade: almost none. Set off before 10:00 or you’ll be counting every telegraph pole for respite.

Spring brings the reward: larks overhead, verges splashed with purple viper’s bugloss, and the fields a green so vivid it looks almost artificial. Autumn swaps the colour palette for ochre and rust, but the wind finally drops and the late afternoon light turns the stone walls honey-gold. Summer is possible if you pace yourself; winter is when the province of Álava remembers it borders the Cantabrian mountains—sleet can sweep in on a northerly and turn the lanes into calf-deep mud within an hour.

What to Eat, What to Drink, When to Stop

There is no Michelin-listed restaurant here, which is precisely why the local food tastes as it does. The asador in Nanclares opens only at weekends and for Sunday lunch you need to book by Thursday; arrive without a reservation and you’ll be offered a stool at the bar and a ration of chorizo while you wait for a proper table to free up. Order the chuleton for two: a 1.2 kg rib-eye cooked over holm-oak embers, sliced at the table and served with nothing more than a dish of local piquillo peppers and a bottle of house Rioja that costs €14. Vegetarians do better in Trespuentes, where the one café grills padrón peppers and asparagus spears doused in Arbequina olive oil until they char. Pudding is usually cuajada, a sheep’s-milk curd drizzled with honey so thick you need a spoon to stand upright in it.

Timing matters. Kitchens shut at 15:30 sharp; attempt to order at 15:31 and you’ll be met with a polite shrug. Monday is the dead day—both bars close, the bakery sells only packaged biscuits, and the nearest open supermarket is back on the motorway outside Vitoria. Plan accordingly or you’ll be surviving on crisps and the emergency tin of sardines you keep in the hire-car.

Where to Lay Your Head

Accommodation is thin on the ground. The smartest choice is a converted 17th-century manor five minutes outside the municipal boundary in Briñas; stone arcades, four-poster beds and a small spa that pumps water from a thermal spring first exploited by the Romans. Rack rate hovers around €150 a night including breakfast, but mid-week deals in March drop to €95 if you haggle by email. Closer to the village, two rural houses share a fenced pool and views across a vineyard planted entirely with the white varietal Viura. Both are let through Airbnb; the three-bedroom option works out at €120 per night split between two couples, and the host leaves a bottle of chilled txakoli in the fridge together with a hand-drawn map of the river walk.

The Catch

Honesty demands the downsides. Public transport exists—twice-daily buses from Vitoria—but the last return leaves at 19:10, so forget about a lingering dinner. Mobile reception is patchy in the valley bottoms; download offline maps before you set out. And if you arrive expecting postcard-perfect plazas and artisan gift shops you will be disappointed: this is a place whose charm lies in the absence of things rather than their presence. The nearest souvenir is probably the paper napkin you pocketed at lunch.

Yet for travellers who measure value in kilometres walked without seeing another car, in bread that was kneaded at dawn, in the moment the wind drops and a stork glides overhead trailing its shadow across the wheat, Iruña de Oca delivers. Come with a full tank of petrol, an appetite for beef and silence, and at least one afternoon you don’t mind losing entirely.