Soraluze/Placencia de las Armas

The first thing that strikes you is the noise of water, not traffic. The Deba river squeezes through a gorge so tight that the main road has to share its bed, and every lorry that passes seems to apologise for intruding. Soraluze—nobody locally uses the full mouthful Placencia de las Armas—sits 33 km south-east of Bilbao, trapped between limestone walls that rise 400 m on both sides. The valley feels like a workshop someone forgot to clear away: stone houses stacked on each other, balconies blackened by centuries of soot, and the constant hiss of the river driving small turbines that once fed furnaces.

This is not a chocolate-box village. It produced pistols for the Spanish Civil War, bayonets for the Army of Africa, and parts for the British Lee-Enfield during the Great War. When the Astra-Unceta factory finally locked its gates in 1998, 1,200 jobs vanished overnight. Yet the town never prettified itself for visitors. What you see is what still works: a compact grid of dark arcades, a 16th-century church tower that leans slightly from a 1755 earthquake, and bars where metallurgists in blue overalls drink short coffees at nine in the morning.

Walking the Gunsmiths’ Canyon

Start at the low bridge where the N-634 enters town. The river is only ankle-deep after summer, but the stone embankments are slathered with flood-level plaques—1933, 1959, 1983—reminding you that this gorge can fill in minutes. Turn upstream along the paved path; within five minutes the traffic thins and you’re level with old sluice gates, their iron teeth still greasy. A small turbine house, now a private lock-up, carries the faded stencil “Astra Unceta y Cía” in Basque and Spanish. There’s no plaque, no QR code, just the smell of wet graphite and the realisation that every stone has been paid for by metal shavings.

Retrace your steps and climb Calle Mayor. The gradient hits one in six; calves will notice. Half-way up, the portico of San Pedro Apóstol appears—thick walnut doors, Renaissance carving, bullet scar from 1936. The door is normally locked; ring the parish office (telephone taped to the noticeboard) and a volunteer appears within ten minutes. Inside, the nave is unexpectedly wide—gun-money paid for the extension in 1924—and the confessional boxes are numbered like factory lockers. Light a candle if you wish; the donation box accepts euro coins and, oddly, old peseta tokens.

From the church doorway you can read the town’s social history in rooflines. To the left, 18th-century manor houses with coat-of-arms balconies; to the right, 1960s council flats punched into bomb sites. Straight ahead, the ayuntamiento is pure Franco-era functionalism: grey marble, glass bricks, a flagpole that still flies the ikurrina at half-mast on 21 December for the 1983 flood victims. Sit on the steps at midday and you’ll hear the church bell compete with the hiss of a pneumatic wrench from the remaining machining cooperative round the corner.

Lunch Where the Welders Eat

British visitors often panic about Basque menus—too much fish, too much garlic, no idea what txipirones are. In Soraluze the choice is small, honest and cheap. Txurruka on Kalea Nagusia prints an English menu without being asked. The menú del día (weekdays €14) starts with potato and chorizo soup thick enough to stand a spoon in, followed by char-grilled txuleta—a rib-eye on the bone, salt-crusted, pink in the middle, sized for a forge worker. Order it para compartir unless you’re hiking the Aralarkoa ridge afterwards. Locals wash it down with house red poured from height into squat glasses; you can ask for water without anyone twitching.

If the day is raw, take a taxi five minutes up the valley to Sidrería Zelaia. The cider season runs January–April, but they open at weekends year-round for the set sidrería menu: cod omelette, T-bone, sheep’s-cheese and walnuts, unlimited cider from the barrel. Vegetarians get a plate of roasted piquillo peppers and no sympathy. Taxi back costs €12; book ahead on +34 943 88 00 74 because tour buses from San Sebastián reserve whole evenings.

A Ridge That Repays the Sweat

Soraluze is pinned so tightly to the river that the only way out is up. Behind the church a cobbled mule track—marked SL-Gi 3005—climbs 250 m in 1.4 km to the hamlet of Abaria. Allow 35 minutes and bring water; there is no bar until the top. The reward is a sudden shelf of pasture looking straight down the gorge: the town reduced to a single slate roof, the road a ribbon, the river audible only when the wind drops. Continue another hour and you reach the col of Urkullu, gateway to the Aralar range. On clear days you can see the steelworks of Bilbao glinting 40 km away, proof that this corner of Spain still lives by metal.

Winter changes the rules. The gorge never sees sun after 3 pm between November and February; overnight frost turns the stone alleys into an ice run. Snow falls infrequently but when it does the valley road is the first in Gipuzkoa to close—lorries jack-knife, the town empties of bread. Visit between April and mid-June instead, when daylight lingers and the slopes are speckled with wild peonies.

The Museum That Opens When It Feels Like It

Heritage hunters sometimes complain Soraluze “lacks interpretation”. The truth is Interpretation lives in a first-floor office above the old Astra factory, opens the first Saturday of the month from 10:30–13:30, and costs €3. Inside you’ll find one preserved milling machine, a wall of 1900s payroll ledgers, and a retired lathe operator who explains—in fast Basque Spanish—how to bore a 9 mm Parabellum chamber to within 0.01 mm. English leaflets exist but run out quickly; the loo doesn’t exist at all. Check the town website the Monday before you visit—if the retired guide has flu, the museum stays shut.

Getting There Without Tears

Bilbao airport (easyJet from London Gatwick, BA from Heathrow) is 45 minutes by car. Take the A-8 to Eibar, then follow the N-634 south; the turn-off is signposted “Soraluze” only—ignore any sat-nav insisting on “Placencia”. Trains reach Eibar hourly from Bilbao’s Abando station; onward buses to Soraluze leave at 25 past the hour, cash only, €2.15. If you’re rail-reliant, base yourself in Zumarraga eight km inland—three hotels, proper platforms, taxis on standby.

Parking in town is painless before 11 am; the riverside carpark beside the old mill holds 80 spaces and is free. After midday coaches from Vitoria drop off walking clubs and space evaporates. Avoid the temptation to “nip” up the old quarter—streets narrow to 2.1 m, wing mirrors are expensive.

When to Cut Your Losses

Soraluze will not fill a week, or even a full day if the weather closes in. Pair it with a morning here, lunch, then drive 20 minutes to the Arantzazu sanctuary, a concrete cliff-hanger by Basque modernist Saenz de Oiza. Alternatively, head north to Eibar’s gun museum (open daily, €6, English audio) to complete the arms-making story with proper lighting and toilets. Think of Soraluze as a 120-minute masterclass in how an industrial town keeps breathing after the machines stop. Arrive curious, leave before the valley shadow chills your bones, and the river will follow you home like the echo of hammer on steel.