Alonsotegi (Alonsótegui)

The church bell strikes noon and nobody pauses. Farmers carry on sharpening tools in their doorways, a teenager coasts downhill on a battered BMX, and the only bar that's open is showing yesterday's Athletic Bilbao match to three unimpressed grandfathers. This is Alonsotegi on a Tuesday: not sleepy, just certain of its own rhythm, twelve kilometres south of Bilbao's titanium museums and Michelin queues.

At first sight the village looks almost too neat. Stone houses line a single main street that follows the narrow valley floor; the river is hidden inside a concrete channel, and the bus stop has a glass shelter with a working display. Then the road tilts. Side streets rear skywards at gradients that would make a Bristol cyclist weep, and the map reveals the truth: the municipality climbs 600 metres in barely four kilometres, making it one of the steepest administrative patches in the Basque Country. What appears compact is actually a spider's web of lanes, farm tracks and forest paths strung across the southern face of Mount Pagasarri.

Valley life, mountain rules

Locals divide their world into two territories. "Abajo" – down here – is where the school, chemist and bakery squeeze in beside the N-637. "Arriba" – up there – is anywhere your phone suddenly shows one bar and the asphalt turns to gravel. The boundary can surprise you: turn a corner by the pelota court and tarmac gives way to a stony track that within ten minutes enters oak woodland where wild boar root among last autumn's leaves.

Walking is the honest way in. A lattice of signed footpaths connects the hamlets of Iturritxu, Urigoiti and Zabalandi, each a scatter of half-timbered farmhouses and vegetable plots protected by stone walls. Expect to climb 150 metres between letterboxes. The reward is space: meadows where kites wheel overhead and the only sound is a distant chainsaw echoing off the slope. Spring brings a shock of green so vivid it looks backlit; October turns the chestnut plantations copper and fills the paths with slippery spiny cases. After rain – and it does rain, even in July – the red clay sticks to boots like Welsh hillside mud.

Pagasarri itself, the 1,100-metre summit that dominates Bilbao's southern skyline, starts at the village edge. Ice-houses built in the 1600s still stand near the top, stone igloos where traders once stored snow before sending it down to the coast by mule. The ascent from Alonsotegi is shorter and quieter than the classic route from Bilbao; allow three hours, carry water, and don't trust the weather forecast past lunchtime. Cloud can roll up the valley faster than a commuter train, turning a warm May afternoon into a damp November memory.

What food actually looks like

There is no restaurant row. Instead, three bars share the weekday trade and close early if custom drifts off. Lunch is the main event, served at 14:30 sharp; turn up at three and you'll be offered crisps and sympathy. The daily set menu hovers around €14 and usually starts with a bowl of beans and greens that tastes better than it photographs. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and salad; pescatarians should try the bacalao al pil-pil, cod that arrives sizzling in garlic-olive-oil emulsion – rich but not spicy. Meat eaters order the chuleton for two: a T-bone the size of a laptop, simply grilled and brought to the table on a wooden board with nothing more than sea salt and a lemon wedge. Wash it down with txakoli, the local white that fizzes gently and tastes like green apples.

Evenings are low-key. One bar may lay on pintxos on Friday; another might open its dining room if you phone before noon. Otherwise, self-catering is the reality. The village shop stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and excellent local cheese, but little else. Stock up in Balmaseda on the way up, or accept that dinner will be idiazabal and quince jelly eaten on your balcony while the valley fades to black.

Bilbao on the doorstep – but not next door

The metropolis is twenty minutes away by car when the tunnels are clear, forty when they're not. Trains run from Irauregui station five kilometres north; the Renfe cercanías reaches Bilbao-Abando in eighteen minutes and continues to the coast at Plentzia. Buses are less reliable – hourly at best, finished by 20:30, and non-existent on village fiesta days. Taxis from the city cost about €25 after 22:00, assuming you can persuade a driver to leave the centre. The upshot: day-trippers can reach the Guggenheim, the old town and the Ribera market with ease, but anyone planning late-night pintxo-hopping should book accommodation in town and return the next morning.

That suits plenty of visitors. Families base themselves here for a week, drop teenagers at the metro each morning, then collect them for evening mountain air. Cyclists treat the village as a gateway to the Basque interior, spinning west towards the limestone cliffs of Elorrio or east into the protected landscape of Aiako Harria. Hill-walkers link Alonsotegi with the coastal cliffs of Gorbeia, sleeping in mountain huts and catching the bus back from Bermeo. The tourist office – a single desk open Wednesday and Saturday – will print customised route cards if you ask nicely and speak slow Spanish or hesitant French.

The catch

There is no fairy-tale centre. The church of San Esteban is pleasant, whitewashed and locked most afternoons, but it won't detain you long. Beyond that, the appeal is the working texture: a tractor reversing into a barn, a woman hanging rugby-stripes of bedding from a second-floor balcony, the smell of silage drifting across a football pitch where kids train under floodlights that barely reach the corners. Come expecting cobbled charm and you'll leave within an hour. Stay prepared to walk, and the place expands into an outdoor lounge for greater Bilbao.

Rain matters. The valley funnels Atlantic weather straight inland; annual precipitation rivals Manchester's. Paths turn slick, stone staircases become waterfalls and the red soil clings like bulldog drool. Waterproof boots are sensible year-round; in winter, a light pair of crampons lives in many local car boots. Conversely, July heat can feel oppressive down in the valley while the summit still needs a fleece. Layering is not Instagram affectation – it's common sense.

Sunday silence descends early. By 21:00 even the dogs have stopped barking, and the only light comes from televisions behind curtained windows. Nightlife is what you bring: a bottle of rioja, a pack of cards, maybe a playlist and a portable speaker at considerate volume. The reward is a sky dark enough to see the Milky Way above a municipality that still counts streetlights in dozens, not hundreds.

Worth the detour?

If your heart is set on ticking museums and cocktail bars, stay in Bilbao and visit on a day hike. If you need somewhere to breathe out, to replace ring-road roar with owl hoots, Alonsotegi delivers. Treat it as a base camp: mornings in the city, afternoons on the mountain, evenings on a farmhouse terrace watching the sun slide behind Pagasarri's shoulder. Book an agroturismo room, pack decent boots, and accept that the village keeps its own timetable. Arrive on its terms and you'll leave with calves like steel – and a quiet valley soundtrack that lingers longer than any metro journey.