Alsasua

The 528-metre climb from Pamplona ends with a sharp left turn and suddenly there it is: Alsasua spread across the valley floor, its late-Gothic church tower competing for attention with the rust-red railway bridge. This isn't the Spain of Costas and citrus groves. At this altitude, the air carries a nip even in May, and the surrounding sierras of Aralar and Urbasa trap weather systems that can switch from bright sunshine to swirling mist within an hour.

What strikes first-time visitors is the noise. Not traffic – though the NA-240 truck route thunders through town – but the orchestral soundtrack of a place that actually works. Milk tankers reverse into the cooperative at dawn, the 07:13 to San Sebastián whistles past, and somewhere a Basque folk group is practising drum rolls for Saturday's parade. Alsasua has 7,500 inhabitants and behaves like it, which means shops that open when they say they will, bars where locals read newspapers rather than TripAdvisor reviews, and a Tuesday market that sells work boots alongside Idiazabal cheese.

The Station That Built a Town

Alsasua's boom years arrived with the railway in 1864. Engineers chose this natural corridor between mountain ranges as the place where the Madrid–Irún line could climb towards the Basque coast without tackling impossible gradients. The result is a station complex that architecture students now photograph for its textbook blend of stone, brick and ironwork. Walk past at dusk when the signal lamps flick on and you half expect steam engines to materialise.

The railway still matters. Regional trains stop here hourly, making Alsasua a realistic car-free base. From Bilbao airport it's 75 minutes by hire car, or take the BizkaiBus to Bilbao's Abando station and change onto the Renfe service – total journey time under three hours, with mountain views that beat any airport lounge. Train travellers arrive relaxed and already acclimatised to the altitude.

Walking Country Without the Crowds

Step behind the church, cross a footbridge over the Barranco de Alsasua, and within ten minutes you're among hay meadows where red-backed shrieks perch on wooden posts. This is the southern approach to the Aralar Natural Park, 10,000 hectares of limestone ridges where Spanish hikers come for weekend circuits but foreigners remain rare. Waymarking is excellent; the maps sold at the tourist office (€6, open weekday mornings only) show contour lines that tell the truth about thigh-burning ascents.

A straightforward half-day loop heads up to the Dolmen de Sorginzulo, a 3,000-year-old burial chamber that sits in a clearing of Pyrenean oaks. The path climbs 250 metres through beech woods where autumn arrives early – leaves turn amber by mid-October and by Bonfire Night the branches are bare. Return via the GR-121 long-distance footpath for views back across the valley: Alsasua's terracotta roofs look tiny against the wall of mountains.

Winter transforms the same landscape. When snow settles above 900 metres, the higher trails become proper expeditions. Locals strap on lightweight crampons and still make it to the ridge bars (yes, there are bars up there) for midday tortilla. Roads to Urbasa can close after heavy falls – check the Navarra traffic app before setting out – but the lower robledales (oak woods) of Sakana remain accessible year-round, their trunks black against hoarfrost.

Food Meant for Farmers

Basque cuisine gets the headlines, yet Alsasua's restaurants cater primarily to people who've spent the morning shifting hay bales. Portions are sized accordingly. At Bar Aterpe on Plaza Txoko, a single txuleta (charcoal-grilled rib-eye) weighs in at a kilo and arrives on a platter big enough for two. The meat comes from cattle that grazed these same valley pastures; the chips are cut thick and refilled without asking. Price for two, with wine from Navarra's Baja zona: €42.

Vegetarians survive, even thrive. The set menu at Casa Galar offers piquillo peppers stuffed with mushroom risotto, and most bars will assemble a talo – a cornflour crêpe – with melted chocolate for hikers needing sugar before the afternoon climb. Breakfast demands the local version of the Gilda pintxo: anchovy, olive and guindilla pepper skewered together, salty enough to make that second café con leche essential.

When the Band Strikes Up

Visit during the last week of August and you'll witness San Bartolomé, the patronal fiesta that turns the whole town into an open-air dancefloor. The programme looks bewildering – stone-lifting contests at midday, children's brass band at four, adults' brass band at nine, fireworks at midnight – but the rhythm is simple. Eat, listen, dance, repeat. Visitors renting the town's self-catering flats receive invitations to join neighbours for street-side suppers; refusal is taken as a personal insult.

Smaller celebrations punctuate the year. On 24 June, San Juan brings bonfires to the river meadows. Carnival in February means costume parades where the town band dresses as astronauts and nobody finds this remarkable. Even a birthday triggers protocol: the celebrant supplies wine and the musicians appear as if conjured. Light sleepers should request rooms at the northern edge of town – drums travel.

The Honest Verdict

Alsasua won't suit everyone. The historic centre covers four streets; you can walk it in fifteen minutes. The NA-240 roars through at commuter hour, and on grey winter afternoons the concrete apartment blocks feel Soviet rather than Spanish. Luxury hotels don't exist – accommodation tops out at three-star guesthouses where the Wi-Fi still remembers dial-up.

Yet for walkers wanting Pyrenean scenery without Pyrenean prices, for train enthusiasts who'd rather watch locomotives than drive to them, for anyone curious about how Spain functions when tour coaches aren't watching, this valley town delivers. Come with decent boots, bring cash for the market, and prepare to have your pintxo order remembered on your second morning. Just don't call it Al-sas-oo-ah. The correct pronunciation – Al-CHA-su, with that Basque 'ts' – is the first step towards being recognised as a temporary local rather than another lost pilgrim.