Markina-Xemein (Marquina-Jeméin)

The evening bus from Bilbao wheezes to a halt at 340 metres above sea level, and passengers step into air that carries the metallic scent of apple orchards rather than diesel. Markina-Xemein sits higher than most coastal towns Brits associate with the Basque Country, and the difference is immediate: summer nights demand a jumper, while winter fog can trap the village for days. This is mountain Basque Country, not the surf-and-pintxo circuit of San Sebastián, and the distinction shapes everything from the stone tiles underfoot to the calorie-laden stews that appear on lunch menus.

A Town That Prefers Play to Postcards

Walk downhill from the bus stop towards the Artibai river and you'll pass the municipal frontón before you reach any souvenir shop—because there aren't any. The wall is scuffed and active, not a museum piece. Teenagers slap pelota balls after school while older men lean against the railing, arguing about yesterday's match in rapid Basque. The nickname "Universidad de la Pelota" isn't printed on tote bags; it's muttered with pride by locals who can name every champion that learned their swing here since 1978.

The same practicality extends to the Collegiate Church of Santa María. Yes, it's sixteenth-century Gothic, but the doors open for choir practice at six o'clock, not for coach parties. If you arrive mid-rehearsal you'll be waved in anyway, provided you perch at the back and don't block the fire exit. The Renaissance altarpiece glows under cheap fluorescent tubes, proving that art doesn't always need museum lighting to earn attention. Stay fifteen minutes and you'll overhear the priest negotiating flower delivery for the weekend—everyday life negotiating around the marble.

Detour to the Stones That Won't Fit in a Photograph

Three kilometres north-east, the road to San Miguel de Arretxinaga narrows past dairy farms where wooden shutters are painted the same green as the surrounding hills. The hexagonal chapel appears suddenly, almost apologetically, circling three raw boulders that burst through the flagstones like geological rebellions. Guidebooks struggle here; photographs flatten the scale, and drone footage misses the soundtrack of passing lorries. Approach on foot and the traffic fades once you step inside. Children leave school exercise books on the altar rails—homework requests wrapped in Basque slang—while damp wax drips onto the rocks themselves. Ten minutes is enough to circumnavigate the building, but linger until a car door slams in the distance and you'll understand why locals detour here after funerals: the place absorbs grief without offering answers.

Calories Earned, Calories Returned

Altitude sharpens appetites. At Bar Arku, opposite the pelota court, the tortilla arrives an inch thick, still runny in the middle and cut into wedges that would shame a Leicestershire doorstop. Order a cortado and the manager warms the milk jug with a blast from the coffee machine steamer—no extra charge, no plant-milk upcharge either. Vegetarians survive on pimientos de Gernika, milder cousins of Padron peppers, served hot and salty while you wait for the bus. If rain sets in, Casa de Comidas Arretxea does a €12 menú del día: soup thick enough to stand a spoon, followed by roast chicken, chips and a jug of house wine that tastes better than it should. Brits accustomed to Craft-Beer-Tap Lists will note two choices—cider or lager—but the cider arrives theatrically, bottle held overhead, and you'll be judged on your ability to catch the thin stream in a wide glass. Spillage is expected; sticky shoes are optional.

When the Camino Intersects with Real Life

Pilgrims drift through between breakfast and the next 17 km climb towards Gernika-Lumo. Their needs keep the village pragmatic: the Eroski supermarket opens at nine, stocks blister plasters alongside chorizo, and accepts contactless payments when your Spanish cash evaporates. The municipal albergue unlocks at 15:00 sharp; by 16:30 all 24 bunks are claimed, sheets of polythene over striped mattresses giving the dormitory the aesthetic of a 1990s leisure centre. Still, €8 buys a hot shower and a kitchen where someone always donates leftover pasta. If beds run out, Hostal Zumalabe two streets away charges €35 half-board and will dry your socks on the radiator overnight—mention the Camino and breakfast appears fifteen minutes earlier.

Thursday market occupies the main square from eight until one. Stallholders speak Basque first, Spanish second, and will switch to hesitant English only when you attempt to buy half a kilo of cherries with precise coins. Produce comes from smallholdings visible on surrounding slopes; the brevity of the supply chain means strawberries still carry soil from last night. Buy fruit here because the next section of the Camino climbs 400 metres and you'll crave natural sugar more than another tortilla bocadillo.

Rain, Fog, and Other Honest Weather

Markina-Xemein's altitude gifts it four genuine seasons. Spring brings wild garlic along the river path and almond blossom on south-facing terraces—ideal for photographers who don't mind mud. July and August stay below 28 °C, but valley humidity can feel closer to Birmingham than Barcelona; carry water if you leave the centre because public fountains dry up when the Artibai drops. Autumn glows copper beech on the higher tracks, though morning mist may postpone views until noon. Winter is serious: daytime highs of 8 °C, Atlantic storms that turn paths into streams, and occasional snow that shuts the Bizkaia regional road for half a day. Hotels lack central heating in the British sense—expect wall-mounted units that hum through the night and bathrooms warmer than bedrooms. Pack layers rather than relying on the kindness of radiators.

Leaving Without the Gift-Shop Moment

There isn't a fridge-magnet version of the San Miguel boulders, and that is precisely the point. Markina-Xemein functions first, entertains second. Stay a night and you'll share bar space with teachers marking homework; stay an hour and you'll still hear the pelota ball echoing off stone. The village rewards those who resist the urge to tick off sights and instead allocate an afternoon to getting slightly lost among alleyways where washing lines criss-cross medieval stonework. If the bus timetable aligns, climb the 2 km track towards the Urbistondo viewpoint before departure: the town shrinks into a terracotta triangle between green contours, the frontón roof a tiny rectangle still audible in memory if not in fact.

Catch the evening service back to Bilbao and the driver may recognise you from the morning run, nodding as if you've passed some unspoken test. No one will promise the trip of a lifetime, but your calves will confirm you've been somewhere that measures altitude in effort rather than selfies.