Moreda de Álava

The stone houses don't announce themselves. They simply exist, shoulder to shoulder along Moreda's narrow lanes, their wooden doors weathered to silver-grey and ironwork that predates the Spanish constitution. Somewhere beneath the main street, a network of tunnels holds thousands of Rioja bottles at thirteen degrees year-round. The locals call them calados, and they're the reason this quiet village of five thousand punches well above its weight in Spain's wine hierarchy.

Underground Cathedrals of Wine

These aren't tourist caves with piped-in classical music. The calados began as family storage spaces, dug by hand into the soft limestone beneath each house. Temperature control happened by accident—perfect for wine, perfect for forgetting about it for decades. Some stretch fifty metres back, branching into chambers where the chalk walls weep moisture and the air tastes faintly of oak and fermentation.

Gaining access requires planning. Bodegas Izadi opens theirs by appointment (€15, includes three glasses), but they're the exception. Most calados remain private, their entrances marked only by discreet wooden hatches that clank shut behind whoever still holds the family keys. The tourist office keeps a list—call +34 945 609 002 at least 48 hours ahead. Otherwise, you'll walk the streets unaware that an entire subterranean city lies beneath your soles.

The village proper takes twenty minutes to cross. Start at the Iglesia de la Asunción, whose 16th-century tower leans slightly west, then wander. Count the coats of arms carved above doorways—there are seventeen, each representing a family that made its fortune when Rioja wines first found international favour. The masonry tells its own story: darker stone at the base where medieval builders reused Roman foundations, lighter limestone above from quarries that later became wine cellars.

Between Vineyard and Mountain

Moreda sits at 550 metres, high enough that the Cantabrian Mountains feel touchable on clear mornings. The Sierra de Cantabria blocks Atlantic storms, creating a rain shadow that gives Rioja Alavesa its characteristic dryness. Vineyards start at the village edge—Tempranillo mostly, planted in poor limestone soils that force roots to dive deep for water. The result is concentrated fruit that commands premium prices in London wine bars.

Walking tracks radiate outward like spokes. The easiest follows an old farm road toward Villabuena de Álava (4.3 kilometres, forty minutes each way). September brings mechanical harvesters that fill the air with grape must and diesel fumes—photogenic for exactly five minutes before you remember you're downwind. Spring works better: wild asparagus sprouts between rows, and the Sierra keeps its snowcap while almond blossoms carpet the valley floor.

Winter transforms the landscape entirely. When the northerly cierzo wind blows, temperatures drop to minus eight. The calados become refuge for both wine and people—village elders still gather in the warmest tunnels to play cards and complain about the harvest predictions. Access roads ice over regularly; the A-124 from Vitoria-Gasteiz requires chains during cold snaps. Summer swings the opposite direction: thirty-five degrees by midday, when the stone houses become ovens and everyone siesta properly behind closed shutters.

The Reality Check

This isn't fairy-tale Spain. The municipal pool closes inexplicably some Tuesdays. The single bar runs out of coffee when the delivery truck breaks down. During August fiestas, the village quadruples in population—mostly teenagers from Bilbao who've discovered that Moreda's plaza makes an excellent drinking spot. The noise echoes off stone walls until 5am; if you've rented the Airbnb facing the church, bring earplugs.

Practicalities matter. Parking inside the historic centre guarantees you'll meet a delivery van coming the opposite direction on a street designed for donkeys. Leave vehicles by the sports centre on the outskirts—five minutes' walk saves forty minutes of reversing. The bakery opens at 7am but sells out of its excellent custard tarts by 9.30. The pharmacy closes for lunch between 2pm and 4pm, like everything else except the petrol station on the main road.

Mobile signal dies in the calados, obviously. Above ground, Vodafone works best; EE customers struggle unless they're standing in the plaza. WiFi exists at the library (weekday mornings only) and the wine shop on Calle Mayor, where the owner expects you to buy something in exchange for the password.

When Timing Becomes Everything

Harvest season—mid-September to early October—offers both spectacle and frustration. Bodegas bustle with activity, but they're too busy for drop-in visitors. The smell of fermenting grapes permeates everything, delightful for the first hour, headache-inducing by day three. Hotels in nearby Laguardia charge double; Moreda's single guesthouse books six months ahead.

Late April provides the sweet spot. Temperatures hover around eighteen degrees, perfect for walking between villages. Wildflowers transform the vineyard floors into pointillist paintings. Most importantly, the calado tours run regularly—winter's over, but summer crowds haven't arrived yet. The light at 7pm turns the stone walls honey-coloured, and you'll have the plaza mostly to yourself except for two old men arguing about football.

March brings risk. The Atlantic sends rain that turns vineyard paths to clay cement. One heavy shower and your trainers gain two kilos each. But the village's almond trees explode into bloom, white petals drifting across cobblestones like slow-motion snow. Photographers arrive in droves, then leave disappointed when grey clouds roll in at 3pm sharp.

Leaving Through the Vineyards

The road south climbs past abandoned stone terraces where nobody bothers farming anymore. At the crest, Moreda shrinks to a cluster of terracotta roofs between green vineyard rows. Somewhere beneath those tiles, millions of bottles age in limestone caves, waiting for someone in London or Manchester to pay £45 for something that began as grapes grown in soil too poor for vegetables.

Drive away slowly. The village doesn't mind visitors, but it doesn't need them either. Moreda existed before wine tourism, before TripAdvisor, before British journalists discovered Rioja. The stone houses will stand long after the last calado collapses, and someone will still be arguing about football in the plaza when the vines have crept across the abandoned roads.

Just remember to book that cellar tour before you come. The wine's been waiting underground for decades—it can wait a bit longer. But your weekend can't.