Campezo/Kanpezu

The Village That Forgot to Be Touristy

The petrol station bar serves the best tortilla in Campezo-Kanpezu. This isn't a boast—it's simply the only place open on Good Friday evening, where a slice of potato omelette costs €2.50 and comes with a side of Basque-only conversation. The elderly man behind the counter pours cider from shoulder height, the amber liquid catching the fluorescent light as it arcs into glasses that have seen better decades.

Welcome to the southeastern corner of Álava, where twenty-odd hamlets scatter across folds of beech and oak that smell distinctly of Navarre. Campezo-Kanpezu—both names are official here, Spanish and Basque versions of the same tongue-twister—sits 600 metres above sea level, far enough from the coast to have developed its own rhythms. This isn't San Sebastián's polished pintxo culture or Bilbao's titanium glamour. It's something older, quieter, and refreshingly indifferent to whether you visit or not.

Walking Through Living History

Santa Cruz de Campezo, the administrative heart, takes twenty minutes to explore thoroughly. The Church of the Assumption anchors a cluster of stone houses that feel solid enough to withstand another medieval siege. Timber balconies sag under geraniums. A tractor rumbles past, the driver raising two fingers in greeting without breaking stride. There's no postcard-perfect plaza mayor, no carefully curated artisan shops selling overpriced ceramics. Instead, you'll find a working village where butchers still know their customers' names and the bakery runs out of bread by 10 am.

The real magic happens when you leave Santa Cruz. Follow the narrow road northwest for three kilometres to Oteo, where the 12th-century hermitage of San Esteban squats on a hillside like it's grown there. The door might be locked—many are—but peering through the keyhole reveals faded frescoes and the kind of architectural layering that historians get misty-eyed about. Romanesque bones, Gothic additions, Baroque flourishes added by someone with more enthusiasm than taste.

Between villages, ancient paths thread through countryside that shifts with each bend. One moment you're in dense beech forest where moss muffles every footstep, the next you're crossing open meadows where sheep stare with the intensity of creatures who've seen it all before. Autumn transforms these slopes into a patchwork of copper and gold; spring brings wildflowers that would make a Chelsea garden designer weep with envy. Even winter has its charms, though you'll need proper boots when the paths turn to mud that could swallow a small child.

The Longest Climb in Basque Country

Cyclists arrive for the Vasco-Navarro rail trail, a 133-kilometre greenway that finishes here after starting in Estella. The gradient never exceeds three percent, but don't let that fool you—it's uphill almost the entire way from the Navarrese side, following an old railway line through tunnels that drop temperatures by ten degrees. Bring lights; some stretches are pitch black even at midday. The reward? Picnic benches positioned at viewpoints where vultures circle overhead and the only sound is your own heartbeat.

Mountain bikers find tougher challenges on forest tracks that climb towards the Sierra de Codés. These aren't waymarked routes with reassuring difficulty ratings—they're working forestry roads where you might meet a lumber truck coming the other way. Download offline maps; phone signal vanishes in valleys where the only inhabitants are wild boar and the occasional shepherd who hasn't quite come to terms with the 21st century.

What to Eat When Everything's Closed

Food here follows the seasons with stubborn dedication. Mushroom season—October through November—sees locals emerging from forests with baskets of boletus that appear on bar counters across the municipality. Spring brings tender white beans, simmered with chorizo that tastes nothing like its British supermarket cousin. Summer means outdoor grilling of chops so thick they would make a cardiologist faint. Winter comfort comes in the form of talo, cornflatbread cooked on portable griddles and served with queso Idiazabal that tastes of sheep and mountain air.

But timing matters. Arrive during Semana Santa and you'll discover that Spanish opening hours are merely suggestions. The single supermarket shutters early. Restaurants that looked promising on Google Maps display hand-written "cerrado" signs. Your best bet? Stock up in Vitoria-Gasteiz before you arrive. The hostel kitchen at Aterpe Kanpezu becomes a social hub where British cyclists compare notes with Basque pensioners over shared cooking sessions that somehow transcend language barriers.

Practicalities for the Unprepared

Getting here requires commitment. There's no train station, no direct bus from Bilbao airport. The Línea 045 from Vitoria-Gasteiz runs twice daily, Monday to Friday only, depositing passengers outside the petrol station that doubles as the village's social centre. Weekend visitors need wheels; hire cars cost around £40 daily from Bilbao, though the two-hour drive includes enough hairpin bends to test even the strongest stomach.

Accommodation options fit on one hand. Aterpe Kanpezu Hostel offers dorm beds from €20 and private doubles for €45, with laundry facilities that cyclists treat like holy relics. Casa Rural Iparra sits five kilometres outside town—close enough for convenience, far enough that you'll need designated drivers for evening cider sessions. Neither accepts stag parties. Both expect you to respect the 11 pm quiet policy that keeps neighbours happy.

Cash remains king. The village's single ATM runs out of money during festivals, and several bars still use mechanical tills that predate chip-and-pin. English is rarely spoken; Basque comes first, Spanish second, surprised smiles when visitors attempt either. Download Google Translate's offline Basque pack. Better yet, learn "eskerrik asko"—thank you—and use it liberally.

When Silence Becomes the Attraction

Campezo-Kanpezu won't suit everyone. Instagram influencers find little to photograph beyond weathered stone and changing skies. Foodies expecting Michelin stars leave hungry. Shoppers discover that the retail highlight is a hardware store selling rubber boots and agricultural supplies.

Yet for those seeking Spain before tourism, before every village competed for the same blue-rinse weekenders, this collection of hamlets offers something increasingly rare: authenticity without the price tag. It's a place where shepherds still drive sheep through village streets, where cider flows according to harvest cycles rather than happy hours, where the landscape changes daily but the rhythm remains constant.

Come prepared. Bring walking boots, waterproofs, and enough Spanish phrases to order cider. Pack patience for when paths disappear into undergrowth or when the promised restaurant proves permanently closed. Most importantly, arrive with time to spare—because Campezo-Kanpezu reveals itself slowly, one village, one conversation, one perfect slice of tortilla at a time.