Labastida

The smell of crushed grapes drifts up through a metal grille in the pavement. Peer down and you’ll see a low stone vault stacked with oak barrels, the cellar mouth barely wider than a dinner table. This is Labastida’s double life: above ground, a quiet Basque town where grandee houses wear centuries-old coats of arms; below, a warren of 16th-century caves where wine ages in American oak. You can cover the historic core in a slow hour, yet people stay for days, lured underground by Tempranillo and uphill by the Sierra de Cantabria.

Stone, shields and cellar doors

Labastida never signed up to be pretty. The town grew rich on medieval wool and later Rioja trade, so the architecture is practical wealth rather than picture-postcard. Walk Calle San Juan and you’ll spot pitted limestone blocks, iron knockers shaped like dragons, and the occasional Renaissance balcony held together with iron cramps. Traffic still squeezes through these lanes—wing mirrors fold in, delivery vans graze 500-year-old walls—so the place feels lived-in, not moth-balled.

Look halfway up doorways for the small bronze plaques: Bodega Privada. Some are mere cupboards holding a family’s hundred bottles; others spiral down three storeys. Two estates—Agrícola Labastida and Remelluri—open by appointment and give hard hats with the tasting glass. Expect candle-drip lighting, 13 °C air that smells of vanilla and tannin, and a polite request to mind your head on the 1657 ceiling. Standard visits run 90 minutes, finish with a vertical of three vintages, and cost around €18. British visitors note approvingly that the loos are modern even if the walls aren’t.

Church, mirador and mountain backdrop

The 16th-century Asunción church dominates the skyline with a tower built more like a keep than a belfry. Inside, a single nave stretches 42 m—long enough for the merchants’ pews up front and the vineyard labourers at the back. Opening hours shrink outside fiestas; if the oak doors are shut, circle the building anyway: the south wall is propped by a flying buttress that doubles as a stairway to the cemetery, where stone grape sheaves replace angels on 19th-century tombs.

Five minutes uphill, the Paseo del Collado gives the obligatory view without café tat. Vineyards roll eastwards in tidy green parcels; beyond them the limestone ridge of Sierra de Cantabria catches evening sun and turns the colour of pale sherry. Bring a jacket even in May—an Atlantic breeze funnels through the Ebro valley and reminds you the Atlantic is only 90 km away.

Behind that ridge lies the mountain proper. The Pico de Toloño (1,271 m) starts 2 km from the town fountain. The signed route climbs 600 m in 6 km, threading through Holm oak and wild rosemary before emerging on a bald summit scattered with wind turbines. On a clear day you see the Basque coast; in mist you see your boots—and little else. Cloud can rocket up the lee slope in minutes, so carry a downloaded map; phone signal dies beyond the picnic area. Allow four hours return, longer if you photograph every poppy.

Wine, lunch and the siesta trap

Winery lunches finish sharp at 15:30. If you miss that window, the remaining bars serve tortilla or chorizo-stuffed peppers until the coffee machine is cleaned. Specialities safe for cautious palates include bacalao a la riojana—flaky cod in sweet red pepper sauce—and pimientos de piquillo stuffed with mild cheese. Vegetarians survive on roasted peppers and the local white, Viura, which tastes of green apple and costs €3 a glass. Pudding is often marzipan from the neighbouring village of Soto; no cryptic fruit, just almond and sugar.

Booking is non-negotiable at weekends. The British wine trade descends on Fridays, cycling journalists on Saturdays, and both groups have reserved the 12:30 English-language tour before you’ve left Bristol airport. Email 48 hours ahead; most cellars close Sunday afternoon and all Monday.

Harvest feet and February fireworks

The last two weeks of September morph into the Fiesta de la Vendimia. Locals haul crates of grapes to the 17th-century plaza, where a wooden tub awaits the barefoot brave. Stomping is free, purple-foot selfies obligatory, and nobody mocks GCSE Spanish. Evenings end with outdoor concerts and fireworks that bounce off the stone houses and sound like gunfire in a cave. Accommodation within the town walls sells out a year ahead; book a rural house in the valley or stay in Haro, 18 km west, and drive in for the chaos.

February’s San Blas fiesta is quieter: a mediaeval procession, giant paper heads, and doughnuts the size of steering wheels. Temperatures can dip below zero at night; the same cellars that stay cool in summer become welcome radiators.

Getting stuck, and how not to

Public transport is the biggest snag. Two buses a day link Vitoria-Gasteiz with Labastida; neither runs on Sunday. A hire car is almost compulsory unless you fancy a €70 taxi from Haro. Parking is painless on the upper ring-road—ignore the nervous SatNav that tries to thread you down alleys designed for mules. Cobbles are ankle-breakers; wear shoes with grip, not espadrilles. Finally, the only cash machine hides inside the Caja Rural on Plaza de la Paz and locks its doors at 14:30. Withdraw euros before you climb the church tower or you’ll be begging the barman to run your card for a single coffee.

Labastida will never shout for attention. It offers instead a compact slice of Basque Rioja: drink in 500 years of stone, walk above the vines, and be back in Bilbao for dinner if you must. Stay longer and you’ll learn the difference between a cellar that smells of plums and one that smells of cedar—subtle, but the locals will tell you it’s everything.