Gaintza (Gaínza)

The road to Gaintza splits like a fork in a tale. Bear left and you climb to a hamlet of 120 souls scattered across a slope so steep that tractors park sideways. Bear right, fifteen kilometres later, and you reach a low white winery whose terrace looks straight onto the Bay of Biscay. Same name on the map, two entirely different rhythms. Most visitors meet only one of them; the trick is to let both sides of Gaintza share the same day.

The Mountain Village: Cows before Cars

Morning fog fills the valley like milk in a bowl. By nine it has lifted just enough to reveal stone farmhouses threaded with wooden balconies, each one a slightly different shade of weather-beaten grey. The only shop is a metal vending machine outside the church, selling tinned tuna and toothpaste. Sunday mass finishes at eleven; within minutes the single bar has run out of croissants and conversation reverts to Basque. You are, after all, 300 metres above sea level on a ridge where the Pyrenees think about beginning.

There is no ticket office, no interpretive centre, not even a bench with a view. What you do is walk. A farm track leaves the church square, signposted only with a faded scallop shell, and begins to switch-back across pasture. Five minutes of gentle calf-burn and the village drops away; ten minutes more and the only sounds are cowbells and your own breathing. The path is rough, muddy after rain, yet the reward is immediate: meadows so intensely green they seem lit from below, and, on clear days, the hump of Txindoki mountain cutting into the sky like a shark fin.

Turn back when the track narrows to a groove between brambles; the round trip takes an hour and you will meet more horses than people. If the clouds close in, stay anyway. Basque weather is theatrical: five minutes of horizontal rain followed by sunshine sharp enough to steam the hedges. Bring a waterproof, not an umbrella – the wind laughs at brollies.

The Coastal Winery: Txakoli on the Terrace

Down the hill again, the air softens. Atlantic light bounces off the sea and everything feels ten degrees warmer. Bodega Gaintza sits on a gentle knoll outside Getaria, surrounded by vines trained on high trellises so tractors can pass underneath. A young woman named Ane meets visitors at the gate; her English carries the faintest Welsh lilt, picked up while picking grapes in Monmouthshire. She hands out secateurs and invites everyone to snip a bunch – harvest here is participatory, not ceremonial.

The tour lasts forty minutes and covers geology, gossip and family politics. You learn that the grapes must be picked at 5 a.m. to keep the natural acidity that makes Txakoli taste like bottled sea breeze. You also learn that Ane’s grandfather sold his fishing boat in 1989 to buy the first stainless-steel tank, a scandal at the time. Tastings happen on the terrace, six wines poured into angular glasses that look like chemistry equipment. The standard white is sharp enough to make Englishmen blink; the barrel-aged version has the creamy weight of a Chablis. Both cost around nine euros a bottle – restaurant mark-ups in San Sebastián start at twenty-five.

If you buy two bottles the tasting is free; if you don’t, nobody sulks. There are crisps made from local potatoes, cubes of Idiazabal cheese that taste like a milder Cheddar, and a plate of anchovies which Ane insists on draping over pintxo bases because “they photograph better against the sea”. She isn’t wrong. Behind her, the horizon is ruler-straight, interrupted only by the hazy silhouette of San Sebastián’s Monte Igueldo. On a clear June evening you can watch the sun drop into the water while still holding your glass.

Between the Two: How to Stitch Them Together

The mountain and the sea are only twenty-five minutes apart by car, but public transport forces a decision. The village of Gaintza has no station; the nearest Euskotren halt is in Alegia, 12 km away, with two trains an hour to San Sebastián. From the coastal winery you can walk 20 minutes to Getaria’s bus stop, where Lurraldebus runs every half-hour to Zarautz and onwards. Taxis bridge the gap if you plan ahead: Zarautz rank quotes €35 to the mountain hamlet, €20 to the winery. Agree a two-hour wait; drivers are happy to nap in the shade while you wander.

Car hire is simpler. Take the AP-8 to Zarautz, exit at 19, then follow the GI-631 inland. The road twists like a discarded ribbon, single-track for stretches, but meets a farm gate only twice. Sat-nav will try to send you up a concrete ramp marked “Azkue Baserria” – ignore it, keep left at the yellow shrine and the village appears without further ceremony. Parking is wherever you don’t block a milk-churn collection point; if the tiny square is full, reverse 100 metres to the cemetery – nobody minds an extra visitor.

Food That Fits the Terrain

Mountain hunger is different from sea hunger. After the ridge walk, the only immediate option is the bakery-van that honks its horn at noon outside the church. Buy a still-warm talo – cornflatbread folded around chocolate – and eat it leaning against the stone cross. If you need proper lunch, drive eight minutes downhill to Zestoa where Casa Urrutia serves a three-course menú del día for €18: soup, grilled beef, and rice pudding thick enough to stand a spoon in.

By the coast, choices multiply. Getaria’s harbour is lined with charcoal grills; try grilled turbot (about €35 per kilo, enough for two) at Saiaz Getaria, where the wine list begins with the Txakoli you just tasted up the hill. Brits who balk at fish on the bone can order fried whitebait, delivered in a paper cone with a lemon wedge. The local pairing is Txakoli poured from height – a two-foot stream that puts half an inch of froth on top. It looks like theatre, but the brief aeration softens the wine’s razor edge.

What to Pack, What to Skip

Bring walking shoes with decent tread; the farm tracks turn to chocolate custard after rain. A light fleece is useful even in August – the Atlantic breeze carries Newfoundland chill. Don’t bother with heels, guidebooks or an appetite for souvenirs; there are no gift shops, only the winery’s cardboard carriers. Sundays are quieter than you expect: most restaurants close by four, so plan lunch early or late. Monday is total shutdown in the village; even the vending machine gets restocked only if the farmer feels like it.

Leave behind the checklist mentality. Gaintza rewards patience, not box-ticking. Stand still long enough to hear a cuckoo across the valley, or to notice how the vineyard soil glitters with crushed shells – remnants of an ancient beach lifted by tectonic shrug. The place works because it refuses to audition for Instagram. If the day ends with muddy trousers and one photograph of a cow staring through a stone wall, that counts as success.