Lanciego/Lantziego

The church bell strikes nine and the only other sound is a tractor reversing out of a stone barn. No tour guides, no selfie-sticks, just the smell of diesel mixing with cool vine-leaf air. Lanciego—Lantziego if you read the Basque road signs—starts its day exactly as it has for decades, which is why a growing handful of British visitors are swapping the coach-packed circuits of nearby Laguardia for this single-street settlement of five hundred souls.

You can walk from one end to the other in seven minutes, slower if you keep looking up. The mansion houses wear their family shields like crumpled name-tags: some freshly chiselled, others worn smooth by rain and neglect. It is the sort of place where the bakery changes hands and locals still refer to it as “Ana’s” for the next fifteen years. Disorientation is almost impossible; if the street narrows, you are leaving town—if it widens, you are back in the plaza.

Why the village still matters

Rioja Alavesa likes to market itself on postcard perfection, yet Lanciego’s value lies in what it refuses to tart up. The 16th-century church of San Martín is usually locked by 11 a.m. with no noticeboard to pretend otherwise; ring the Town Hall bell and a caretaker will stroll over with a key the size of a courgette. Inside, the air drops five degrees and the stone floor bows gently under centuries of foot traffic. No audio guide, just the hum of the tabernacle lamp and the occasional click of a camera shutter that feels almost intrusive.

Outside, the village’s real monument is the agricultural grid that presses in from every side. Leave the plaza by the downhill lane and within two minutes your shoes are dusted the colour of pale biscuit. The vineyards belong to smallholders who still prune by eye; they are not a “scenic backdrop” but a workplace. Stick to the foot-wide verges, nod at anyone on a quad bike, and you will be left alone to figure out how the rows follow the contour lines almost as neatly as a Tuscan fresco—except here the perspective is alive and cropping.

What a wine trip looks like when you stay small

Lanciego will never compete with Haro for sheer cellar capacity, yet it sits inside the same official Rioja triangle. A ten-minute drive north brings you to the gravity-defying concrete waves of Bodegas Ysios; ten minutes south-west drops you at El Fabulista’s candle-lit caves under Laguardia’s walls. Base yourself here and room rates fall by a third—sometimes half—while the tasting counter is still yours alone. The village cooperative, Sodupe, opens for tours if you phone a day ahead; the guide is usually the viticulturist whose English stretches to “barrel”, “tannin” and “another glass?”, which turns out to be enough.

Back in town, the only public wine bar is attached to the front room of a grocery. Locals treat it like a social club: men in berets argue over football while the owner uncorks whatever cask is running low. A glass of young crianza costs €1.80 and comes with a paper plate of olives that refill themselves if you make eye contact. Close readers of the Guardian wine column might smirk—until they realise the barman’s family bottled the stuff.

Eating without the theatre

British travellers often expect Rioja cuisine to be tapas on repeat. Lanciego prefers plates you can lift only with two hands. Mid-week lunch at Asador Arlequín begins with a clay dish of patatas a la riojana—potatoes, mild chorizo, sweet paprika—followed by chuletón, a rib-eye the width of a hardback, grilled over vine cuttings that spit and flare like sparklers. The meat arrives under-seasoned because the beef is supposed to speak; anything more than a crunch of salt is deemed suspiciously French. Vegetarians get a roasted piquillo pepper stuffed with migas and forgiven for asking “Is this normally breakfast?” Dessert is house-made membrillo and a shot of espresso that costs less than the cup in Heathrow Costa.

If you are self-catering, the Friday morning van in the plaza sells cheese made from sheep that grazed the hill you can see from your window. Buy the semi-curado; it travels better than the softer version and won’t terrorise fellow plane passengers.

A hill walk that does not require ski poles

Directly east the Sierra de Cantabria rises to 1,300 m, but the lower slopes behind the cemetery give you the same view without the altitude training. Follow the gravel track signed “Pago de Cebrellas” past the last farmhouse; within twenty minutes Lanciego shrinks to Lego size and the Ebro Valley unwraps southward. Spring brings poppies stitched through the wheat; September smells of crushed grapes and dust. The path is wide enough for two tractors to pass, so you will not need to vault stone walls. Allow ninety minutes round-trip, longer if you stop to watch red kites circle overhead.

Cyclists can borrow a bike from the cooperative for €15 a day; the terrain is forgiving until you turn north onto the old military road, where gradients jump to 9% and the tarmac crumbles like Stilton. Mountain-bike tyres advised, ego optional.

What the guides do not tell you

Public transport exists on paper. A bus leaves Vitoria-Gasteiz at 07:15, reaches Lanciego at 08:02 and turns straight round. The next departure is mid-afternoon, none on Sunday. Hire a car at Bilbao airport—90 minutes north on the AP-1—or accept that you are effectively locked into taxi maths. Parking inside the village is residents-only; leave the rental on the ring road where the pavement ends and walk the last 200 m. Nothing will happen to the vehicle except a light coating of pollen.

Phone signal is patchy in the lower lanes; download offline maps before you set out. The single cash machine sometimes runs dry on bank-holiday weekends; the bakery accepts cards but the wine co-op does not. Plan accordingly or you will be the foreigner begging the bartender for a €50 cash-back on a €2 coffee.

Evenings end early. By 22:30 only the streetlight outside the pharmacy and the occasional clack of dominoes remain. Bring a book, not a playlist, unless you fancy explaining Bluetooth speakers to a retired viticulturist who still tunes his radio to Basque talk-shows.

When to turn up—and when to stay away

April and May stitch bright-green buds to the vines; mornings can be sharp enough for a jacket, afternoons warm enough for shirt-sleeves. September offers the harvest theatre without the coach-party crush of neighbouring Samaniego. Mid-July to mid-August is furnace-hot; thermometers touch 38°C and the stone walls radiate like storage heaters after sundown. You can still visit—locals simply shift lunch to 15:00 and siesta until 17:00—but sightseeing stamina halves. Winter is quiet, occasionally moody under drifting fog, yet daylight is scarce and several bodegas close for maintenance. Come then only if your idea of pleasure is log fires and the smell of fermenting tempranillo drifting through a damp valley.

The bottom line

Lanciego will never tick every “Rioja must-see” box, and that is precisely its appeal. Treat it as a place to slow the itinerary rather than fill it: one church you may or may not enter, one hill you can climb before lunch, one bar where the wine is cheaper than the water. Arrive expecting fireworks and you will leave within an hour. Stay long enough to be recognised at the bakery and you will understand why the village never bothered with the word “gem” in the first place.