Bedia

The 07:14 Bizkaibus from Bilbao drops barely a dozen passengers at the roadside marker “Bedia-Colegiata”. By 07:20 the minibus has gone, the tarmac is quiet again, and the only movement is a farmer in rubber boots crossing the road to check on a calf. You have just arrived in the place that keeps Greater Bilbao fed with milk, cheese and weekend lungfuls of green.

A Village That Still Works for a Living

Bedia sits 18 km south-west of Bilbao at 140 m above sea level—low enough for Atlantic drizzle to roll in, high enough for the Nervión valley to squeeze the clouds until they leak. The result is pasture so lush it looks spray-painted, dotted with white caseríos (Basque farmhouses) and the occasional tractor whose top speed is a confident 25 km/h. Expect to queue behind one on the BI-636; overtaking is frowned upon and usually pointless.

The centre is the Colegiata de Santa María, a sandstone church that has loomed over the shallow valley since the thirteenth century. The building is still the village clock: when its bells strike noon, shop shutters rattle down for lunch. If the oak doors are open (mass at 11:00 Sunday, otherwise check the A4 sheet taped to the side gate), duck inside for five minutes of cool darkness and the faint smell of incense and cow manure that no amount of scrubbing removes from rural Basque footwear.

Around the church spreads a grid of exactly six streets, a chemist, two bars and a bakery that runs out of bollería by 10:30. There is no picturesque plaza mayor lined with geraniums; instead you get a functional concrete square where teenagers play five-a-side football against the church wall and grandparents shout corrections from the bench. It is everyday Spain, unpickled for tourists.

Walking Without a Waymark

Bedia’s official tourist office doesn’t exist, which saves everyone the bother of collecting opening hours. What you do get is a spider’s web of farm tracks that fan out into the valley. A lazy 5 km loop starts opposite the Colegiata: follow the paved lane sign-posted “Arietamendi”, fork right at the first cattle grid, and you’re on a grassy ridge looking back at the village roofs and the A-8 motorway threading toward the coast. The path is unsigned but obvious; if you reach a barn with a bright-red “Industria Cárnica” sign, you’ve gone 200 m too far. Allow 75 minutes, plus photo stops of ponies wearing fringes over their eyes like 1970s footballers.

After rain the clay sticks to boots like cold cheddar. Locals swear by rubber wellies; canvas trainers will be destroyed in 200 m. If the sky is gunmetal grey, switch to the tarmac lane that parallels the river Nervión toward Zeberio—no views from 800 m up, but you’ll stay upright and the café in Zeberio opens on Saturdays.

Eating (and Why You Shouldn’t Do It Here at Night)

Bedia’s two bars close their kitchens at 15:30 sharp. One offers tortilla the size of a wagon wheel, the other grilled chorizo that hisses on a ceramic plate. Both are perfectly adequate for recuperating after the ridge walk, yet neither will make anybody’s “top ten Basque gastronomy” list. The smarter play is to treat the village as a breakfast base and drive ten minutes north to Durango, where Friday’s covered market hands out free slivers of jamón ibérico and the pintxo bars understand vegetarians exist.

Evening dining is trickier. Last Bizkaibus back from Bilbao is 21:30; miss it and a taxi costs €35–40. Rural Basque restaurants close early (kitchens finish 22:00) and Bedia’s nightlife is, frankly, the sound of a dairy cooler kicking in. Book a table in Durango or Galdakao before you set out, or self-cater: the SPAR on the main road stocks local Idiazabal sheep’s cheese for €22/kg, cheaper than airport duty-free and legal to bring home to the UK.

Sleeping in Someone’s Childhood Bedroom

Accommodation totals one hotel and a handful of weekend rentals. Hotel Aristieta occupies a 1730 manor house two minutes below the church. Rooms are named after Basque poets, the Wi-Fi occasionally speaks Euskera, and the owner’s mother still bakes the yoghurt sponge that appears at breakfast beside the Idiazabal. Rates hover around €110 for a double, including parking and a coffee machine that doesn’t dribble. Light sleepers should ask for the courtyard side—morning tractors head out at 06:15 and their diesel beat is surprisingly percussive.

Apartments advertised as “Bedia” often turn out to be on the edge of Bilbao’s sprawl. Punch GPS co-ordinates into Google Street View before paying; if you see a motorway slip road, re-negotiate.

Using Bedia as a Chess Piece

The village makes a convenient pawn on a wider board. With a hire car (essential: none of the big agencies have desks in Bedia, so collect at Bilbao airport) you can reach:

• Guggenheim Bilbao in 25 min on the BI-636 and A-8; park under the museum for €24/day or gamble on free street spaces by the river after 14:00.
• Surf beach of Sopelana in 35 min; water temperature peaks at 21 °C in August, so bring the wetsuit you last used in Cornwall.
• Urdaibai biosphere reserve and the painted forest of Oma, 40 min eastward, where trunks are striped like seaside deckchairs.

Public transport exists but feels designed to deter enthusiasm. Bizkaibus line A-3223 trundles hourly to Bilbao; the last return trip is timed for farmers, not opera-goers. Trains from nearby Amurrio reach Bilbao in 35 min, but the station is 7 km up the valley and Sunday services shrink to every two hours.

When the Weather Changes Its Mind

Spring and early autumn deliver the green you see on postcards without the July humidity that turns car seats sticky. Morning mist burns off by 11:00, perfect for the ridge walk. Winter is damp rather than cold—snow falls once or twice and melts within hours—but low cloud can trap wood-smoke in the valley for days, lending the village the air of a forgotten power station. If the forecast shows four consecutive rain symbols, swap countryside for Bilbao’s indoor markets and save your shoes.

Summer weekends bring a different hazard: Bilbaños who fancy a rural barbecue. The riverbank turns into a car park of hatchbacks blasting reggaetón; by 17:00 the litter bins overflow and somebody’s inflatable kayak has wrapped itself round the footbridge. Arrive early, walk away from the river, and you’ll still have the lanes to yourself.

Parting Shots

Bedia will never elbow San Sebastián off a Basque itinerary. It offers no beach, no Michelin stars, no souvenir tea towels. What it does give is a snapshot of how the region functions when cruise ships aren’t watching: cows outnumber humans, the bakery knows every customer’s name, and the church bell still orders the day. Drop in for breakfast, stretch your legs along the ridge, then let the motorway whisk you somewhere noisier.