Amezketa (Amézqueta)

The sheep arrive before the sun. At 6:30 am, a procession of Latxa ewes clatters past the fronton court, guided by a farmer who greets them in Euskera. No one photographs this. It's simply how Tuesday begins in Amezketa, a scatter of farmsteads 25 minutes inland from San Sebastián that most British visitors bypass for the coast.

Spread across folds of emerald pasture at 200 m above sea level, the village proper is little more than a church, two bars and a chemist. The rest—400-odd households—sits in hamlets linked by lanes so narrow that drivers instinctively breathe in. This is not postcard Spain. It's working Basque Country, where hedges are trimmed for function, not effect, and every second barn smells of Idiazabal cheese in various stages of rebellion.

The Church that Keeps its Candles for the Dead

San Martín de Tours looks unremarkable until you step inside. Hung on the back wall are argizaiolak, carved wooden boards shaped like stylised bones. Locals still coat them with wax and light them in memory of the deceased—a tradition that survives in barely a dozen churches. Ask at the presbytery (ring the bell marked "Donibane") and the caretaker will unlock the sacristy for a closer look. No charge, though a €2 donation keeps the beeswax coming. Guided visits in English can be arranged via WhatsApp (+34 657 370 156); without them the boards appear merely dark and vaguely macabre.

Outside, the plaza is the village's communal living room. Old men play mus with the intensity of a Test match, while mothers swap childcare tips over cortados. If you need an ATM, forget it—there isn't one. Cash comes from Tolosa, 9 km south, so fill your wallet before Friday night when the single bar rolls out txistorra pintxos and half the valley turns up.

Legs, Mud and the Long View

Amezketa rewards those who abandon the car. A lattice of farm tracks links the barrios of Aranburu, Iraeta and Armentia, each sitting on its own ridge like ships on a green ocean. Expect gradients: the OSM map may show 800 m between hamlets, but it omits the 100 m calf-burner in between. Stout shoes are non-negotiable after rain; Basque clay clings like wet Digestive crumbs.

The obvious target is Murumendi (582 m), the blunt-headed hill to the north. A way-marked path leaves from the cemetery gate, climbs through holm oak and emerges after 45 minutes onto sheep-cropped turf. The reward is a 180-degree sweep from the Cantabrian Sea to the Pyrenees, with San Sebastián's La Concha beach visible on clear days. Don't trust the summit cairn in fog—cloud can drop in minutes, turning a gentle descent into an orienteering exercise.

Spring brings ox-eye daisies so dense they look like leftover snow; autumn smells of rotting chestnut and woodsmoke. Summer is warm but rarely oppressive, while January can trap the village under a lid of cold Atlantic cloud. If the sky closes in, switch to the lower loop that follows the Oria River's old mill race. You'll pass two ruined watermills still fitted with grindstones the size of cartwheels—unlabelled, unrestored, and all the better for it.

Cheese, Cider and the Friday Night Negotiation

Food here is ingredient-driven rather than chef-driven. The village dairy (look for the white gate opposite the pelota court) sells Idiazabal so young it squeaks between the teeth, and another aged 14 months that tastes of burnt caramel and barn floor. Tastings cost €3 and run on farmer's hours: 10-12, 16-18, except Sunday.

For the full carnivore experience, book a cider-house table in nearby Astigarraga (20 min taxi, €25). The set menu—salt-cod omelette, txuleta steak thick enough to shame a Glasgow rib-eye, then Idiazabal and quince jelly—suits British stomachs used to Sunday roast quantity. Pour your own cider from the barrel; the trick is to tilt the glass low, catch the jet mid-air, then down it in one before the bubbles collapse.

Back in Amezketa, Bar Aralarko opens only on Friday and Saturday nights. On other evenings you may find the lights off and the owner watching Athletic Bilbao in his slippers. Plan accordingly: a baguette, some cheese and a bottle of Rioja from Tolosa makes a perfectly respectable picnic on the church steps.

When the Valley Closes In

Weather is the unspoken curator. On bright days the pastures glow with almost insulting fertility; when the nube baja rolls in, the same fields feel claustrophobic, the church bell muffled by damp wool. British visitors accustomed to changeable Lake District skies cope better than Mediterranean sun-seekers. Bring a breathable waterproof—not the bin-bag variety sold on San Sebastián's promenade—and a second pair of socks.

Road etiquette matters. Lanes double as driveways for tractors weighing more than your hire car. Passing places are signed "Ceida" in Basque; use them, and never block a field gate. The farmer you inconvenience is probably the same one who sold you cheese earlier.

The Exit Strategy

Amezketa will not fill a week. It might not even fill a day if you arrive on a Monday expecting amenities. What it offers instead is continuity: a place where rural life has not been rearranged for the lens, where the soundtrack is clucking hens rather than Spotify playlists, and where the mountains begin literally at the garden gate. Stay two nights—three if you crave silence—and time your departure for early morning. The sheep will see you off, bells clanking like loose change, while the first clouds spill over Murumendi and the valley starts its daily shift.