Zuia (Zuya)

The church bells in Murgia ring every half hour through the night. Not just the polite Westminster chimes you might expect from an English village tower, but a full-throated bronze clang that carries across the valley and straight through single-glazed windows. Bring earplugs, or better yet, let them pull you awake at six-thirty to see Gorbeia's summit catching the first light while the hay meadows below are still silver with dew.

Zuia isn't one of those storybook Spanish villages that fold themselves around a medieval square. It's an administrative scatter of hamlets strung along the BI-623, a working valley where stone farmhouses sit next to prefab cow sheds and every other gateway has a tractor parked outside. The council boundaries stretch from the edge of Vitoria-Gasteiz up to the 1,481-metre crest of Gorbeia, so you're never more than ten minutes from a proper city yet somehow still deep in Basque mountain country.

Most visitors come for the mountain and stay in Murgia simply because it's the only place with a cash machine, a small supermarket and two bars that still serve coffee at seven in the morning. The PR-A 4 footpath waymarks start from the car park behind the chemist; follow them uphill through oak and beech and within forty minutes the valley floor spreads out like a green quilt stitched with stone walls. Keep climbing and you'll reach the Puerto de Barazar, where locals park to save themselves the first 300 metres of ascent, then the proper Gorbeia ridge where wind turbines thump slowly on the Vizcaya side and buzzards ride thermals above the cliffs.

Don't underestimate the summit walk. Guidebooks quote four hours return from Pagomakurre recreation area, but that's for fit Basques who've been climbing these slopes since childhood. British legs, especially ones softened by a week on the Costa Blanca, should allow five or six and carry proper waterproofs. Gorbeia makes its own weather: one June morning I watched a hen party from Bilbao set off in sunshine only to meet them two hours later staggering down through sleet, their white dresses splattered ochre where they'd slipped on the clay.

If a full ascent feels ambitious, the lower paths still deliver. From Pagomakurre a level 5-kilometre loop follows the old charcoal burners' track through beech woods so dense that mobile signal dies within metres of the car park. In early May the forest floor is a carpet of bluebells and wild garlic that would make a Surrey National Trust property jealous, except here there's no gift shop waiting at the exit. You might meet one retired couple from Vitoria walking their spaniel; otherwise the soundtrack is woodpeckers and the soft clank of cowbells drifting up from pastures you can't see.

Back in the valley the hamlets reveal themselves slowly. Sarria has a seventeenth-century manor house whose balconies sag like tired eyelids; Domaikia's church tower leans two degrees off vertical, not enough to rival Pisa but sufficient to make photographers tilt their heads. These aren't showpiece villages kept pristine for tourists. Laundry hangs from upper windows, elderly men in berets lean on walking sticks outside the only bar, and if you want to see inside the church you'll need to ask at the house opposite for the key. English isn't widely spoken – one barman summed it up by sliding a pen and paper across the counter – yet transactions still conclude with a courteous "eskerrik asko" and a nod that somehow feels more genuine than the multilingual greetings of San Sebastián's old town.

Food is mountain fuel rather than delicate Michelin artistry. Asador Arrikitz in Murgia serves chuletón – a rib-eye steak that arrives sizzling on a ceramic tile, easily a kilo for two people, cooked rare unless you specify otherwise. Chips come in a separate bowl because they'd wilt under the meat's heat. Locals wash it down with young red wine poured from height into wide glasses; British visitors usually opt for cider, poured likewise but caught expertly by waitresses who never seem to spill a drop. If you've had your fill of beef, Bar Zela in neighbouring Gopegui does a grilled chicken salad that tastes of actual chicken rather than chilled supermarket breast. Sunday lunch finishes by four o'clock sharp; after that the chef hangs up his apron and the village shutters close until Monday.

Staying overnight makes sense if you're driving the Santander-Burgos-Madrid route. Zuia Suites occupies a converted farmhouse opposite Murgia's primary school; rooms have underfloor heating and rainfall showers, though walls are thin enough to hear your neighbour's phone vibrate. A twin room costs around €85 including breakfast of crusty bread, thick hot chocolate and the strongest coffee this side of the Pyrenees. Cheaper pensións exist in the upper valley but you'll need GCSE Spanish to book them by phone and dinner won't be included. Either way, fill up with petrol on Saturday evening – the nearest 24-hour station is back on the A-1 motorway, twenty-five kilometres away.

Weather changes faster than a Basque political debate. Even in July cloud can drop to valley level by lunchtime, turning what began as a sunny ridge walk into a navigation exercise through damp beech trunks that all look identical. Snow patches linger above 1,200 metres until May; in winter the Gorbeia road closes at the first serious fall and doesn't reopen until a snowplough fights its way up from Vitoria. Spring and autumn deliver the best compromise – green pastures, frosty mornings that burn off by ten, and beech woods shifting from lime to copper almost week by week.

The honest truth? Zuia won't suit everyone. If your idea of rural Spain involves cobbled lanes lined with souvenir shops and a different tapas bar every ten metres, you'll be scratching your head by lunchtime. But for walkers who like their mountains quiet yet accessible, or drivers seeking a genuine overnight break between ferry and capital, this valley delivers. Come with boots, a phrasebook and realistic expectations. The church bells will keep their own time; the mountains will still be there tomorrow.