Izalzu

Eight hundred metres up, the village clock runs on woodsmoke

The road from Pamplona climbs 1,200 metres in 90 minutes, corkscrewing through beech forest until the tarmac narrows and the engine note drops. Suddenly the trees part: a handful of slate roofs, a single church tower, and a sign that reads “Izalzu 800 m”. Thirty-eight people live here. The nearest shop is 12 kilometres away in Uztárroz, the nearest pintxo bar double that in Roncal. Mobile signal flickers like a faulty lightbulb. This is not a place that tries to impress; it simply stops the clock.

Stone walls, half a metre thick, shoulder the weight of winter snow. Timber balconies are painted the same ox-blood red you’ll see across the Navarrese Pyrenees—an accidental village uniform. Walk the single lane at 07:30 and you’ll hear one sound: a tractor heading for higher hay meadows. By 08:00 even that is gone. What remains is the faint clink of a cowbell, the dry smell of oak logs, and air so clean it makes your lungs feel underdressed.

A quarter-hour loop that takes all morning if you do it properly

Start at the stone trough by the church. The water inside comes straight off the ridge; locals fill plastic jerry-cans rather than trust the tap. Opposite stands the Iglesia de San Martín, a barn-solid rectangle whose oldest stones date from the 12th century. Don’t expect flying buttresses—Navarrese mountain churches were built to shelter sheep and people, not to impress bishops. Step inside and the temperature falls five degrees. Someone has left fresh dahlias on the altar; their scent mixes with candle wax and damp stone.

From the porch, three streets radiate. None exceeds 150 metres. Walk them slowly: read the brass plates that mark Civil War bullet holes, count the different chimney pots (eleven designs, if you’re curious), notice how doors are built just high enough for a mule laden with hay. At the lower edge of the village a lane squeezes between two houses and becomes a path. Within three minutes the hay meadows start; within five you are inside the beech wood. Look back and Izalzu is already shrinking to a dark punctuation mark on the hillside.

Footpaths that demand respect after lunchtime

The signed route to the east, PR Nav-87, climbs gently through beech and Pyrenean oak to the Collado de Ezkaurre, 4.3 kilometres and 350 metres of ascent. On a clear morning the view opens north into France, south across the cereal basin of Larraun. The problem is the weather factory parked on the Atlantic coast: clouds can roll in faster than you can say “waterproof”. Every year Guardia Civil mountain rescue hauls out at least one walker who thought “just another kilometre” was a good idea in September fog. Turnaround time is non-negotiable: if the church bell strikes noon and you can’t see the village, start descending.

Winter transforms the same path into a micro-expedition. Snow usually arrives before Christmas and may stay until March. The council grades the access road twice a week, but a sudden white-out can still maroon the hamlet for 48 hours. Chains are compulsory kit from November onwards; without them the Guardia will turn you back at the last junction. Come properly equipped and you’ll have the beech wood to yourself, the snow muffling every footstep like a switched-off radio.

What silence sounds like when there’s no Wi-Fi to fill it

Evenings revolve around food, fire, and the realisation that darkness can be absolute. The single holiday let, Alojamientos Rurales Apezarena, has underfloor heating and a kitchen wide enough to chop onions without bruising your elbows. Expect to pay €90 a night for the two-bedroom apartment, linen and firewood included. There is no television; instead you get a balcony that faces south-west and catches the last sun like a sundial. Bring supplies: the nearest supermarket that opens past 20:00 is in Pamplona, 95 kilometres of mountain road away.

If you’d rather not cook, the owner will drop off a casserole of beans and chorizo for €12 a head—order before 18:00. Eat at the oak table, windows open to the night, and you’ll understand why locals apologise for “town noise” when a dog barks three valleys over.

When to come, and when to stay away

May stitches green onto the hillsides almost overnight; by mid-month the beech is in full leaf and daytime temperatures sit in the low twenties. June adds wildflowers, but also the first coach parties doing the Roncal cheese route—they arrive at 11:00, photograph the church, buy nothing, leave at 11:45. Visit mid-week and you’ll share the lane with one retired shepherd and his border collie.

September is the colour month: beech turns copper, oak goes rust, maples bleed scarlet. Light is softer, shadows longer, and the valley smells of fermenting chestnuts. The catch is the clock: sunset jumps forward by almost two minutes a day. Plan walks for dawn and keep a head-torch in your pocket; nightfall is non-negotiable.

January and February are for specialists. Daytime highs hover just above freezing, nights drop to minus eight, and the hamlet’s water pipes freeze more winters than not. Yet the clarity is astonishing—on a cold morning you can pick out individual cow sheds on the opposite slope three kilometres away. If you come now, bring spikes for your boots and a Thermos of something strong; the village bar closed in 2003.

How to get here without arguing with your sat-nav

From the UK, fly to Bilbao (BA from Heathrow, Vueling from Gatwick, easyJet from Bristol). Collect a hire car with winter tyres if travelling between November and March. Take the A68 south-east to Logroño, then the AP15 north to Tudela. Exit at 83, follow the NA134 to Aoiz, then the NA2400 into the mountains. The last 22 kilometres are narrow but paved; passing places every 200 metres prevent stand-offs with timber lorries. Total driving time from Bilbao: two and a half hours, longer if the lorries are moving felled pines.

Public transport is possible but joyless. ALSA runs one daily bus from Pamplona to Roncal; from there a pre-booked taxi costs €35 to Izalzu. Miss the connection and you’re spending the night in a valley town whose only hotel closes on Tuesdays.

The honest verdict

Izalzu will not change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no artisan gin distillery, no craft shops flogging reclaimed-wood clocks. What it does offer is a masterclass in doing very little very well: a lane to walk, a wood to smell, a church step to sit on while the sun slips behind the western ridge. Stay one night and you’ll leave rested; stay three and you may find yourself timing breakfast by the woodpecker’s drum instead of your phone. Either way, the village will still be there when you’re gone—thirty-eight neighbours, two dozen cows, and a silence that resets the heartbeat to mountain time.