Isaba

The sheep start climbing the lane at dawn, bells clanking like loose change. By seven they’ve vanished uphill, leaving only the smell of wet wool and the awareness that the day in Isaba will be governed by altitude, not the clock.

The Village That Refuses to Be Flat

Isaba sits at 820 m, the last sizeable settlement in the Spanish Roncal before the road wriggles over the Puerto de Larrau into France. Everything tilts: lanes funnel down towards the Esca river, roofs pitch at angles that would give a Surrey surveyor nightmares, and the church tower of San Cipriano rises like a stone exclamation mark. Slate tiles outnumber people by a ratio any shepherd could calculate—roughly twenty to one—and the older houses still carry iron rings where goats were once tethered for milking.

Wander for twenty minutes and you have crossed the entire grid of medieval streets. Look longer and the details emerge: a 1689 date carved above a doorway, a wooden balcony warped into a gentle smile, the smell of oak smoke slipping from a chimney even in June. There is no picturesque plaza ringed with souvenir shops; instead the village square is a practical rectangle of tarmac where tractors turn and children kick footballs against the stone cross.

Inside San Cipriano the air is cool and faintly incense-sweet. The sixteenth-century builders used pinkish limestone brought by mule from the quarry at Urzainqui, 12 km downstream. The baroque altarpiece glitters with gilt grapes and muscular cherubs, yet pride of place goes to a small polychrome Virgin whose face has been darkened by centuries of candle smoke. Drop a euro in the box and the lights flick on for ninety seconds—long enough to notice that the carving is signed by a craftsman called “P.M.” in 1734 and that no one has ever identified him further.

What the Map Doesn’t Admit

The long-distance GR-11 footpath passes straight through the village, which makes Isaba an obvious base for walkers. The temptation is to set off immediately for the Mesa de los Tres Reyes, the 2,428 m summit that marks the triple border of Navarra, Aragón and France. Guidebooks list it as “a strenuous day”. What they rarely confess is that the final 300 m are loose scree the colour of burnt toast and that the weather can deteriorate from clear to white-out in the time it takes to eat a sandwich. Cloud rolled in at 2 p.m. last August; two British hikers required rescue by Guardia Civil helicopter. If you fancy the summit, start early, carry waterproofs and assume the descent will take twice as long as the ascent.

Easier options follow the Esca upstream to the cirque of Belagua, 10 km away. The track is an old drove road wide enough for two mules; gradients are gentle and the worst hazard is the village dogs who accompany walkers for the first kilometre, hopeful of biscuit bribes. A morning’s stroll will deliver views of beech woods, hay meadows still cut with scythes and the limestone cliffs that French climbers call “la petite Patagonie”.

Mountain-bikers usually aim for the Puerto de Larrau, 24 km and 1,000 m of climbing to the north-west. The road is silky smooth because only half a dozen vehicles use it each day, yet the climb is categorised “hors catégorie” by the Vuelta a España when the race bothers to detour this far. Cloud can drop to road level any month of the year; in May 2022 a sudden snowstorm stranded a group of Dutch cyclists who spent the night in their hire van at 1,500 m.

Cheese before Card Machines

Roncal cheese bears a DOP label, the Spanish equivalent of protected status. It is made only from the milk of latxa sheep that graze above 600 m between December and July. Taste it blind and you might place it somewhere between mature cheddar and Manchego, but with a sharper, almost peppery finish. The village shop sells 200 g wedges wrapped in waxed paper for €4.90; buy on a weekday because Saturday stocks sell out before noon and the shop shuts for siesta until 17:00.

Most visitors eat at Hostal Lola on the main street. The menu del día costs €14 mid-week and arrives without fanfare: roast lamb, chipped potatoes and a half-bottle of Navarrese garnacha that stains the gums purple. Vegetarians get menestra, a stew of whatever the garden produces—artichokes and peas in May, chard and potatoes in October. Ask for it “sin jamón” or the chef will scatter ham shards by reflex. Payment is cash only; the nearest ATM stands outside the town hall but empties on Friday afternoon when the weekly market fills the square with second-hand tools and cheap T-shirts.

Evenings are quiet. Two bars stay open past 22:00: Borda Leku, where farmers play mus (a Basque card game) and slam coins on the wood with the force of a darts bullseye, and Casa Aingeru, which screens La Liga on a temperamental projector. Last orders for drinks are taken around 23:30; by midnight the only sound is the river and the occasional clatter of a metal shutter.

Seasons That Can Turn on You

Spring comes late. Snow patches still cling to north-facing slopes in April and the first swallows arrive when the daffodils in Britain are already gone. May is the safest month for walking: daylight lasts until 21:00, the high pastures are green and the mosquitoes have not yet hatched. Accommodation prices stay low; a double room at Hostal Lola is €55 including breakfast of coffee, orange juice and a croissant the size of a small fist.

Summer brings French motorbikes and Spanish families who have rented cottages for the school holidays. August temperatures can touch 30 °C in the valley, but mornings remain fresh enough for a fleece. Book accommodation a fortnight ahead; the village only has about eighty beds and once the Tour de France stages in nearby Pau every room within 50 km fills up.

Autumn is when the valley reclaims itself. Beech woods turn copper, the hay is stacked in perfect cubes wrapped in white plastic, and the sheep descend to winter pastures. Walkers meet more shepherds than hikers on the paths. By late October the first storms sweep in from the Bay of Biscay; cloud can sit below 1,000 m for days.

Winter is serious. Average snowfall is two metres and the road to Belagua is closed after the first major storm, usually mid-December. Chains or winter tyres are compulsory; the Guardia Civil turn cars back at the checkpoint. What keeps the village alive is the small ski-station at nearby Astún, 45 minutes away by car, although day-trippers tend to stay closer to the lifts. Isaba becomes a place of wood smoke, short days and the thud of axes splitting logs before breakfast.

Getting Here, Getting Out

The simplest route from Britain is to fly to Biarritz with EasyJet or BA from Gatwick, collect a hire car and head south on the A63, then east on the A-64 and over the Roncevaux pass. Total driving time is two hours, including the queue for coffee at the motorway services in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. Alternatively, Ryanair operates a summer Saturday flight from Stansted to Pamplona; from there a twice-daily Alsasua-Ochagavía-Isaba bus covers the 110 km in two and a half hours. The service does not run on Sunday, so if your return flight is Monday book a taxi (€90) or stay an extra night.

Petrol is cheaper on the Spanish side of the border; fill up in Ochagavía before the final 25 km. Phone reception is patchy once you leave the main valley road; download offline maps before departure.

Parting Shots

Isaba will never compete with the Costa for sunshine hours or with San Sebastián for Michelin stars. What it offers instead is a yardstick against which to measure mountain time: the speed at which clouds cross a ridge, the rhythm of a flock heading home, the moment when cheese that was curd that morning is served for lunch. Come prepared for weather that can bite in any month, for paths that demand respect and for evenings that finish early. If that sounds like a fair swap for stone roofs, sheep bells and the smell of wood smoke, Isaba is waiting.