Mundaka (Mundaca)

The tide drops, and suddenly Mundaka makes sense. What looked like a quiet harbour reveals a sandbar shaped like a comma, funnelling Atlantic swells into a left-hand wave that surfers speak about in hushed tones. From the stone pier, you can watch the wave peel for 200 metres, a liquid racetrack that appears only when northwest swell, south wind and the right sandbank align. The rest of the time, the village returns to its default setting: fishing boats, pensioners on benches and the smell of grilled sardines drifting uphill.

Mundaka sits 35 km northeast of Bilbao at the mouth of the Oka estuary, inside the Urdaibai Biosphere Reserve. The town plan is simple: one rectangle of lanes pinned between the water and a limestone ridge. Houses are painted clay-red and maritime white, their balconies angled to catch winter sun. Above them, the 12th-century tower of Santa María serves as a compass; below, the harbour wall points towards the open sea like a question mark.

The Wave That Pays the Winter Bills

October through January deliver the best odds—strong lows spinning past Ireland push swell straight into the Bay of Biscay. When it works, the wave starts at the rivermouth, jacks up to double-overhead and spits riders out near the yacht club. Competition jerseys from Billabong and Rip Curl flutter from balconies; rental prices for attic rooms triple. Yet on a flat August afternoon the same guesthouses drop to €55 a night and the promenade fills with Spanish families licking xocolate-covered churros. Check the forecast obsessively before you book: British surfers have flown in expecting hollow perfection and spent four days photographing seagulls.

Localism is real. The first set belongs to whoever’s lived here longest, and that isn’t you. Paddle out with a smile, wait your turn, and don’t drop in on the grandfather in the faded wetsuit—he probably helped shape the sandbar with his own hands. If the line-up feels too tense, walk twenty minutes across the headland to Laida beach where gentle rollers suit beginners and body-boarders.

Up the Cobbles, Down the Estuary

Away from the surf circus, Mundaka rewards slow movement. Start at the harbour where elderly women still mend green netting with wooden needles. Follow the alley that doubles back beside the fish shop; within three minutes you’re on Calle Santa María, gradient one in four, calves objecting. Halfway up, Bar Goikoa’s counter groans with pintxos: gilda skewers of olive, pepper and anchovy; tortilla squares held together with cocktail sticks. Order a glass of txakolí, the local white that bartenders pour from head height to wake its gentle fizz, then carry on to the summit.

The ermita of Santa Catalina crowns the ridge. The door is usually unlocked; inside, the air smells of wax and salt. Step out onto the tiny terrace and the whole estuary unfurls—mudflats ribbed like a sand-garden, herons stalking the channels, the white triangle of a lone sail. Turn around and the coast stretches west to Bermeo’s container port, a reminder that even within a biosphere reserve, industry keeps watch.

Descend by any side street; they all spill onto the waterfront. At low water you can cross the stone slipway and walk the raised path towards Laida. Allow an hour for the return trip: oystercatchers pipe from the banks, and every bend tempts another photograph. Add wellies after rain; the path floods when the river remembers it’s still an estuary rather than a postcard.

Eating Without the San Sebastián Price Tag

Mundaka won’t win a Michelin star, but it understands fish. At Asador Erreka, turbot arrives upright on a miniature grill, its backbone charred, flesh pearly. A portion feeds two hungry surfers and costs €26. If that feels brave, order the merluza a la plancha—hake steak with garlic and parsley, safe as cod and chips. House wine comes in plain carafes; ask for “el tinto del pueblo” and you’ll get something from Rioja Alavesa that costs less than a London pint.

Lunch starts at 13:30, dinner no earlier than 20:30. Turn up at six expecting tapas and you’ll be offered coffee while staff sweep the floor. Sundays mean families, prams and a queue out the door—arrive before noon or after 15:00 if you dislike noise.

When the Atlantic Goes Flat

Blown-out or flat? Rent a bike from the hardware shop on the main road (€15 half-day) and follow the greenway to Gernika. The path skirts the estuary, then climbs through pine plantations to the painted oak tree where Basque parliaments once met. The journey takes 45 minutes each way, long enough to justify another slice of almond cake in Gernika’s market square. Alternatively, ride the hourly Euskotren to Bilbao for €2.75—thirty-five minutes later you’re wandering the Guggenheim’s titanium curves, grateful northern Spain has trains that actually run on time.

Back in Mundaka, evening entertainment is homemade. Buy cans of cider from the supermercado, sit on the breakwater and watch the sky bruise over the headland. On 23 June, San Juan Eve, teenagers drag pallets onto the beach and light a bonfire that rivals the lighthouse. Bring something flammable if you want to join in; the mayor supplies fireworks at midnight and no one checks ID.

Practicalities You’ll Thank Yourself For

Parking inside the old quarter is impossible; spaces are marked for tractors, not hatchbacks. Use the signed car park above the football pitch—five minutes downhill to the harbour, longer on the way back after txakolí. The ticket machine accepts cards but speaks only Spanish; press “todo el día” for twenty-four hours at €6.

Weather is Cantabrian, not Costa del Sol. Even August can start with sea mist and a 14 °C dawn; pack a windproof. Winter brings horizontal rain and 50 km/h northerlies—perfect for wave shape, brutal for spectators. A 4/3 wetsuit is mandatory from October to May; boots and gloves optional but recommended if you plan more than a quick paddle.

Accommodation ranges from surfer hostels with bunk beds and wax-scented carpets to Pension Itxas-Ede where lace dollies still cover the television. Mid-week in November you’ll pay €40 for a double with harbour view; the same room rockets past €180 when a swell alert coincides with school holidays. Book refundable rates unless you enjoy sleeping in the car.

Leaving on the Morning Tide

Mundaka’s charm lies in its refusal to entertain you. When the ocean sleeps, the village shrinks to four streets, two bakeries and a bar that closes at 22:00. You might finish the essential sights in ninety minutes, yet find yourself staying three days—waiting for tide, wind and sand to align, or simply enjoying how daylight moves across orange plaster. Come with modest expectations and a flexible ticket home. The Atlantic writes the schedule here; Mundaka merely holds the pen.