The way through La Rioja

322 kilometers from Pamplona to Sahagún, with 280 of that on foot. Cathedrals, tiny villages, wildflowers pushing through cracks in stone, and vineyards that have been tended for generations—woven into the landscape like they’ve always been there. All of that was magic. But the real beauty? The people.

I walked this stretch of the Camino de Santiago with my dear friend John—77 years young, owner and winemaker at Poppaea Vineyards in San Diego, and absolutely determined to complete the full pilgrimage. All 777 kilometers. I joined him for the La Rioja section—for the most obvious reason: vino.

When you move slowly through a wine region like this—step by step, glass by glass—you notice more. You notice how the vines grow without wires, barely knee-high, just a few old spurs sticking out like elbows. No fluff. Just intention. The kind of farming that doesn’t ask for attention, but deserves it.

By the time we rolled into the first town in the La Rioja region, the rain had finally cleared. The cobblestones were still wet, the air cool and clean. We found a spot outside a quiet bar and settled in with a glass of Rioja—well-earned, legs aching in that good way. I ordered a plate of fried tapas, didn’t ask any questions—just pointed and nodded.

A few bites in, something felt off. The texture was… unsettling. John took one bite, made a face somewhere between amusement and concern, and set his aside. I kept going—Camino hunger is real—until curiosity got the better of me. I peeled back the batter and, sure enough, I’d been working my way through a plate of battered pigs’ ears.

It wasn’t exactly pleasant.

But it also wasn’t unfamiliar. It reminded me of a moment back in New Zealand, watching local Māori eat singed lambs’ tails straight from the fire. Something I’d never grown up with, and probably wouldn’t crave—but for them, a comfort food. An expression of place, of culture. Pigs’ ears are probably the same here. A snack passed down, not dressed up. Only strange if you’re not from around here.

John, meanwhile, was quietly entertained.

And then came redemption.

John, never one to miss an opportunity, asked the owner of a reputable little wine bar what she thought was the best bottle she had in stock.

No hesitation. No upsell. Just pure honesty.

She disappeared behind the bar and came back with a humble bottle of Crianza. Ten euros. For the bottle. We cracked it that night and shared it in the quiet, feet up, clothes drying, a little sore but content. It tasted like everything we needed—earthy, bright, honest. A wine that made no claims, but delivered completely.

We slept well.

There’s something about Rioja—about Spain, really—that makes you slow down and pay attention. The café con leche in the morning, the old men playing cards in the corner, the scent of wet earth and smoke after the rain. The culture here isn’t trying to sell you anything. It’s just being. Simple, local, made with care—and all the more meaningful when you’ve arrived on foot.

We talked a lot, John and I. About winemaking, about life, about the parts of the wine industry that feel bloated and overproduced, and the parts that still feel sacred. Sometimes we’d walk for hours in silence, other times we'd dive deep—canopy management, pruning, family, aging. The things that matter, and the ones that don’t.

I kept thinking: next time, I’m bringing a portrait lens. And a notebook. So many faces I wanted to remember—weathered, kind, curious, quiet. People you walk beside for a half day and somehow miss when they turn left at the next fork in the trail. It didn’t always feel right pulling out a camera, but next time, I’ll ask. There’s beauty in that too.

The Camino gives you space. Rioja fills it—with old vines and young wines, with laughter over terrible tapas, and with the kind of conversations that catch you off guard and stay with you long after.

John was inspiring. Still curious, still walking, still asking the right questions. And so were the others—the Danish sisters, the South American couple, the solo German guy who always carried cheese. A quiet kinship forms out there. No one’s rushing. Everyone’s carrying something.

A lot of people had been planning it for years. Some, decades. And there was one thing I heard more than once, in hushed voices over wine or coffee, from people who’d finally carved out the time to be there.

“I wish I’d done it sooner.”