Andoain

The 08:03 Euskotren from San Sebastián dumps you beside an iron footbridge and a brick chimney that still says “FIBRAS ARTIFICIALES” in faded white paint. No one meets travellers with maps; instead, schoolchildren in hi-vis sashes stream past, chatting in Euskera. You have arrived in Andoain, a town that measures time by river levels rather than tour buses.

Ten kilometres inland, the valley narrows and the air smells of damp poplar instead of Atlantic salt. Morning mist clings to the slopes until the sun edges over Aizkorri, and by then the baker on Kale Nagusia has already sold out of bollería. This is commuter country—half of the 5,000 residents catch the same rattling train you just left—but the pace drops a gear the moment you step off the platform.

A town built for work, not for selfies

Andoain refuses to play the postcard game. The centre is a hotchpotch of 1950s apartment blocks wedged between older stone houses; balconies display football flags rather than geraniums. The parish church of San Martín looks more like a solid civic hall than a baroque confection, and that is precisely the point. Stand on the plaza at 11 a.m. and you will see life without a filter: pensioners debating bus timetables, teenagers skateboarding past the post office, a delivery van blocking half the road while the driver chats to the butcher.

Look closer and the bricks start talking. The tall mill windows along the Oria have been converted into flats, but the hoist beams remain. One warehouse now houses a climbing wall; another is a co-working space where former loom operators’ grandchildren code apps. Information panels are scarce, yet the architecture spells out the twentieth-century story: hydropower, rayon, strikes, reconversion. If industrial heritage leaves you cold, move on—Andoain will not apologise.

Riverside logic

The Oria is not scenic in the chocolate-box sense. Its water runs the colour of strong tea after rain, and shopping trolleys lurk in the deeper pools. Still, the river built the town, and a 25-minute circuit of its embankments explains more than any museum. Start at the old railway bridge, walk downstream past the allotments where grandfathers grow lettuce between rusting cranes, and finish at the weir where kayakers practise rolls on Thursday evenings. Benches carry small brass plaques: “For Dad, who fished here 1953-1998.”

Need a longer stride? The Leizaran rail-trail begins behind the station and heads 9 km upstream to Berastegui on a dead-flat gravel bed. Cyclists share the tunnelled route with joggers pushing three-wheel buggies; the only gradient is the gentle rise in heart rate when a family of ducks refuses to vacate the track. Halfway hut Errekalde has a stone barbecue and a cold-water tap—fill your bottle, because the next café is another 4 km on.

Lunch without the show

Guidebooks ignore the dining scene for a reason: there isn’t one aimed at visitors. What exists is cheaper, louder and better. Txalaka on c/ Mayor grills txuleta over vine shoots until the fat blisters; order by weight and they will ask how much you actually want, not how many Instagrams. A plate of rare beef, salad and a caña sets you back €14. If the queue snakes out the door—Saturday lunchtime—cross the square to Bar Torres, where the tortilla is still runny in the middle and the owner keeps a dictionary under the counter to translate cider names into English. Vegetarians survive on giant piquillo-pepper sandwiches at Casa de Cultura’s café; vegans should plan ahead.

When the valley turns vertical

Behind the last bus shelter the ground rears up. A lattice of footpaths climbs through holm oak to the ridge at Belkoain, gaining 400 m in 50 minutes. The reward is a view back down the Oria corridor: San Sebastián’s bay glinting like polished steel, while cumulus rolls in off the Cantabrian Sea ready to drench the valley by teatime. Spring brings wild garlic and shy purple orchids; November turns the slopes into a rust-coloured sponge that squelches underfoot. Leave the trainers at home—paths are cobbled with loose shale washed down by autumn storms.

Winter matters here. At 60 m above sea level the town escapes snow more often than not, but the surrounding passes do not. A cold front can leave Andoain basking in 10 °C sunshine while the AP-8 is closed at the tunnel 15 km away. Check traffic alerts before you book a Tuesday-morning flight out of Bilbao.

Practical clutter you will thank us for later

Euskotren runs every 15 minutes to San Sebastián until 22:30; the ride is 13 minutes and a Barik card knocks the fare down to €1.65. Do not wait on the platform without a ticket—inspectors board randomly and fines start at €35. If you are hauling bikes, use the rear carriage; doors there are wider and the guard expects you.

Parking is the hidden surcharge. The free gravel strip by the football pitch fills early with commuter hatchbacks; after 09:00 you will circle past the cemetery and probably still end up paying €1 an hour under the covered market. Market day is Saturday: eight fruit stalls, one rotisserie van, zero fridge magnets. Withdraw cash first—ATMs charge €2 for foreign cards and the chicken man is strictly coins-only.

Rain arrives horizontally once the valley wind funnels upstream. A £3 poncho from the Chinese bazaar opposite the station lasts exactly one downpour, which is usually enough. The Eroski supermarket shutters at 13:30 on Saturday and stays shut on Sunday; stock up on emergency wine before the weekend starts.

An honest goodbye

Stay in Andoain if you need a cheap bed for San Sebastián explorations, fancy traffic-free cycling, or want to overhear Basque grandmothers comparing umbrella sizes. Do not come seeking medieval arcades or sea views—the river offers neither. Leave after coffee, cycle the rail-trail, catch the 15:03 train to the coast and you will have seen the town at its best: useful, unpretentious and quietly confident that work matters more than likes.