Castro Urdiales

The smell of diesel and salt hits first. Not the romantic aroma of seaweed and freedom, but the honest stink of working boats. Below the medieval castle-lighthouse, fishermen in fluorescent orange overalls mend nets while chatting in a mix of Spanish and Basque. Their catch—glistening anchovies and hake—will appear on plates in the harbour bars within hours. This is Castro Urdiales, a port that refuses to cosplay as a resort.

The Hill That Won't Be Ignored

Santa María church squats on its rocky promontory like a gothic battleship. Built between the 13th and 15th centuries, its sandstone walls have turned the colour of old pennies from salt spray. The attached castle—now a lighthouse—wasn't added for postcard appeal; locals needed somewhere to hide when Sir Francis Drake's mates popped by to burn the place. These days the biggest invasion comes from Bilbao on Friday evenings, when the AP-8 deposits hundreds of city dwellers seeking proper seafood.

The climb takes eight minutes from the harbour. Stone steps worn smooth by centuries of fishermen's boots lead past houses so close together that neighbours can pass sugar without leaving their kitchens. At the top, the view reveals the town's split personality: to the left, the tiled roofs of the medieval quarter tumble towards a 19th-century beachfront; to the right, modern apartment blocks march along the coast towards the nuclear power station at Santa María de Garoña—just visible on clear days, 20 kilometres away.

Inside Santa María, the afternoon light filters through alabaster windows onto tombs of long-dead shipowners. The church closes for siesta at 13:30 sharp; the caretaker's definition of "sharp" varies with the fishing forecast. Entry costs €2, exact change appreciated.

Between Two Beaches

Brazomar beach sits two minutes from the old town's tapas bars. It's urban, occasionally scruffy, and fills completely by 11:00 on August weekends. The sand is greyish, the water clean but brisk—18°C even in August. Local children dive from the harbour wall into a natural swimming hole protected by the medieval bridge; their grandparents watch from stone benches, sharing txakoli from plastic cups.

For something wider, Playa de Ostende lies 25 minutes west along the coastal path. The walk passes Victorian villas built by Indianos—locals who made fortunes in Cuba—now converted into flats with peeling shutters. Ostende's sand stretches for a kilometre, backed by dunes rather than promenade. The bus back runs hourly until 21:00; miss it and it's a €12 taxi.

Serious surf happens 14 kilometres east at Playa de la Arena. The BizkaiBus departs hourly, costs €1.65, and delivers you to a three-kilometre beach break that works best on autumn swells. Board rental costs €20 for three hours from the shack by the lifeguard tower—half the price of Somo or Zarautz.

The Basque-Cantabrian Kitchen

Forget paella. Here it's about what left the boats that morning. Rabas—squid rings the size of doughnuts—arrive battered and greaseless with lemon wedges. A plate costs €8-12 depending on the catch. Txangurro, spider crab baked in its shell with brandy and breadcrumbs, tastes like the world's most sophisticated crab toastie. One crab, plenty for two, sets you back €24.

Pintxo culture rules the old town. Bar La Tagliatella lines its counter with miniature works: anchovy wrapped around pepper on crusty bread (€2.50), or foie gras with apple purée (€3). The drill: order one, eat, move on. By the fourth bar you'll have spent €15 and gained a Spanish grandmother's approval.

Market days bring Plaza del Ayuntamiento alive on Tuesday and Saturday mornings. Stallholders shout prices in Spanish while their wives gossip in Basque—Castro sits on the linguistic fault-line where Castilian meets Euskera. Grab a kilo of tomatoes for €1.50, but bring cash; the nearest ATM hides three streets uphill and charges €2.50 for the privilege.

When the Tourists Leave

August transforms the place. Population swells from 32,000 to nearly 90,000. Queues for rabas snake around the harbour. Parking becomes a blood sport—arrive before 10:00 or surrender to a 15-minute walk from the overflow field by the football stadium.

September's Virgin of the Assumption festival feels more authentic. Processions wind through streets carpeted with purple confetti. Locals balance effigies of the Virgin on their shoulders while brass bands play marches that sound half-finished. The saint spends the night in the church, then returns to her coastal shrine as fireworks explode over the castle. Dates shift annually; check the ayuntamiento website rather than trust outdated blog posts.

Winter strips everything back. Storms roll in from the Atlantic, sending waves over the harbour wall. Most bars close Monday-Wednesday; those that stay open serve cocido montañés—a hearty bean and cabbage stew that could restart a stopped heart. Temperatures hover around 12°C, but the wind makes it feel colder. Bring a proper coat, not a fleece.

Getting There, Getting Out

Santander airport sits 35 minutes west via the A-8. Bilbao's prettier route takes 40 minutes through oak and eucalyptus forests. Car hire runs €35/day from Santander, €40 from Bilbao. Public transport works: ALSA buses connect both airports hourly, dropping at Castro's main square in 50 minutes from Santander, 55 from Bilbao. Single fare: €6.50.

Once here, everything sits within walking distance. The old town's cobbles defeat wheeled suitcases; pack light or risk looking like a British cliché. Trains exist but serve mainly commuters—twice daily to Bilbao, once to Santander. Check Renfe's website; Sunday services disappear without warning.

The tourist office hides in the Town Hall basement. Opening hours change with the tides (almost literally). They stock walking leaflets showing coastal routes to Ontón and Oriñón—both doable in half a day if the weather behaves. Mobile signal drops on the clifftop paths; download offline maps before setting out.

Castro Urdiales doesn't do "hidden" or "undiscovered." It's been here since the Romans, trading anchovies and attitude. Come for the medieval harbour, stay for the spider crab, leave before August if you value your sanity. Or don't—some visitors return every summer, drawn by that particular Cantabrian mix of stone, salt and stubbornness that no amount of crowding can erase.