Olaberria

The church bell strikes eleven and a tractor reverses into the petrol station, trailer loaded with hay bales. Nobody turns to look. Inside the tiny shop wedged between the diesel pumps and the biscuit rack, a woman buys a wedge of Idiazabal cheese, the label still warm from the morning milk. This is Olaberria: a village that refuses to audition for the role of “quaint”.

At 360 metres above sea level, the place sits on the first ridge of the Goierri hills, thirty minutes south of San Sebastián by car. The air is cooler than on the coast, and the wind carries the smell of cut grass rather than salt. Locals call it the “balcony of Goierri”, not because the houses are perched dramatically—most are low, modern builds—but because the mirador by the main roundabout lets you scan the entire province: Aralar’s limestone teeth to the north, the orchards of Ordizia in the valley, and the occasional red-roofed farmhouse dotted across slopes that look gentle until you try walking them.

A village that never learned to pose

There is no postcard centre. The old quarter is two streets and a square; you can cross it in the time it takes a British town to decide which pub to use. The parish church, bulky and whitewashed, is the only obvious landmark. Stand beside it and you will hear more Euskera than Spanish—spoken by teenagers on bikes, not just grandparents. This is not heritage theatre; it is a working language ordering coffees, arguing over tractor parts, arranging lift-shares to the rugby club in Beasain five kilometres down the road.

The absence of a chocolate-box façade is, oddly, what makes the place useful. Coaches do not stop, so the pavements are free of selfie sticks. Instead you get narrow farm tracks that leave the village east and west, signed only with the occasional yellow arrow of the Camino del Norte. Follow one for twenty minutes and asphalt gives way to red earth, then to limestone shards that twist ankles in trainers. The reward is silence broken by cowbells and, every so often, a shepherd’s hut selling cheese from a cool box. Payment goes in an honesty jar; the recommended donation is scrawled on the lid in felt-tip.

Walking without the brochure

Serious hikers treat Olaberria as a waypoint on the three-day Idiazabal cheese route that links mountain dairies. Casual visitors can manage a two-hour loop that still feels like trespassing on someone’s back garden. From the church, head uphill past the fronton court, take the concrete lane signed “Ametzaga”. After fifteen minutes the tarmac ends beside a stone barn with a corrugated roof held down by old car tyres. Turn right onto the dirt track. The gradient looks gentle but rises 170 metres in a kilometre—enough to make a British rambler grateful for the stone bench that appears, without explanation, halfway up.

The top is not a summit, merely a wider track where the wind picks up. On clear days you can spot the copper roof of the sanctuary of Arantzazu, 15 kilometres away. Turn left and drop back towards the village through beech woods. The descent is muddy after rain; walking poles save knees and dignity. Total distance: 4.3 km. OS-style maps are unavailable at village level, but the tourist office in Beasain will print a free A4 sketch if you ask nicely. Mobile signal is patchy once you leave the road—download offline maps before you set off.

What appears on the plate

Food here is ingredient-led rather than chef-led. The local supermarket, fronted by a grimy plastic cow, stocks three strengths of Idiazabal: mild “fresco” at two weeks, semi-cured at three months, and “curado” so hard it could survive a Ryanair overhead locker. A small wedge costs €4–6 and will scent your rucksack for the rest of the trip.

If you want someone else to do the cooking, Asador Arkupe on the N-1 serves chuletón for two (€48, chips and peppers included). Portions are sized for Basque farmhands; a British couple usually leaves with tomorrow’s lunch in tinfoil. Order sidra and the waiter performs the high-pour without being asked—neck craned, bottle aloft, liquid arcing into a tilted glass held at thigh level. Spillage is minimal; the performance is free, though a €2 tip buys a grin.

Vegetarians do better at Bar Bazter, open only at weekends, where the set menu might include pisto (a thicker, smokier cousin of ratatouille) and a slab of tortilla heavy enough to sprain a wrist. Kitchens shut at 15:30 sharp; arrive at 15:25 and they will still feed you, but you will feel the disapproval.

How to arrive without swearing

Olaberria has no railway. The nearest Euskotren halt is Zaldibia, five minutes down the hill by taxi. Trains run twice an hour from San Sebastián’s Amara station (€2.80, 35 minutes). If you are driving, leave the A-1 at Beasain and follow the GI-263 uphill. The road is wide enough for two lorries but twists like a dropped hose; fog rolls in after 18:00 for most of autumn. Winter tyres are not compulsory, but locals fit them anyway—snow is rare, black ice is not.

Free parking surrounds the mirador; do not block the milk-collection bay signed “Laketia”. Farmers start rounds at 05:30 and will wake you with prolonged horn use. Sunday afternoons and all-day Monday are ghost-town hours; fill up with petrol and water in Beasain before you ascend. Cards are accepted at the pumps, yet many bars prefer cash for rounds under €10. There is no ATM in the village—withdraw notes at the Santander machine outside the Beasain Lidl while you still can.

The season that suits

Spring brings wild irises along the tracks and the risk of axle-deep mud. April mornings can be 6 °C cooler than San Sebastián, so pack a windshirt. Summer is warm but rarely fierce; by 11:00 hikers are back in the square ordering cañas. Autumn glows with beech colour and the smell of cider presses; it is also hunting season. Wear something bright—boar shooters are active at dawn. Winter is quiet, occasionally snowy, and the one time the village feels larger than itself when weekend skiers pass through on their way to the modest resort of Aia-Gaztegui, 25 minutes away.

Worth the detour?

Olaberria will not keep you busy from dawn to dusk. Treat it as a palate cleanser between San Sebastián pintxo crawls and Bilbao’s galleries. Arrive mid-morning, walk until your shoes are the colour of terracotta, eat something that once grazed the surrounding hills, and leave before the church bell strikes six. You will not tick off a cathedral or a Michelin star, but you will have seen a slice of Basque life that guidebooks usually skip. And next time you taste Idiazabal in a British deli, the memory of that petrol-station cheese counter will add a whiff of tractor diesel—strangely reassuring proof that the place is still working, not performing.