Etxauri

The limestone walls above Etxauri glow amber at 5 pm in March, warm enough to climb in a T-shirt while snow still caps the distant Pyrenees. Eight hundred bolted routes ribbon the 300-metre escarpment—more climbs than the village has residents. That ratio tells you most of what you need to know: this is a place where weekend life revolves around carabiners, not coach tours.

High ground, low key

Sitting at 450 m in the basin of the Arga river, the village catches whatever weather rolls inland from the Bay of Biscay, 90 km away. Morning mist often pools in the valley; by noon a northerly wind can scrub the sky clean and leave the cliff faces in full sun. The micro-climate makes winter climbing feasible on most days, but July and August bake the rock until friction disappears—locals escape to higher Pyrenean valleys then, returning when the first cool breeze arrives in September.

The approach road from Pamplona snakes up 250 m of elevation in 14 km. Buses manage it four times a weekday, twice on Saturday, never on Sunday. Miss the 19:35 return and a taxi costs €30—worth knowing if you plan an after-work cragging session.

Stone, sweat and cider

Etxauri’s single main street takes eight minutes to walk end-to-end. Limestone blocks the colour of old ivory line the lower halves of houses; upper storeys are whitewashed and capped with red pantiles. A butcher, a pharmacy and Bar Basterra form the commercial core. There is no cash machine—plastic is useless at the cliff-side refuge—so fill your wallet before you leave Pamplona.

Inside Bar Basterra, climbing guides share tables with farmers still dusted with hay. A plate of patatas bravas and a caña set you back €4.50; the terrace looks straight onto the plaza where primary-school kids chase footballs until dusk. Order the house cider: light, slightly sour, served in 200 ml bottles that you pour from shoulder height to knock the bubbles out. It tastes better after the 25-minute uphill slog from river to village.

Rock that forgives

The climbing sectors face south-west, so they dry within hours of rain and stay bright until sunset. Grades start at a friendly III (roughly British Diff) on slabs polished by decades of rope-drag, then leap to overhanging 7a+ walls where Spanish teams hang like bats testing finger-width pockets. Most routes are single-pitch sport; bring a 60 m rope and 12 quickdraws. Helmets are essential—goats dislodge stones faster than you can shout “Below!”

The six-bed refuge at Pared del Refugio is free, unstaffed and fills by Friday night in Easter week. If you arrive late, flat bivvy spots hide among holm oaks five minutes below the crag. Wild camping is technically forbidden, but the Guardia Civil rarely hike up before breakfast.

When legs need a rest

Non-climbers get their own vertical treat: a way-marked footpath climbs 400 m to the Sierra de Sarbil ridge in 50 minutes. The track starts behind the church, passes a ruined shepherd’s hut, then bursts onto open grassland where views stretch 70 km north to the Pyrenean frontier. On clear winter days you can pick out the white triangle of Pico Anayet 2,000 m above the plain.

Spring brings the best light: wheat shoots glow emerald, red poppies pepper the field margins, and vultures ride thermals at eye level. Autumn swaps green for gold, and the smell of crushed thyme follows every footstep. Summer hikes are best started at dawn; by 11 am the thermometer nudges 34 °C and shade is scarce.

Back in the village, the 16th-century church of San Martín hides a Gothic portal carved with vines and a rather smug fox devouring a goose. The tower was rebuilt after lightning in 1894; stone blocks still carry scorch marks if you look closely. Inside, the altarpiece is pure Baroque excess—gilded wood twisting upwards like a firework frozen mid-burst.

What to eat, what to pay

There are no Michelin stars, which keeps prices human. A weekday menú del día at Restaurante Sarbil costs €14 and includes a bottle of Navarran rosado. Expect roast piquillo peppers stuffed with salt-cod, then grilled lamb cutlets pink in the middle. Vegetarians get a baked aubergine drowned in local goat’s cheese—rich enough to postpone climbing for an hour.

Evening service is more limited; most kitchens close by 22:00. Stock up on fruit and queso idiazabal at Pamplona’s covered market before you arrive—village shops shut for siesta 14:00-17:00 and all day Sunday.

The downsides, honestly

Etxauri is not quaintly silent—it’s just quiet. When the wind drops you hear the N-121-A motorway, three kilometres away as the crow flies but audible in the valley hush. Mobile reception fades on the upper cliffs; don’t rely on Google Maps to find the sector called Zona Verde—the path splits three times and each fork looks identical. Weekend crowds concentrate on the easy slabs; queueing for La Vía de los Cobardes (IV+) is common unless you start early.

Rain turns approach paths to slick clay; approach shoes become skates. In January the sun quits the valley at 16:30 and temperatures drop to 3 °C within minutes—bring a head-torch and a down jacket even for “single-pitch” days.

Making it work

Base yourself in Pamplona if you want nightlife; stay in Etxauri only if you relish early nights and dawn starts. A hire car from Bilbao airport gives maximum flexibility—roads are empty once you leave the AP-8 autopista, and the last 30 km cross classic Basque countryside of stone barns and red-tiled villages. Without wheels you’re tied to the bus timetable, which misses the best morning light by two hours.

Two hours is enough to stroll the lanes, drink a cider and photograph the cliffs. Add half a day for a ridge walk, or a full one if the rock calls. Stay longer and you risk running out of bread, conversation or both—this is, after all, a village where the goats probably outnumber the humans after dark.