Lapuebla de Labarca

The church bell tolls twice at 11:03 and every dog in Lapuebla de Labarca answers back. From the single bench on Plaza Mayor you can watch the scene play out: a tractor rattles past the stone arcade, two elderly men in berets lift a crate of garnacha grapes into a cellar hatch, and the barman at Bar Posada flips the tortilla just as the sun clears the Sierra de Cantabria. The village covers barely four streets, yet it sits in the middle of 1,200 ha of Rioja Alavesa vineyards—enough vines to keep Britain in red for a year, but with fewer foreign accents than you’ll hear on a Ryde ferry.

Lapuebla isn’t pretty in the postcard sense; the houses are the colour of weathered leather and the main road cuts straight through. What it offers instead is immediacy. Walk five minutes from your door and you’re between rows of tempranillo, the Ebro glinting half a kilometre away and falcons turning overhead. The guidebooks call the region “Basque Rioja”, yet here the Basque language appears only on road signs; in the bars the chatter is Spanish, delivered in the soft northern accent that makes every sentence sound like an invitation to lunch.

A Morning Among the Vines

Start early, especially in summer. By 09:30 the thermometer can nudge 30 °C and the clay paths bake hard as brick. Pick up the signed Ruta del Vino at the eastern edge of town—an easy 5 km loop on farm tracks that passes Bodegas Galardi, a family cellar offering tastings for €12 if you ring the day before. You’ll share the trail with the odd farm dog and a retired couple from Vitoria power-walking with ski poles; tour buses can’t squeeze under the medieval arch, so the silence is broken only by grasshoppers and the metallic click of pruning shears.

There is no grand vista at the halfway point, just more vines, but that is rather the pleasure. Stop at the stone cenobio—a 12th-century pilgrim shelter now used to store barrels—and you can see how the river plain lifts into the Cantabrian foothills. On hazy days the ridge resembles the South Downs viewed from Winchester; when the air is scrubbed by the cierzo wind, the limestone scars sharpen into Dolomite drama.

Back in the village, the 16th-century Iglesia de la Asunción rewards a slow circuit. The doorway is pure plateresque, but look higher and you’ll notice brick patches from 1936 shrapnel—one of the few visible scars of civil war in an area that preferred negotiation to fighting. Next door, Calle de los Herreros hides two mansion houses with coats of arms worn smooth; peer through the keyhole of number 14 and you’ll glimpse an interior patio where the original well still supplies the kitchen tap.

Underground Chill and Midday Grill

Most visitors want to descend into a calado, the sandstone caves dug beneath almost every dwelling. Temperature holds at 14 °C year-round, perfect for ageing crianza without electricity. The municipal tourist office (open July–August only, mornings) keeps a list of residents who will open their cellar for €5; otherwise try Bodega Hormilla behind the bakery—ring the bell and someone’s aunt usually appears with a candle and a bottle opener. Expect low doorways, spider webs and the sweet-sour smell of oak tannin. Wear shoes you don’t love; the floor is powdered with black mould that slickens like ice after the first glass.

Come 13:30 the bars fill with pickers heading back from the pago. Order a pintxo de chuletón—a thumbnail of charcoal-seared rib-eye on bread—then decide whether to commit to the full 1 kg steak at Asador Alameda across the square. The meat arrives on a heated tile, still spitting, with a dish of hand-cut chips that taste of the very olive groves you walked through. A half-litre of house cosechero costs €4; pace yourself, because the only cash machine is 12 km away in Laguardia and the landlord still prefers notes to contactless taps.

Afternoon Options for the Siesta-Averse

If you’re travelling light, borrow one of the rusty town bikes leaning against the pharmacy. Pedal south on the CV-412 towards Lanciego—another vineyard hamlet with a ruined castle—passing fields of viura grapes trained so low they look like gooseberry bushes. The gradient is gentle but persistent; allow 40 minutes out, 25 back with the wind behind you. Alternatively, drive ten minutes to the Ebro proper and walk the Senda de los Pontones, an old towpath where herons stand mid-river like clipped hedges. Midges descend at dusk; repellent is non-negotiable.

Serious oenophiles head 7 km north to Marqués de Riscal’s titanium-roofed cathedral of wine, where the €18 tour ends with a vertical tasting of three vintages and a sermon on French oak. Book online; they’ll answer in perfect English but the gift-shop prices will make you wince. Back in Lapuebla, the counter-movement is to knock on any door marked Venta de Vino. You’ll leave with a plastic bottle filled from the barrel for €2.50 and a story about the family’s great-grandfather who smuggled rootstock across the Pyrenees during phylloxera.

Evenings, Quiet as Must

Nightlife is what you bring. The last coffee is served at 20:00; by 22:00 even the teenagers have gone indoors. Sit on the church steps and the Milky Way arcs overhead with a clarity you forgot existed. Bring a jacket—at 480 m altitude the temperature can drop fifteen degrees once the sun slips behind the ridge. On Fridays the retired teacher opens a pop-up gin bar in her garage; she stocks four types of tonic and will insist you practise Spanish subjunctives before the second refill.

Festivals punctuate the calendar. The Fiesta de la Vendimia (second weekend in September) turns the plaza into a stomping barrel of purple juice; visitors are handed wicker baskets and invited to follow the tractor parade. June’s San Juan brings a beach bonfire on the riverbank—ironic for a landlocked village, but nobody seems to mind. If you’re here in December, the calados host choral concerts: fifty people huddled between barrels singing Gabriel’s Message in Basque, the candle smoke mixing with oak dust until you can taste the carols.

Getting There, Getting Fed, Getting Out

Bilbao is the simplest gateway. A two-hour flight from Heathrow lands before noon; collect a hire car, join the A-68 towards Logroño and take exit 11. You’ll see the village sign five minutes later—blink and you’ll still catch it. There is no petrol station, no supermarket chain, no Sunday pharmacy. Park on the main street; traffic wardens are as mythical as tapas loyalty cards.

Accommodation is limited to three options. Casa de los Arandinos has six minimalist rooms hovering over a private vineyard—rates from €140 including breakfast on the terrace. Slightly downscale, Posada de Labarca offers twelve rustic doubles in a 17th-century house (€85, no lift, Wi-Fi in the courtyard only). The budget choice is an apartment above the bakery booked through the town hall tourist desk—€55 a night, kettle but no toaster, and you’ll wake to the smell of churros drifting through the floorboards.

When it’s time to leave, Laguardia’s medieval tunnels warrant a detour ten minutes up the road, and Haro’s famous wine fight (Batalla del Vino) happens each June if you fancy returning stained purple. Otherwise point the car towards Bilbao, stock up at duty-free and console yourself with the knowledge that the bottle in your suitcase cost three times the price of the same juice you drank straight from the barrel.

Lapuebla de Labarca will never top a “must-see” list, and that is precisely its appeal. Come for a day and you’ll tick a church, a cave and a steak. Stay for three and you’ll learn the difference between crianza and reserva, recognise the village dogs by name, and discover that silence, too, can be intoxicating. Just remember to draw cash before you arrive—because the only thing you can’t buy here is an excuse to leave early.