Urizaharra (Peñacerrada)

A brass band rehearses in the open-sided fronton at 11 on a Tuesday morning. The tuba player keeps time with his foot on the sandy floor while two elderly women edge past, carrier bags of bread thumping against the green wooden boards. No-one looks up. The scene is so ordinary here it feels almost staged, yet this is simply Urizaharra getting on with its day.

The village hunches on a ridge 700 m above sea level in the Montaña Alavesa, the north-eastern corner of Álava province. From the church tower you can see the limestone wall of the Sierra de Toloño turning blue in the distance, then a patchwork of small meadows stitched together with dry-stone walls. The Atlantic is only an hour away by car, but the air smells of damp earth and wood smoke, not salt.

Walking the grid

Urizaharra’s layout still obeys the 13th-century charter that granted it town status. Four parallel streets run east–west, linked by short alleys so narrow you can touch both walls. The granite is the colour of weathered pewter; when it rains the whole village darkens to gun-metal and the stone heraldic shields above doorways stand out like bleached bones. Look up and you’ll spot the carving of a whale on Calle Mayor – no-one is quite sure why – and a pair of 17th-century pilasters shaped like twisted rope. The tourist office doesn’t hand out maps; the custodian simply says, “Da una vuelta y ya está” – one circuit and you’re done. She’s right, but the trick is to walk it twice: the second time you notice the iron door-knockers shaped like hands and the gutter spouts carved with dragons’ heads.

The only traffic jam occurs at 13:55 when half a dozen locals try to park their 4×4 pick-ups outside the solitary grocery before the lunch shutdown. Engines idle, windows wind down, gossip is exchanged. By 14:05 the street is silent except for the clang of metal shutters. Between two and five the village belongs to dogs and visitors with sensible footwear.

Food at altitude

Altitude sharpens hunger. The single restaurant, Casa Rufo, opens at 20:30 sharp and will still serve you a plate of chorizo-spiked potatoes at 15:00 if you knock loudly enough, though the owner will mutter about “horas raras”. The fixed-price menú del día is €14 and runs to patatas a la riojana (expect whole chunks of chorizo, not cubes), followed by a hunk of chuletón that hangs over the plate like a small canoe. Vegetarians get a green pepper stuffed with mushroom risotto and an apology. Wine is poured from a plastic jug labelled “Rioja joven” and tastes better than it has any right to; ask for “clarete” if you want the local halfway house between red and rosé.

If you only need a snack, the bar in Plaza de los Fueros will griddle a tomato-rubbed tostada for €1.80 even though it’s not on the blackboard. Order a cortado and you’ll be given a biscuit on the saucer without asking – a dwindling Spanish courtesy that still holds here.

The church that isn’t on the hill

Iglesia de San Andrés stands in the geometric centre, not on the highest point as village churches usually do. The reason becomes clear when you climb the pasture behind the fronton: Urizaharra was built as a fortified square, and the church anchored the defence. From the top you look down on the original street pattern, still as neat as a chessboard, while the modern council houses sprawl untidily to the south like overspill from a Monopoly board. The bell tower houses a pair of 18th-century bells that still ring the quarters; they’re tuned a minor third apart, which gives the village its slightly mournful soundtrack.

Inside, the nave is plain stone lit by thin Romanesque windows. The only splash of colour is a 16th-century Flemish triptych of the Crucifixion, brought here by a merchant who traded wool for cloth in Bruges. The custodian will unlock the side chapel if you ask – “¿Se puede ver el retablo?” works – but she keeps the key on a giant wrought-iron ring like a medieval jailer.

Paths that don’t go anywhere dramatic

Urizaharra is criss-crossed by farm tracks rather than way-marked trails. That suits the British habit of “just having a wander”. Head north past the last house and the lane becomes a mud path between holm-oak hedges. After twenty minutes you reach a stone shepherd’s hut with a tin roof; someone has chalked “Katrín was here 1998” on the door. The track forks: left drops to the River Ea, right climbs to an abandoned kiln where lime was burnt for mortar. Neither route is spectacular, yet the combination of meadow saffron in April and the smell of wild thyme is enough to slow your pace to Spanish time.

Cyclists use the minor road to Lapuebla de Arganzón: 12 km of gentle downhill past walnut groves and the occasional contented donkey. The return journey is uphill all the way, and the wind that funnelled you down now pushes against you like a drunk companion. Take water – there’s no fountain until the village square.

When things go wrong

Urizaharra’s altitude means weather changes faster than a London bus timetable. A May morning can begin in bright sunshine and finish with hailstones bouncing off the stone roofs. The village sits just high enough for snow in winter; the road from Vitoria is salted but not gritted, and the final 4 km can be sheet ice. If the forecast mentions “nevada débil”, believe it. British-registered cars have been known to slide gracefully into the stone wall opposite the fronton – locals find this vastly entertaining.

Mobile signal is patchy. EE users get two bars in the square; Vodafone and O2 fade to “SOS only” halfway down Calle San Juan. Download an offline map before you arrive; the village is small enough to get lost only once, but it’s embarrassing to be rescued by a ten-year-old on a scooter.

The practical bit, woven in

Urizaharra lies 38 km south-east of Bilbao airport – a 35-minute dash up the A-68 then 12 minutes on the A-4027. Car is easiest; the weekday Alsa bus from Vitoria arrives at 11:00 and leaves at 18:00, which gives you exactly seven hours – enough for three circuits, two coffees and lunch, but miss it and a taxi is €70. There is a free motor-home aire with eight hard standings, water and waste disposal, though it slopes and you’ll need levelling blocks. Petrol and cash should be handled in Laguardia 18 km away; the village ATM swallows cards for sport and the nearest alternative is Salinillas de Buradón, 9 km back towards the motorway.

Spring and early autumn deliver the best compromise of light and temperature. In July the interior heat is drier than the coast, but afternoons can still hit 34 °C; fortunately the stone houses stay cool. Winter is for hardy types – the bars keep their wood-burners stoked but the wind whistles straight up from the Bay of Biscay and over these hills.

Exit music

By 21:30 the restaurant terrace is full of families sharing plates of txipirones (baby squid) and arguing about Alavesa’s chances in the Copa. The band has long since packed up, but someone has switched on a radio in the kitchen; a faint strand of Basque folk drifts out, mixing with the clink of glasses and the scrape of chairs on stone. Urizaharra doesn’t ask you to fall in love – it simply lets you overhear a life that was ticking along long before you arrived and will continue after you leave. Drive away slowly; the village dogs will chase your tyres to the last house, then turn back, satisfied that normal service has resumed.