Bilbao

The tide was out when the cargo ship slipped beneath the Puente de Vizcaya, exposing mudflats where children now chase footballs. Fifteen kilometres inland from the Bay of Biscay, Bilbao still breathes salt and diesel; you can taste it in the morning air along the Nervión River. This is not a coastal village—though many arrive expecting sand—but a working estuary city that swapped shipyards for titanium and never apologised.

The River That Got a Facelift

Start at Mercado de la Ribera just after nine, before cruise groups clog the aisles. Stallholders shout prices in Basque and Spanish, sometimes English if they spot an away-shirt. Whole hake gleam on marble slabs next to pimentón-stained chorizo rings. A coffee and butter croissant costs €2.30 at the counter—stand, don’t sit, or the price doubles. The loos here are notorious; pocket tissues and sanitiser before you queue.

From the market, follow the river west. Within ten minutes the medieval stone of the Casco Viejo gives way to glass offices built on reclaimed docks. Cranes still operate further down-stream, but the walkway is wide enough for skateboards, pushchairs and the occasional stag do in matching T-shirts. Every bridge tells a century: the 1890s iron lattice of San Antón, the 1970s brutalist concrete of La Salve, the 2008 Calatrava harp strings of Zubizuri. Cross anywhere you like; the city is barely two miles wide.

Titanium as a Town Planner

The Guggenheim appears suddenly, a silver mussel shell caught in the bend of the river. Approach from the upstream side first—Gehry’s twist is designed to be walked around. The west face catches the afternoon sun and throws fish-scale reflections onto passing trams. Puppy, the 12-metre West Highland terrier planted at the entrance, is clothed in 70,000 bedding plants; gardeners replace the pansies twice a year so he never goes bald. Entry to the building is €16, audio guide another €3, and yes, you need your own headphones or you’ll be lip-reading Basque modernism. Locals use the plaza like a park: toddlers chase pigeons, teenagers vape behind Louise Bourgeois’ spider. You don’t have to go inside to feel the shift the place triggered—though the permanent collection of Serra steel spirals is worth the ticket if the weather turns.

Seven Streets, Seventeen Pintxos

By 13:00 the Casco Viejo is humming. Bars issue small plates faster than receipts: gilda skewers of olive, anchovy and chilli; txangurro crab gratin piped back into its shell; miniature brioche buns stuffed with txalupa (mushroom and prawn béchamel). Each costs €2–€3. Order one, eat, move on—pintxo-pote is essentially a pub crawl with better carbohydrates. Plaza Nueva fills under its arcades; look for tables where napkins carpet the floor—mess signals quality. Cider houses pour from shoulder height to “break” the drink; white shirts should stand well back. If queues snake out of bars, duck into the side streets; often the same tortilla is €1 cheaper two doors down.

Rain arrives without introduction, so carry a compact umbrella. When it hits, retreat to the covered Ribera market or the 14th-century Santiago Cathedral whose Gothic cloister hides a small archaeological dig—free, and mercifully empty even in August.

Up the Hill, Down the Pint

The Artxanda funicular leaves from just behind the town hall every 15 minutes. A return on the Barik card (pick one up at the airport metro, €3 refundable) costs €1.26 instead of €3.10 cash. The carriages creak up 226 m through a tunnel of pines; at the top, Bilbao spreads like a diagram: river, bridges, red-and-white Athletic Club stadium, container docks glinting beyond. Cloud rolls in fast—if the mountain opposite has vanished, forget panoramic photos and order a cortado in the terrace café until the fog lifts. The descent walk is possible via sign-posted footpaths, but wear proper shoes; clay sections turn to slide after rain.

When the Sun Clocks Off

Evenings pivot around two decisions: food or football. Athletic Bilbao play in the new San Mamés, nicknamed “the cathedral” for the noise. Tours run on non-match days at 11:00, 13:00 and 16:00, €17, and include the players’ chapel where locals leave flowers to the Virgin. If you’d rather eat, book a table in the Ensanche for 20:30—any earlier and you’ll dine alone. Try bacalao al pil-pil, cod that emulsifies its own garlic oil, or txuleta, a rib-eye the size of a laptop. Vegetarians survive on pisto and Idiazabal cheese; vegans should head to the riverside Lukuma chain where even the cheesecake is cashew.

Beyond the Bridges

If a beach fix is essential, the metro towards Plentzia runs every 30 minutes. The journey costs €1.90 with Barik and takes 35 minutes through tunnels and then green cliffs. Plentzia’s broad bay fills with Bilbaínos at weekends; arrive before noon or towel space disappears. Surf schools rent 6 mm wetsuits—Atlantic water stays stubbornly cool even in July. Back in the metropolis, Getxo’s Puente Colgaya, a transporter bridge, still ferries cars across the mouth of the estuary in a moving gondola. Walk the upper walkway, €9, for ship-level views and a dose of Victorian iron nerve.

What to Pack, What to Skip

Sundays are ghostly; supermarkets shut, even cafés open late. Plan laundry, museum lounging or the Athletic stadium tour. Mondays swap closures: both the Fine Arts Museum and the Basque Museum lock their doors—check websites. August’s Aste Nagusia brings nine nights of fireworks and concerts; accommodation prices jump 40 per cent and earplugs become essential. Winter is mild—think Bristol without the wind—but mountain hikes can ice over; buses to trailheads reduce frequency after October.

Leave the car at the hotel. Bilbao’s one-way system was designed by someone who enjoys mazes, and on-street parking costs €2 an hour where you can find it. A 24-hour Barik card covers metro, tram, funicular and suburban trains; taxis start at €4 but riverside distances are walkable in under 20 minutes.

Last Orders by the River

By midnight the city softens. Metal shutters roll down with polite clatter; last pintxo bars keep a single door open, lights dimmed so neighbours can sleep. Cross the Zubizuri one last time—the bridge’s glass tiles glow turquoise—and look back: the Guggenheim is flood-lit, titanium rippling like water frozen mid-flow. Somewhere downstream a tug whistles, reminding you the river still works for its living. Bilbao never asked to be pretty; it preferred interesting, and that decision paid off.