Ea

A Bridge, a Beach and 800 People Who Refuse to Build a Promenade

The stone bridge arrives before anything else. Three perfect arches stride across the estuary, and from its crest you can read the whole plot in a single glance: white houses shoulder-to-shoulder, a pint-sized harbour, a crescent of sand that vanishes when the tide sulks, and green cliffs squeezing the valley shut. No traffic lights, no chain hotels, not even a roundabout. Ea is 800 residents, two parallel lanes and a conviction that one bakery is enough.

Most visitors stumble in while following the BI-3234 coastal road between Lekeitio and Bermeo. The village announces itself only with a sudden gap in the stone walls and a glimpse of water. Sat-navs sometimes blink “Ea?” as if checking the spelling; key in “Ea, Bizkaia” or you’ll be routed towards Pamplona.

Low Tide, High Calm

Ea’s beach is the size of a Wimbledon court, but it punches above its weight. At low water the sand forms a gentle lagoon, warmish and safe for small children who would otherwise be battered by Cantabrian waves. Come back three hours later and there’s nothing left except gulls standing where buckets and spades used to be. Check the tide table on the harbour noticeboard—printed on actual paper, laminated, refreshed weekly—if you want more than a paddle.

Behind the sand, fishing boats sit on their keels waiting for the next high. The harbour office is a green shed the size of a London coffee kiosk; inside, a retired sailor sells diesel by the jerry-can and collects weather gossip. This is still a working port: small trawlers leave at dusk for squid and return at dawn to offload into white plastic crates. You’ll smell the catch before you see it.

Uphill to Bedarona, Where the Views Repay the Calves

From the bridge, the lane tilts sharply right and climbs through a tunnel of hydrangeas towards the hamlet of Bedarona. The gradient is short but unapologetic—pushchairs and dodgy knees will notice. At the top the tarmac ends; keep walking another five minutes along a grassy track and you reach the Atalaya, a stone cross planted by 18th-century sailors. From here the coast unravels: cliffs punched with sea caves, the BI-3234 threading like grey cotton, and the Pyrenees floating on the horizon if the day is clear.

The return descent passes the village school, its playground doubling as the overflow car park. Parking is free; leave the car tidy or the headmistress will issue a polite ticking-off in perfect but stern English.

Lunch Without the Hard Sell

Ea contains two proper bars and one asador. That’s it. No souvenir emporia, no Irish pub, no gelato chain. The first bar, Itsas, opens at 08:00 for cortado and txistorra rolls; by 13:00 the counter is a mosaic of pintxos—txangurro (spider-crab) bound with mild aioli, tortilla de bacalao served warm, gildas of anchovy and guindilla that deliver a gentle slap of heat. A glass of local txakoli, poured from height to encourage its light fizz, costs €2.40. They still prefer cash; cards under a tenner produce a pained smile.

Round the corner, Asador Ea does the serious business: chuleton for two—a Basque rib-eye the size of a laptop—cooked over oak until the fat blisters and the middle stays violet. Sharing is expected; asking for individual portions marks you out as either very hungry or very foreign. Order pantxineta for pudding: almond cream wrapped in flaky pastry, sweet enough to cancel the salt of the steak.

When the Village Closes, It Really Closes

British travellers sometimes forget that Spanish rhythms apply even in micro-villages. Kitchens shut at 15:30 and reopen no earlier than 20:00. If you arrive at 16:30 expecting tea and cake, you’ll get a closed door and the sound of someone sweeping. Likewise, Sunday lunch is a family affair; most cooks serve only their relatives. Plan for an early menu del día (finish before 15:00) or wait until evening.

Walking It Off: Coastal Bits of the Camino

A yellow arrow on the harbour wall marks the Ruta del Cantábrico, a coastal variant of the Camino de Santiago. The path east towards Urdaibai follows a grassy terrace above blow-holes and rock ledges where cormorants dry their wings. After 40 minutes you reach a tiny shrine and a choice: carry on to Guernica-Lumo (another 3 h) or turn back for ice-cream at Itsas—flavour selection limited, but the coffee variety is honest.

In winter the trail turns bog-brown and the wind can knock you sideways; trainers suffice in dry months, but after rain the clay clings like gossip. The village tourism office (open weekday mornings, inside the town hall) will lend a walking stick if you ask nicely and leave a driving licence as deposit.

Seasons: When to Arrive and When to Retreat

Spring brings daffodils in the churchyard and enough daylight to walk after 18:00. Temperatures hover around 16 °C—cardigan weather, rarely picnic. Autumn is warmer than you’d expect; October can hit 22 °C and the sea stays swimmable for stubborn northerners. Both seasons offer the crucial ingredient Ea cannot manufacture: space. You’ll share the bridge with locals, not coach parties.

Summer, especially August weekends, swells the population five-fold. Cars queue on the BI-3234; what took an hour from Bilbao now takes two. The beach towel-to-sand ratio reaches Bournemouth levels, and the lone baker runs out of croissants before 10:00. If high-season is unavoidable, arrive early (before 09:30) or late (after 17:00) and treat Ea as a pause between longer stops in Lekeitio or Mundaka.

Winter is grey, wet and marvellous—if you enjoy watching Atlantic storms chase fishermen home. Many bars reduce hours, one guesthouse shuts entirely, and the footpaths turn to rivulets. Bring a waterproof and a paperback; conversation with the harbour master counts as the day’s entertainment.

The Honest Exit

Ea will not keep you busy for a week. It might not even fill a day. What it offers is a snapshot of coastal Basque life before the promenades, souvenir whistles and €15 sun-loungers arrive. Walk the bridge, eat spider-crab, swim if the tide allows, then leave while the village is still doing what it did yesterday and will do tomorrow—mending nets, pouring txakoli, pretending the twentieth century was an optional upgrade.