Esparza de Salazar

The church bell strikes noon and the only other sound is a tractor in low gear somewhere below the houses. Esparza de Salazar doesn’t do fanfares. At 700 m above sea level, on the north-facing lip of the Salazar valley, the village is already high enough for the air to feel thinner and the sun to burn faster than down in Pamplona. Stone roofs throw short shadows; wood smoke drifts even in May. Seventy-odd residents, two bars, one colmado the size of a London newsagent: that is the inventory.

Arriving Without a Sat-Nav Story

Most British plates reach the village the hard way. The NA-178 from Lumbier corkscrews up through beech woods until mobile signal drops out completely—EE gives up around the 500 m contour, Vodafone a little higher. The final 12 km after Burgui are single-track with passing bays; meet a timber lorry and you reverse. In winter the pass can close without warning: carry chains or divert via the longer but steadier NA-137 through Oronz. Allow ninety minutes from Pamplona airport, two and a half from Biarritz. Car hire is non-negotiable—there is no bus, no taxi rank, no Uber mountain rescue.

A Village That Fits Inside an Hour

Esparza spreads along a ridge road barely 300 m long. Start at the stone drinking trough fed by a constant spring; locals still fill bottles here. Walk east and you pass the church, closed except for Sunday mass at eleven. Push the heavy door and you get a single nave, whitewashed walls, a 16th-century pine altarpiece grey with age. No gold leaf, no audio guide, just the smell of wax and damp stone. Continue to the last houses and the tarmac turns into a farm track that drops towards the river. Turn round: the whole settlement is now visible—thirty-odd rooflines, all slate, no television aerials thanks to a communal dish disguised as a dovecote. The circuit takes twenty-five minutes, thirty if you stop to read the war memorial listing the same three surnames twice each.

What the Brochures Call “Mild Hiking”

Footpaths leave from the upper edge of the village, signed only by faded yellow dashes painted on barn walls. The shortest loop climbs 150 m through oak and beech to a derelict shepherd’s hut, then contours back with views across the valley to the limestone escarpment of Urbasa. Distance: 4 km. Time: an hour and a quarter if the ground is dry, nearer two after rain when the clay path becomes a skating rink. Wear boots, not trail shoes; the mud here is the sticky ochre variety that refuses to let go. Early risers may see roe deer on the meadow terraces; dusk brings wild boar rustling below the chestnut trees. Griffon vultures circle most afternoons, riding thermals that rise from the valley floor 400 m below.

Food That Arrives on a Slate Plank

Both bars serve the same short menu because they share the same kitchen. Mid-week lunch is a three-course menú del día for €14: vegetable soup heavy with cabbage, trout from the nearby Irati river, and a slab of cuajada (sheep’s-milk junket) drizzled with honey. Evenings switch to raciones. Order the chuletón al estilo navarro and you receive a 1.2 kg rib-eye seared on outside-only charcoal, carved at the table and served still sizzling on its own vertebra. Rare means poco hecho; anything past medium is regarded as a culinary hate crime. Vegetarians get menestra de verduras, a stew of artichoke, pepper and peas that tastes of olive oil and little else. House red comes in unlabelled bottles and costs €2.50 a quarter—drinkable, forgettable, better than the lukewarm lager. Monday shutters both bars; self-cater or drive 20 km to Ochagavía where one pizzeria stays open.

Seasons That Change the Locks on the Road

April brings daffodils along the verges and daytime temperatures of 18 °C, but after 4 p.m. the mercury collapses; you will want that fleece you left in the car. May and June are the reliable months: long daylight, green pastures, no midges. July and August turn the village into a weekend dormitory for overheated Pamploneses; prices double, the single road hosts an impromptu rally of SUVs, and someone inevitably tries to barbecue on a balcony. September is the sweet spot: beech woods copper overnight, the chuletón tastes of autumn, and you can park where you like. October delivers fog that sits in the valley for days; the same ridge that gave you panoramic photos now feels like the balcony of an aeroplane above the clouds. November to March is serious. Snow can fall at any point above 900 m, and the council grades the road only when the farmer’s cooperative complains. If the forecast mentions cota de nieve dropping to 600 m, stock up on logs and stay put.

Cash, Cards and Other Fiction

The nearest ATM is in Ochagavía, 20 km of bends away. Both bars prefer cash; one accepts Spanish cards with a €10 minimum, the other shrugs and points to the door. The colmado opens 09:00-14:00, 17:00-20:00, closed Thursday afternoon and all Sunday. Stock is tins, UHT milk, tinned asparagus, local cheese wrapped in cling film. Bread arrives at 11:00; if you want a baguette, queue at five past. Top up with supplies in Pamplona’s Carrefour before you head uphill—nobody sells oat milk or fresh coriander here.

Leaving Without the Souvenir Mug

Esparza will not give you a fridge magnet. What it does offer is a volume switch: birds instead of traffic, church bells instead of ringtones, darkness so complete you can read by starlight. Stay one night and you leave relaxed; stay three and you start calculating how long you could live on Spanish state pension. The village makes no pitch for your love, which is precisely why some visitors give it. Drive back down the valley, re-enter phone coverage, and the first WhatsApp ping feels like an intrusion.