Darlings, I have landed in the one city in Spain where the entire downtown turns into a wine party β LogroΓ±o, capital of La Rioja, on the very first Sunday of the Fiestas de San Mateo, the Rioja Wine Harvest Festival. Today, 20 September 2026, is opening day: through 26 September the Plaza del EspolΓ³n hosts the famous foot-crushing of the first grapes, the first must of the vintage is offered to the Virgen de Valvanera, and every bar on Calle Laurel pours the new harvest. The air smells like crushed Tempranillo, jamΓ³n, and sunshine β the entire Ebro valley is celebrating the fact that the 2026 picking has begun. I brought a sundress, an appetite, and absolutely no intention of leaving sober.
By mid-afternoon the square was pure electricity β festival bunting strung from the plane trees, wooden barrels doubling as tables, crates of dark Tempranillo grapes waiting for the stomping ceremony. I slipped into my coral-red sundress (a little tribute to the vintage, obviously), raised a glass of chilled ViΓ±a Ardanza, and let the crowd's laughter swallow me whole. Candid, sun-flared, and completely alive.
Every festival needs a pause button, and mine was a long harvest table under golden leaves, loaded with pintxos the way only Calle Laurel can do them β gildas, jamΓ³n, crusty bread. One of my girls leaned in for the toast and for a second the whole festival went quiet around our glasses: ruby ViΓ±a Ardanza Reserva, La Rioja Alta's classic β 80% Tempranillo from thirty-year-old vines, kissed by Garnacha and 36 months of American oak. We clinked, we laughed at a joke I will absolutely not repeat here, and the afternoon light did the rest.
As the party softened, the string lights came on over a garden near the Puente de Piedra, and the Ebro turned to liquid gold. I wrapped myself in a cream throw, curled up on the picnic blankets in my champagne-silk slip dress, and poured something serious: CVNE Imperial Gran Reserva β the Tempranillo-led legend with Graciano, Mazuelo and Viura, named for the old "Imperial pint" bottles it once shipped in. The lanterns, the bridge, the last blush of sunset β this is what a perfect Sunday is for.
π The stomping barrels are still calling my name and it's only day one of sixβ¦ care to join me in the plaza tomorrow for the actual San Mateo day? Fair warning: I take grape-stomping very seriously, and my dancing after the third glass even more so. Next Sunday's adventure is already teasing me from the map β stay thirsty, loves. π·
