Ermua

The first thing you notice about Ermua is the noise of the A-8 motorway. It hums above the rooftops like a distant Hoover, reminding you that this is a place people pass through, not pause for. Yet 15,000 locals live here, shop here, argue here, and—on Friday nights—fill the bars on Calle Mayor until the small hours. If you want postcard Spain, keep driving. If you want somewhere that works, park up.

Ermua sits in the narrow valley of the river Ego, 25 minutes inland from the industrial ports of Bilbao and 35 from the smarter boutiques of San Sebastián. It grew around iron and paper mills rather than around a plaza mayor, and the architecture shows it: low-rise apartment blocks in biscuit-coloured concrete, orange-brick churches and the occasional glass-fronted bank that looks startled to find itself here. The old quarter—if you can call it that—lasts exactly one street. Blink and you’re back among estate agents and bakeries.

What the town does offer is momentum. Step off the Euskotren at 10 a.m. and you’ll share the platform with teenagers in lime-green uniforms dashing to school, nurses in Crocs heading for the regional hospital, and one or two bewildered tourists who misread the timetable and thought they were already in Bilbao. Everyone walks fast; no one offers directions unprompted. Ask, though, and the reply is friendly enough, delivered in a Spanish-Basque hybrid that works perfectly once you stop expecting subtitles.

A park, a church, and a pintxo that thinks it’s a burger

Start in the pedestrian core. The centre is a grid of tidy streets closed to traffic, lined with identical granite benches occupied by identical elderly men reading El Correo. Their dogs—mostly shaggy mongrels called Txiki or Kilo—sprawl across the pavement like draught excluders. The only building that rises above three storeys is the red-and-cream church of San Pedro, whose 1950s bell tower serves as the local compass. Close your eyes, spin round, open them again: the tower will tell you where you are.

Two minutes north, Parque de Osintxu provides the nearest thing Ermua has to a tourist attraction. It’s neither large nor historic—just grass, plane trees and a children’s playground that squeaks on weekday afternoons—but it is where parents compare exam results and teenagers practise skateboard tricks they’ve lifted from YouTube. Sit on a bench long enough and someone will offer you a swig from their porrón of txakoli. Refusing is rude; accepting means you’ll be introduced to half the town within ten minutes.

Food comes in two speeds. The fast version is poteo: hop between bars, order a caña and whatever pintxo looks least alarming, pay €2.50, move on. Locals recommend Kiska, a narrow slip of a place where the chef spent a stage in Soho and came back convinced that foie gras belongs in a brioche bun. The result—sticky, salty, gone in two bites—suits British palates more than the traditional gloop of bacalao al pil-pil. If you need something plain, most bars will griddle a chicken breast or tortilla without rolling their eyes; ask for “sin sal, por favor” and they’ll oblige, muttering only mildly.

The slow version is lunch in the Hotel Villa de Ermua on the edge of town. Breakfast here has achieved minor fame on English travel forums for “actual bacon instead of mysterious white ham.” The dinner menu is safely Basque—merluza hake with clams, chuletón beef for two the size of a steering wheel—served by waiters who switch to careful English when they spot you struggling with the fish glossary. Mains hover around €18; the set lunch is €13 if you’re content to eat at 15:00 like the locals.

When the valley walls close in

Ermua’s back garden is the limestone wall of the Urkiola range. The summits look close enough to touch, but the road twists so viciously that even the taxi drivers sigh. In summer you can walk straight from the river path onto the GR-121 long-distance trail; waymarks are fresh, gradients honest, and the view from Kurtzio (647 m) shows how tiny the town really is. Allow two hours up, one down, and carry water—bars vanish once the tarmac does.

Winter is another story. Atlantic storms slam the valley, the river swells the colour of builder’s tea, and the peaks disappear inside cloud thick enough to slice. Trains still run, but the last service back from Bilbao is 21:30; miss it and you’re looking at a €70 taxi. Snow rarely settles in town, yet the wind whipping between the blocks can feel colder than a January morning in Buxton. Pack layers and a waterproof; umbrellas die here.

Cyclists sometimes follow the minor road south to Elorrio, a colonial-era village where every house sports a coat of arms and a stork. The route is only 12 km, but the climb out of Ermua averages 8%. Drivers, meanwhile, use the town as a pit stop: pull off the A-8, fill up at the Galp station (diesel €1.54/litre in 2024), grab a coffee, leave. That efficiency is Ermua’s selling point—no queues, no parking meters, no hill-town single-track nightmare.

Monday closures and other truths

Come on a Monday and you’ll think the place has surrendered. Kiska is shuttered, the bakery sells only bollería left from Saturday, and even the park feels apologetic. Plan around it: use Monday to move on, or stock up on Sunday evening like the locals do. Shops shut 14:00–17:00 every day; if you need paracetamol or phone charger at 15:30, the 24-hour pharmacy rota is taped inside the door—usually means a drive to Durango, 12 km west.

English is patchy. Hotel receptionists are fluent; bar staff may point at the menu and shrug. Download the Google Translate Basque pack—euskera appears on every sign, and while Spanish works, an attempt at “kaixo” (hello) earns instant goodwill. Cash is still king for anything under €10; contactless arrived during the pandemic but the card machines sometimes sigh and give up.

A strategic bed, not a destination

Stay overnight if you’re toggling between the Guggenheim and San Sebastián old town and don’t fancy city-centre prices. The Hotel Villa de Ermua has 47 rooms, free underground parking, and double glazing thick enough to muffle the motorway. Weekends hover around €85 B&B; midweek drops to €65. There’s also a basic hostal above the train station—clean, €35 for a single, shared bathrooms, Wi-Fi that remembers dial-up. Book ahead; engineers working on the rail upgrade have snapped up most of April.

Leave early enough and you can be on the beach at Plentzia in 35 minutes, or walking Bilbao’s riverside before the tour buses unload. Ermua won’t pin you to your seat with wonder, but it will give you a bed, a breakfast, and a glimpse of Basque life unfiltered by souvenir shops. Sometimes that’s exactly what the second week of a holiday needs: somewhere that functions, then lets you escape before the novelty wears off.