Guilt is inescapable in Rioja. This is how it happens.

You’re trolling through an ancient, ruffled landscape. The low sun is making a show of the ochre earth, rocks and vineyards. There is a walled village behind, a wine-tasting ahead and, along the way, a constant intake of tapas.

You are humming the theme to The Magnificent Seven when you realise, with a start, that you haven’t thought about house prices for at least half a day. Then, as if to crystallise your guilt, a clump of pilgrims yomps into view. Lying athwart the Ebro River, Rioja is not only Spain’s wine HQ, but is on the main route to Santiago de Compostela.

Pilgrims have been trekking through the region for centuries. They still are, filling byways and settlements with boots, backpacks and commitment. You have been touring, eating and discussing vintages, and will sleep in reasonable luxury. Of course you feel guilty.

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The insouciance appears wildly out of wack. But consider. Pilgrims may be doing the right thing for their souls. You, by splashing out on the finer things in life, are doing the right thing for the economic future of the world. It is pure altruism. So let us hear no more of guilt, but set out for Bilbao (or Santander) and continue inland to Vitoria.

DAY ONE

We’re stopping off in the Spanish Basque capital because (a) nobody else does and (b) it offers a rare chance to appreciate a life-size statue of Ken Follett.

First, check in at the plush Hotel Ciudad de Vitoria (8 Portal de Castilla; 00 34-945 141100, silken-ciudadvitoria.com; doubles from £68). Then head for the modern cathedral. On the forecourt lurks a sculpture of a stretch rhino. It’s like a normal rhino, but much longer, and exists, I think, for purely Spanish reasons.

Now stroll to Florida Park — Vitoria occasionally seems to be more park than city — and on to the central, sloping Plaza de la Virgen Blanca, dominated by a wonderfully graphic monument to the 1813 battle of Vitoria.

From there, you penetrate the sinuous old streets — say, Calles Herreria and Correria — whose secrets of Spanishness are revealed in hole-in-the-wall haberdashers and horse butchers, rock cafes, boutiques and bars. You couldn’t tidy these people away if you brought in hoses. Nearer the top of town, matters grow markedly more monumental. You sense church and governance getting a grip.

Along the main hilltop street, the Santa Maria cathedral stands swathed in the scaffolding and sheets of a restoration programme. On the terrace out front is the bronze of Follett, looking nattily 1990s new Labour.

This is a surprise, but a pleasing one. He is evidently an expert on medieval cathedrals. They constitute the core of two of his novels, the most recent of which — World Without End — was apparently informed by the Santa Maria restoration. “His interest in Santa Maria has brought us many visitors,” said the lady in the cathedral office. “So you put up a statue to him?” “Certainly.” “If I write about your cathedral, can I have a statue, too?” “Haha. No.”

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