Erandio

The tide goes out and the Nervión river stinks. Not a gentle whiff of seaweed and salt, but a proper industrial pong—diesel, mud, and something metallic that catches at the back of the throat. Stand on the new boardwalk at low water and you’ll see why Erandio refuses to behave like the villages that British travel writers prefer. There is no honey-stone, no pottery kiln, no artisan cheese. Instead, freight containers stack up on the opposite bank like grubby Lego, and a single yellow crane salutes the sky. Somewhere behind you a Metro train rattles overhead every seven minutes. This is Bilbao’s back garden, not its postcard.

A walk that starts flat and ends breathless

Begin at Astrabudua station, the one whose name nobody outside the townland can pronounce. The river path is five minutes south, signed only by a hand-painted bike on a lamppost. Morning light slants through the rails of the old loading quay; if the wind is from the west you’ll catch the sweet note of biscuits drifting over from the Galletas Artiach factory in neighbouring Leioa. Locals power-walk here in pairs, elbows pumping, gossip delivered in machine-gun Basque. Join them for a kilometre and you’ll reach the Erandio marina—twelve berths, one sunken dinghy, and a bar that opens at 11 a.m. sharp. Coffee is €1.40, served in thick glass that keeps the heat. Ask for café con leche and you’ll get it half milk; ask for café cortado if you prefer it punchy.

Turn inland when the path kinks and you hit the first honest slope. Erandio Goikoa—the upper village—perches on a sandstone ridge 85 m above the marsh. The road switches back twice, narrow enough that drivers instinctively fold in their wing mirrors. Halfway up, a granite bench offers the best free view of the Bilbao estuary: airport runway on the left, suspension bridge dead centre, Atlantic fog banking up like unspooled wool. Keep climbing and you reach the Iglesia de Santa María, a 16th-century church that looks older because the stone is soot-black. The door is usually locked, but the tiny cemetery rewards the curious. Read the headstones and you’ll spot three generations of shipwrights, one British naval engineer who died here in 1897, and a marble lamb for a child called Ane who never saw six.

What lunch costs and where to eat it

By the time you descend, the bars on Plaza de la Constitución have rolled up their shutters. Pintxos are laid on the counter like jewellery: gilda skewers (olive, guindilla pepper, anchovy), txistorra slices curled over bread, and triangles of tortilla still warm from the kitchen. Locals don’t queue; they hover, plate in left hand, right hand free for gestures. Expect to pay €2–€2.50 per pintxo; order two and the barman will mark your wooden stick with felt-tip pen. Thirsty? Try sidra served Asturian-style: the bartender holds the green bottle above his head, lets the cider arc into a tilted glass, then slides the cloudy 200 ml across the counter for €2.80. You have thirty seconds to drink before the sparkle fades—no sipping, no dawdling.

If you prefer a chair, Bar Askao does a weekday menú del día for €13. Soup or salad, bacalao al pil-pil (cod in garlic emulsion that tastes reassuringly like parsley sauce), and a slab of arroz con leche thick enough to hold the spoon upright. House wine is drinkable; water comes in a reusable glass bottle. Sunday lunch is the sociable meal—tables booked by grandparents, roast lamb on the counter, television muted but still flickering. Turn up after 3 p.m. and you’ll eat alone.

The Metro trick that saves a taxi

Erandio has three stations on Metro Bilbao’s Line 1, all within a four-kilometre stretch. Buy a Barik card at the airport machine (€3 deposit, then load credit) and the ride from Termibus to Erandio costs €1.28 instead of €2.55. Trains run every seven minutes at peak, every fifteen off-peak, and the journey to Bilbao’s Guggenheim takes thirteen. British visitors who book the NH La Avanzada or Hotel Sercobilbao like the set-up: free parking at the hotel, Metro in five minutes, city-centre prices halved. Taxis are scarce; if you must have one, phone TeleTaxi Bilbao (+34 944 102 121) or use the free Txita app—Uber barely operates here.

When the weather picks the plan

Spring and early autumn are kindest. In April the ridge is loud with skylarks and the river path smells of fennel. Temperatures sit in the high teens—light-jacket weather for anyone from the North of England. Summer climbs into the high twenties; shade is scarce on the river walk, so locals switch to evening paseos after 7 p.m. August brings the fiestas mayores: portable stages in Astrabudua, sack races for children, and a Saturday-night firework display that rattles the Metro viaduct. Accommodation prices hold steady—Erandio is still immune to the surge pricing that hits San Sebastián.

Winter is wet, no apology. When an Atlantic front rolls in, the estuary disappears under low cloud and the church bell tolls like something from a Victorian novel. Walking is still possible: the tarmac paths drain fast and the Barik card works on heated buses. Just pack shoes with grip—slate kerbstones turn slick.

The honest verdict

Erandio will not change your life. You will not send postcards stamped with its skyline, because the skyline keeps its head down. What it offers is proximity: to Bilbao’s art and tapas, to a river that still earns its living, to daily Basque life minus the tour-bus narrators. Spend half a day here and you’ll leave with calves that remember the ridge, a pocketful of €2 pintxo sticks, and the smell of diesel-biscuit-sea in your coat. That is enough.