Astigarraga

The bus leaves San Sebastián’s glittering bay behind, climbs for eight minutes, and deposits you in a place where the air smells of apples and the loudest sound is cider hitting glass from a height of three feet. Astigarraga isn’t trying to impress anyone. The village centre is basically two streets and a stone church, yet more than 700,000 litres of natural cider are produced here every year, most of it consumed within walking distance of the town hall.

Apples, Not Anchovies

January to April is txotx season. In the hillside warehouses known as sagardotegiak, enormous barrels are tapped in turn; drinkers line up, hold their glasses at knee-level and catch the thin, amber stream. The ritual is free once you’ve paid for lunch, and the pour is bottomless. Expect a set menu of salt-cod omelette, charcoal-grilled rib-eye the size of a Sunday newspaper, Idiazabal cheese and walnuts. Vegetarians can ask for a pepper and egg scramble, but advance warning helps. A full meal runs €26–30 including cider; half-portions are available if you request media ración when you book. Yes, you must book. Even on a wet Tuesday in February the 200-seat dining rooms sell out.

Outside those months the village reverts to a slower rhythm. Petritegi and Zapiain keep their doors open year-round, serving the same menu without the theatre of live barrel opening. Summer visitors often prefer this: tables are easier to find, the cider is still ferociously dry, and you can actually hear your companions speak.

A Valley That Refuses to Rush

Astigarraga sits in the bowl of the Urumea river, four miles south-east of the coast. The valley floor is flat enough for lettuce fields and bicycle paths; the sides close in with oak and chestnut. A fifteen-minute walk from the church square brings you to gravel tracks that thread past allotments and 16th-century farmhouses whose stone balconies sag under geraniums. The greenway to Hernani is 3 km of easy going; extend it to Urnieta and you have a 12 km loop through beech woods and medieval pack-animal bridges. After rain the path turns slick as soap—trainers with tread are wise.

Uphill, the landscape stiffens into the foothills of Aiako Harria. Way-marked routes climb to 600 m, high enough to see the Bay of Biscay glinting on the horizon and to notice the temperature drop five degrees. In winter the summits occasionally see snow; the village itself stays green and damp, the sort of weather that makes locals claim four seasons can pass in a morning. A light rain jacket lives in every rucksack, July included.

Where the Everyday Outshines the Monumental

There is no postcard plaza. San Martín church (16th-century, retablo worth five minutes) stands next to a chemist and a bakery that smells of burnt sugar at seven in the morning. The most photogenic building, Palacio Murguía, is now offices; its baroque doorway is easily missed if you’re looking at your phone. The charm, if that’s the word, is watching daily life play out against a rural backdrop: delivery vans squeezing past elderly men carrying whole hake, teenagers practising txalaparta rhythms on wooden boards, the weekly market spilling three stalls of kale and honey across the pavement.

Tourist information runs 90-minute English-language walking tours at 11 am and noon, Tuesday to Sunday (€3, book online). The guide explains why cider here is still, not sparkling, and points out the stone kupelak—giant fermentation vats—built into basement walls. It’s the quickest way to understand why a village of 5,000 people supports six working cider houses and a museum devoted to apples.

Getting In, Getting Out, Getting Home

Transport is straightforward. The BU12 and BU13 buses leave San Sebastián’s Plaza Guipúzcoa every 30 minutes; the journey takes 12 minutes and costs €1.70. Last services back are at 21:30 on weeknights, 22:30 at weekends—fine for lunch-based itineraries, useless if you’re hoping to stay for dinner. A taxi ranks outside Petritegi; pre-book at weekends or expect a 45-minute wait. Drivers should leave the A-1 at the Hernani turn-off and aim for the industrial estate on Donostia ibilbidea—parking is free and it’s a flat five-minute stroll to the centre. Street spaces fill by 13:00 once cider season opens.

No trains stop here; the nearest station is Hernani, 3 km away, linked by a riverside path that takes 35 minutes on foot. Cyclists can pick up the bidegorri lane from San Sebastián’s Zurriola bridge and be in the village in 20 minutes, coasting uphill only at the very end.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Late January to April delivers the full cider-house circus: buses from Bilbao and Pamplona, queues at the bar, the smell of beef fat drifting across car parks. It’s fun, but the village absorbs crowds the way a sponge absorbs the Atlantic—slowly and with audible creaking. May and September give you warm days, green verges and tables without reservation drama. August is oddly quiet; many producers close so staff can holiday elsewhere. November brings mist that sits in the valley until lunchtime—atmospheric for photographers, miserable if you want mountain views.

Accommodation is limited. There are two small guesthouses and a rural hotel in an converted farmhouse on the road to Hernani. Most visitors base themselves in San Sebastián and day-trip; the bus timetable makes this painless unless you insist on dinner. If you do stay, expect church-bell wake-up calls and total silence after 22:00.

The Bottom Line

Astigarraga offers a half-day of Basque culture stripped of seaside gloss. Come for the cider ritual, stay for the river walk, and leave before you run out of things to look at—there are only so many apple trees you can admire. Bring an appetite, a waterproof layer and a designated driver if you’re sampling more than one barrel. The village won’t change your life, but it might change your idea of what Basque country tastes like when nobody’s watching.