Lantz

The stone houses appear suddenly after a final hairpin bend, their terracotta roofs catching morning light at 629 metres above sea level. Lantz isn't hiding—it's simply minding its own business, a working village where tractors rumble past medieval doorways and washing flaps between timber balconies. One hundred and fifty-one residents, zero traffic lights, and a approach to tourism that amounts to "you're welcome to look around, just don't expect us to put on a show."

The Village That Forgot to Sell Itself

British visitors arriving from Pamplona—45 kilometres of winding road through beech forests—often circle the main square twice looking for the centre. There isn't one, not in the conventional sense. The church of San Pedro apologetically occupies one side of the plaza, its Romanesque doorway weathered to the colour of old pennies. Opposite, Bar Iriarte opens when the owner's grandson feels like it. The menu's written on a chalkboard that hasn't changed since 2019: chuletón for two (£32), pimientos de Padrón (£6), cider poured from height if you ask nicely.

This is Navarra's anti-theme-park. No gift shops flogging fridge magnets, no multilingual audio guides, no overpriced cafés with English menus. The village's single cash machine vanished during the pandemic; locals drive to Elizondo for money. Mobile signal drops to 3G inside stone walls thicker than a London terrace house. It's refreshing, until you need to check train times or transfer money. Then it's merely inconvenient.

The houses themselves tell quieter stories. Granite blocks hauled from nearby quarries, timber balconies that sag under geraniums, roofs angled to shed winter snow. Each dwelling stands shoulder-to-shoulder with its neighbour, creating narrow alleys where shadows pool even at midday. Look closely and you'll spot modern touches—satellite dishes tucked behind chimneys, electric car chargers disguised in old stables. The village isn't frozen in time; it's simply refusing to bend to tourist expectations.

Walking Into Another Century

Proper mountains start where the tarmac ends. Paths radiate from Lantz like spokes on a wheel, each promising different versions of solitude. The easiest route follows the river Ultzama for three kilometres through hay meadows where horses regard walkers with mild interest. Serious hikers head south-east, climbing 400 metres through beech forest to the medieval shepherd's hut at Urbia. The track's rough—loose stones, muddy patches where cattle have churned the ground—but the payoff arrives suddenly: a clearing revealing the entire Baztán valley spread below like a green counterpane.

Spring brings wild asparagus pushing through hedgerows; autumn paints the oak slopes copper and gold. Summer walkers should start early—the valley traps heat, and by 11 am the sun beats down mercilessly on exposed ridges. Winter transforms everything. Snow arrives as early as October, cutting the village off for days when passes ice over. The same tracks become cross-country ski routes; locals swap wellies for skis to reach neighbouring farms.

Animal encounters require patience and luck. Roe deer pick their way through dawn mist; wild boar root for acorns in autumn. More reliable are the semi-wild pottoka horses, small and shaggy as Shetland ponies, who wander the higher pastures. They'll approach for apples but maintain a dignified distance—these aren't Disney creatures, they're working animals earning their keep grazing firebreaks.

The Food Question

Self-catering isn't optional here, it's survival strategy. The village shop closed in 2008; the nearest supermarket sits ten kilometres away in Araiz. Smart visitors stock up in Pamplona's massive Carrefour before tackling the mountain road. Accommodation runs to three rental houses and two rooms above the bar—book months ahead for August, when Spanish families flee coastal heat for mountain air.

When Iriarte does open, the food's surprisingly sophisticated. The owner's daughter trained in San Sebastián; her tortilla de patatas arrives still-wobbly in the centre, accompanied by industrial quantities of alioli. Weekend specials might include cocido navarro—hearty chickpea stew that could fuel a Basque farmer through winter—or txangurro, spider crab baked in its shell, worth every penny of the €18 price tag. Vegetarians survive on pimientos de Padrón and the world's largest tomato salads, though nobody's pretending this is a culinary destination.

Picnic lunches require planning. Buy Idiazabal cheese in Elizondo—sheep's milk, gently smoked, costs €18 per kilo from the producer. Add crusty bread, local chorizo (spicy rather than paprika-heavy), and a bottle of Navarran rosado. Find a flat rock overlooking the valley; lunch tastes better when you've carried it uphill for an hour.

Getting There, Getting Out

Brits face two realistic routes. Fly to Bilbao, collect a hire car, and drive 90 minutes through increasingly empty countryside. Alternative: Pamplona airport via Madrid, then 45 minutes of properly bendy mountain roads. Public transport exists in theory—two Alsa coaches stop at the village edge on school days—but timetables read like abstract poetry. Car hire isn't optional unless you fancy hitch-hiking back from Elizondo with your groceries.

Winter access catches people out. The N-121-A stays open—just—but snow chains become essential from November onwards. Spring brings different hazards: melting snow turns tracks into rivers, and the famous green hills become mud-brown bogs. Summer's your best bet for predictable weather, though valley temperatures hit 35°C. October delivers that Instagram-perfect golden light, until fog rolls in and visibility drops to ten metres.

The Honest Truth

Lantz rewards realistic expectations. Come for silence broken only by church bells and cowbells. Come for walks where you won't meet another soul for hours. Come for villages where life continues regardless of visitor numbers, where old men still play cards in the bar at 11 am, where children roam freely because everyone knows their grandparents.

Don't come for nightlife, shopping, or Michelin stars. Don't expect signposts in English, or staff fawning for tips. The village offers something increasingly rare: a place that simply is, without apology or embellishment. You'll leave with muddy boots, lungs full of mountain air, and the unsettling realisation that some parts of Europe still function perfectly well without tourism.

Three days max, unless you're seriously into hiking or sheep farming. Book accommodation before you arrive, bring cash, pack waterproofs even in July. Then surrender to the rhythm of a place where siesta lasts until 4 pm, dinner starts at 10 pm, and nobody's in a hurry because there's nowhere particular to be.