Haro? Where's Haro?

Well I hadn't heard of it either until I searched for the location of my very favorite winery (Bodega), Muga, the delicious Tinto Rioja that Tom introduced to my Son, Jonathan, who in turn, introduced it to me several years ago.

My opinion...it doesn't get any better!

Muga Gran Reserva is somewhat infamous in our family, I having purchased a bottle, which was presented to my Son on the occasion of his betrothal announcement.

Infamous because I paid ninety bucks for it at the former Fernando's Restaurant in Seattle, where we threw the party for Jon.

That purchase always raised the eyebrows of my beautiful wife, Joyce, whenever the name “Rioja” came up in conversations about fine wine!



She never said a word however...it was just that certain kind of look she would cast my way... as if to say, “ninety dollars...really?”


I had promised myself, that if I ever had the occasion to visit Spain, I would find my way to the Rioja Region and the Muga Bodega just to see how this wonderful libation is painstakingly coaxed to perfection, from vine to the amazing wine that it is.

So...on the same morning that Tom headed back to the States, leaving me “Spanish lingo-challenged”, defenseless and on my own recognizance, I also departed Madrid on the 200 mph RENFE AVE, destination Haro, the village of Muga's residence for well over a century and five generations.

The AVE deposited me in the town of Zaragoza where I switched to the slower moving commuter train that would take me to Haro.

Renfe Zaragoza - Transfer Facility and Hotel

The train followed a serpentine route that paralleled the beautiful Rio Ebro, a small river that had, over the centuries, slowly etched its channel between two ridges along the base of the Rioja valley. From time-to-time I would spot a one or two or thee hundred year old villa, crafted from stone and terracotta, still occupied, still active; surrounded by fields of grain or miles upon miles of tenderly manicured wine vineyards.

Here-and-there the gently sloping, fertile valley floor is interrupted by a mound perhaps several hundred feet in elevation...or even a small arroyo. The summits of many revealed the remains of medieval watchtowers or citadels, and, on one occasion, the remains of an old Roman fortress still silhouetted the skyline more than half a millennium from the time of its occupation by the foot soldiers and legions commanded by none other than Julius Caesar, himself!

You can almost feel the presence of Roman ghosts and I swear their breath rides the incessant breeze that sweeps down from the mountain ridges every afternoon to ripple the sea of waving grain or cool the skin of ripening grapes!

Rio Ebro's serpentine path

After over two hours of swaying and “click-clacking” our away along the Rio Ebro, my train came to an abrupt halt and I exited the coach onto a deserted platform. I was about 2 or 3 kilometers from the village of Haro which perched on the crest of a steep hill in the near distance. My only company was a lonesome, gentle wind.

The station was absolutely empty...not a sole stirring on this late Friday afternoon. Luckily, I had availed myself of the train's “comfort station” before disembarking, or I would have been up the proverbial creek with no paddles. The only challenge immediately before me was to determine the location of the pensione which I had rented for the next three nights. Not a taxi or any other vehicle in sight, I began walking the winding, cobbled street towards the village.

There were three Bodegas adjacent to the railroad and not too far a walk from the station. In a short- sleeved knit shirt, and slightly shivering, I approached a solitary watchman at the entrance to a Bodega about 500 meters from the station. Alas...the Watchman spoke no English, but I had written the pensione's name and address on my itinerary which I showed to the young man.

With a few gestures and a lot of headshaking and laughter, I finally got his message; follow the cobblestone road until I reach the bridge which crosses the Rio Ebro. On the other side of the river, cross the road and find, then climb, the old stone steps ascending the ridge until it terminates in a small plaza at the top of the steps. Turn right, and after a hundred or so meters, I should come to Calle Martinez Lacuesta, then turn left up the calle and look for the number “11” above a doorway. That would be my place, my pensione, Apartamentos Senorio de Haro, for the next three days.

I took his sketch and trundled down the cobble road, crossed the bridge, ascended the stone stairway, turned right at the plaza, intercepted Calle Martinez Lacuesta and Wallah! There, low-and-behold, was a number “11” above a mammoth, but locked door about 300 meters down the calle. I pressed the door button labeled, “Impresario” and waited. Nothing! So...here I was outside a locked door behind which (presumably) was my bedroom for the next three nights.

All I could do was sit on the curb and wait, hoping someone would enter or exit before nightfall! Luckily, a couple with keys appeared. They allowed me to enter and wait in the small foyer while they disappeared behind another huge door.

About 45 minutes later, the Impresario appeared, tidied up the paperwork and presented keys to a lovely apartment on the third floor.

After a quick shower, I hustled to a tapas bar on a small plaza just a short stroll from my pensione and had my fill of Muga Blanco and goodies. I returned to the apartment and crashed, trying to imagine what would be my introduction to the Muga Bodega the following day.

I could never have imagined!