Igorre (Yurre)

The Arratia valley narrows just before Igorre, and the road suddenly feels obliged to choose a side. Hedgerows of hydrangeas nudge the tarmac; cows watch from a metre away. You have left Bilbao’s ring-road twenty-five minutes ago, yet the city’s roar has been replaced by something quieter: a tractor idling, a river over stones, the clack of pelota from a fronton court behind the petrol station. This is not a hill-top time-warp nor a fishing-port fantasy; it is a working Basque town of 4,300 souls who still organise life around the fields they can see from the upstairs window.

A parish church, then the fields

San Andrés church squats at the traffic-light crossroads, stone the colour of weathered cardboard. Its bell tower houses a clock that lags two minutes behind the bus station, a discrepancy nobody hurries to fix. Inside, the nave smells of candle wax and floor polish; the priest has pinned next month’s funeral list beside a flyer for a local cycling race. Take the side exit and you are already on a farm track, mud peeling off in layers after last night’s drizzle. Within five minutes the town’s errands – chemist, baker, betting shop – shrink to a hum behind you, replaced by meadow grass that the council hasn’t mown because the farmer prefers to graze it.

The paths are signposted only if you already know the way. One track leads past half-timbered caseríos called Elexalde and Goikoerrota; their eaves sag like old sofas, but satellite dishes still peer over the balconies. Expect dogs that bark from the length of a chain, expect a smell of silage, expect to step aside for a white van delivering animal feed. You will not find souvenir stalls; you may find an honesty box selling lettuce.

Eating without the fanfare

Midday menus are served in four cafés that double as bars, betting shops and gossip exchanges. English is scarce, so order by pointing at the table next door: most plates arrive as meat-plus-chips, the meat being txuleta, a rib-eye the width of a paperback. A three-course lunch costs €13–15 and includes wine poured into short glass tumblers, Basque style. Cider houses open only in late winter when the new brew is ready; Igorre itself has none, but five kilometres up the valley Areatza offers tastings if you pre-book and don’t mind sharing a table with forty locals who sing in four-part harmony after the third round.

Two wheels, low gear

The council paints bicycles on the main road and calls it a green route; the gesture is optimistic. Traffic is light but trucks use the same lane, and gradients hit 8 % without warning. Mountain bikes make more sense: head south on the old railway line converted to gravel, then branch into pine woods where red-and-white waymarks promise an hour’s loop and deliver forty-five minutes of thigh-burn. Each July the Ziklo Kross Igorre race turns the sports pavilion into a mud bath; on that weekend Hotel Ongi-Etorri fills with skin-suited Belgians who hose their bikes in the car park and leave wet footprints across the reception tiles.

When the valley parties

Fiesta week lands in mid-August. Brass bands march at midnight, teenagers ride fairground waltzers imported on the back of three lorries, and the baker doubles his staff for five days. The town’s second cash machine runs out of twenty-euro notes; the first one ran out the previous evening. If you prefer your Basque country sedate, come instead for San Andrés at the end of November: a procession, a bagpipe duo, and roasted chestnuts sold from a pram. Winter fog can trap wood-smoke at knee height; bring a scarf and expect bus delays.

Getting here, getting out

Bilbao airport to Igorre is 22 km of dual carriageway until the final roundabout, after which satellite navigation loses nerve. Car hire works; otherwise take Bizkaibus A3247 from the terminal to Bilbao Termibus, then the hourly A3925 or A3927. Last departure is 21.40; miss it and a taxi costs €55. Trains reach suburban Etxebarri; a waiting bus covers the last 12 km in twenty-five minutes, but the connection is not guaranteed. Road cyclists sometimes pedal from the airport: allow ninety minutes and bring lights for the tunnel under the A-8.

Accommodation is limited to the aforementioned Ongi-Etorri, a purpose-built block behind the football pitch. Rooms cost €70–80 including breakfast, triple-glazing keeps out the early-morning bin lorry, and the owner prints out bus timetables without being asked. Budget travellers sometimes stay in Bilbao and treat Igorre as a day trip; the valley rewards the flexible ticket.

What the brochures leave out

Rain arrives without introduction at any season; yesterday’s dust turns into today’s glue. Pavements are narrow, prams share space with mobility scooters, and the single chemist closes at 14.00 on Saturday until Monday. There is no viewpoint platform, no artisanal cheese shop, no bronze statue for selfies. The pleasure is kinetic: walk twenty minutes, notice how the beech wood on the northern slope still holds last night’s moisture while the southern olives glow in sudden sun. Turn back when the church clock strikes – you will hear it across the fields – and reach the bar in time for coffee that costs €1.30 if you stand at the counter, €1.80 if you sit.

Igorre will not fill a week, yet it can salvage a morning after Bilbao’s museums have exhausted your feet. Arrive with shoes that tolerate mud, leave before the shops shut for siesta, and let the valley’s slow timetable nudge you back towards the road you came in on.