Arrigorriaga

First impressions from the BI-625

The road swings off the A-8 autopista, drops past an Ibis Budget and a Mercadona, then suddenly you’re in Arrigorriaga’s one-way grid. Concrete blocks from the 1970s, balconies with drying laundry, a chemist advertising factor-50 sun cream at €6.99. This is not the Basque Country of travel-postcard Bilbao; it is the bit people sleep in so they can afford to work somewhere else. Ten kilometres south of the Guggenheim, the valley narrows and the river Nervión squeezes between wooded walls. The town’s name translates as “red stone”, a geological reminder that the Cantabrian mountains start here, even if the architecture pretends otherwise.

Park on c/ Severo Ochoa – the only free patch of tarmac large enough for a British estate car. Everywhere else is metered 09:00-14:00 and 16:00-20:00, and the local police print tickets with Germanic efficiency. From the car park it is a three-minute walk to the centre: no cobbles, no medieval gates, just a tidy plaza with a children’s playground that smells of disinfectant and churros.

What the guidebooks leave out

Arrigorriaga has no cathedral, no Michelin stars, no fifteenth-century palaces. What it does have is utility: a covered market open till 14:00, cashpoints that work, and a Tuesday-evening pintxo route that costs half the price of Bilbao’s old town. The main church, San Nicolás de Bari, is locked more often than not; peer through the grille and you’ll see a single nave rebuilt after a fire in 1928. The font is older than the building – a quiet reminder that people have been baptised here since before the Armada sailed.

Walk fifty metres downhill and the river appears. The Nervión is still recovering from two centuries of steel and shipbuilding; in summer the water runs olive-green, in winter it turns the colour of builder’s tea. A concrete promenade has been laid on the east bank, wide enough for pushchairs and dogs on extendable leads. Elderly men in flat caps sit on benches discussing Athletic Bilbao’s defensive errors. Cyclists whirr past on hybrid bikes, heading upstream towards Basauri and the open countryside. The scene is pleasant without being pretty – think Sheffield’s canal towpath with better weather.

Gaining height without getting a taxi

Behind the town hall the ground rises steeply. A signpost promises “Ganguren 3 km”, which sounds trivial until the tarmac tilts to 12%. Within ten minutes the traffic hum fades, replaced by cowbells and the click of hiking poles. The path is an old mule track paved with irregular slabs; after rain the limestone turns slick as ice. Oak and chestnut close in overhead, and suddenly you remember that the Basque Country is technically the western Pyrenees.

Halfway up, a clearing gives a straight-line view north to Bilbao’s skyscrapers. The contrast is blunt: grey blocks in the distance, red-roofed suburbia below, complete silence except for a distant chainsaw. Turn around and the slope continues to the 500-metre contour where buzzards circle and the temperature drops five degrees. In February this can mean sleet at the top while daffodils bloom beside the river; pack layers and a waterproof even if the car thermometer claims 18 °C.

Lunch where the menu is in Basque first, Spanish second, English never

Back in town, hunger strikes around 13:30 – Spanish lunchtime, whatever your GMT-trained stomach says. Bar Kastro on Plaza de España does a grilled chorizo bocadillo the length of your forearm, served with a foil tray of crisps and a small beer for €4. The television shows rolling cycling highlights; the barman understands “no onions” but not “gluten-free bun”. Cash only, and don’t expect a receipt.

If you need something greener, the Wednesday market occupies the same square: local lettuce with soil still attached, Idiazabal cheese at €18 a kilo, and women who will cut a slice for tasting if you smile convincingly. Bring your own bag; plastic costs 10 cents and the stallholders will say so loudly.

Sidrería Untzigain sits on the road out towards Zaratamo. From February to May it runs the traditional cider-house menu: salt-cod omelette, T-bone steak for two, walnuts and quince paste, unlimited cider poured from shoulder height. The fixed price is €25 per person; bookings essential at weekends when half of Bilbao drives out for the ritual. Vegetarians get a pitying look and a plate of peppers.

When Arrigorriaga remembers it has fiestas

The calendar still rules here. Early December belongs to San Nicolás: lights strung across the streets, a brass band that rehearses outside the library, and children circling a bonfire built from shipping pallets. Summer fiestas shift date each year but usually land in mid-August: outdoor concerts in the park, inflatable castles, and a paella cooked in a pan two metres wide. The night before Carnival the local football pitch becomes a foam party; teenagers arrive by metro from Bilbao, parents collect them at 02:00. None of this is aimed at tourists – you will be welcomed, stared at, and overcharged for sangria exactly like everyone else.

Getting in, getting out

The metro (Line 2, Basauri-Plentzia) reaches Arrigorriaga in 18 minutes from Bilbao’s Casco Viejo. Trains run every fifteen minutes through the day, half-hourly after 22:00. A single costs €1.70 – cheaper than central Bilbao’s coffee. By car, leave the A-8 at junction 117 and follow the N-637 south; rush-hour queues start at 07:30 and can add twenty minutes to the nine-kilometre hop. Sunday buses are thinner: the last metro back is 22:15, after that a taxi is €25 and the drivers pretend the meter is broken.

The honest verdict

Arrigorriaga will not change your life. It offers a morning’s stroll, a decent sandwich, and a hillside workout that burns off the previous night’s Rioja. Use it as a base if Bilbao hotels are full, or as a breather between the Guggenheim and the coast. Expect tarmac, functional architecture, and neighbours who say “kaixo” instead of “hola”. Walk the river, climb the track, drink cider poured like a fountain. Then leave the red stones behind and admit you enjoyed not being marketed at for once.