Nabarniz (Navárniz)

The church bell strikes noon and a tractor answers back. From the stone bench outside San Esteban you can look south across a patchwork of hedged meadows that drops away to the Mundaka estuary, eleven kilometres distant, and north to beech woods climbing toward the ridge that keeps the Bay of Biscay at bay. Nabarniz sits on its crest at 245 m, population 262, no traffic lights, no cash machine, one bar and one restaurant that both shut when they feel like it. The guidebooks call this area Urdaibai; locals call it home.

Driving uphill into the quiet

Leave the A-8 at Gernika, follow the BI-3242 for nine minutes and the tarmac narrows to a single lane with passing bays. Stone barns replace apartment blocks, every gate has a Basque name hand-painted on it, and the road keeps climbing until the hedgerows level out and the sea appears as a thin silver line. Park on the gravel triangle by the church—there is no other public car park—and you have arrived. Mobile reception drops to one bar; Google Maps shows a blank green square. That is the idea.

The village is not a village in the British sense of a high street and a pond. It is a scatter of farmsteads—Goikoerrota, Larrabetxu, Amondo—linked by concrete tracks that double as cow lanes. Cattle graze right up to the doorsteps, and every house has a lean-to shelter stacked with maize stalks for winter feed. Walking is simply a matter of picking a track and seeing how far your shoes can tolerate the mud. After rain—which is roughly one day in three—the red clay clings like axle grease; stick to the grassy crown in the middle and you will stay upright.

What you actually look at

Start with the church. San Esteban is 16th-century, whitewashed, with a wooden gallery where the choir used to sit and a clock that loses three minutes a week. The door is usually open; inside, the air smells of candle wax and damp stone. There are no guides, no donation box, just a printed notice asking visitors not to ring the bell “because the rope is old.” Five minutes is enough, but pause on the porch: the view south frames the Oka estuary and, on a clear evening, the peaks of Gorbea and Oiz turn mauve while the sun drops into the Atlantic.

From the church lane walk east past the fronton (the Basque pelota wall) and take the signed track toward Itxina. Within five minutes tarmac gives way to gravel, then to grass. You are now on the old drove road that once took pigs down to winter pastures. Keep going for twenty minutes and you reach a crest marked only by a wooden post; from here the land falls away in folds of green toward the coast, and buzzards ride the thermals above your head. Turn round when you feel like it—there is no café at the far end.

If you prefer a circuit, head west instead, down the lane signposted “Larrabetxu 1,2 km.” The tarmac snakes between beech trunks and stone walls patched with moss. After the last farmhouse the surface stops; continue on the footpath that drops into a small valley where a stream runs over slate. Cross the plank bridge, climb back toward the church and you have walked 3 km, ascent 90 m, time 45 min—shorter than finding a space in a seaside car park on an August Saturday.

Eating without embarrassment

Food is served in two places only. Jatetxe Nabarniz, the white building opposite the church, opens for lunch Thursday-Sunday and for dinner on Friday and Saturday. Ring 946 174 023 before noon the day before; if nobody answers, assume they are full. The menu is short: txuleton for two (a 1.2 kg rib-eye, €56), plate of Idiazabal cheese with quince jelly (€9), house red from Rioja Alavesa (€14). Vegetarians get a roast piquillo-pepper stuffed with goat’s cheese; vegans should bring a packed lunch. Payment is cash only—euros, not pounds.

The second option is Bar Nabarniz, tucked behind the fronton. It unlocks at 09:00 for coffee and tortilla, reopens at 18:00 for cider and crisps, and closes whenever the owner’s granddaughter needs collecting from school. A plate of Gernika peppers costs €5; the cider is poured from shoulder height into small glasses, fizzing and sour, less alcoholic than British scrumpy. There is no written menu; point and smile. Both establishments shut on Monday and Tuesday—plan accordingly.

When to bother coming

April-May and September-October give the best odds of sunshine without crowds. In July the meadows turn gold and the air smells of dried fennel, but daytime temperatures can hit 32 °C and there is no sea breeze at this altitude. Winter is wild: gales rake the ridge, fog pools in the valleys, and the BI-3242 sometimes ices over. Chains are not compulsory but hire companies in Bilbao will charge €40 if you ask for them. Whatever the season, carry a light waterproof—Urdaibai’s weather can flip from blue sky to horizontal drizzle in twenty minutes.

How to avoid looking foolish

Do not expect postcard Spain: no flamenco, no tapas trail, no white-washed alleys. Houses are of grey sandstone and dark timber, roofs of red pantiles weighed down with stones against the Atlantic gales. Speak slowly in Spanish (or download a Basque phrase app—locals appreciate an attempt at “kaixo” for hello). Park tight against the hedge so tractors can pass; if you block a gate you will meet someone within minutes who will not be shy about telling you. Wear walking shoes, not flip-flops; cow pats are fresh and plentiful. Finally, bring cash and a full tank—there is no petrol station for 17 km and card machines are regarded with suspicion.

The honest verdict

Nabarniz is not a destination to tick off; it is a pause between other places. Combine it with a morning on Laga beach (20 min drive, surf hire €20) or an afternoon in Gernika’s Monday market for cheap tea-towels and leather sandals. Arrive expecting silence, space and the smell of cut grass and you will leave content. Arrive hunting Instagram moments or craft-beer menus and you will leave hungry. The tractor bell at noon is the only soundtrack you will get—book your own applause.