Gamiz-Fika (Gámiz-Fica)

The BI-631 leaves Bilbao’s suburbs behind at Gorliz, then begins to climb. Within ten minutes the estuary is a silver thread and the thermostat drops three degrees. At the crest you spot a scatter of white farmsteads across folds of pasture—no dramatic sierra, just the gentle uplifts of Uribe Kosta. That mosaic is Gamiz-Fika, two parishes rolled into one parish-council, 220 m above the sea yet feeling higher because the coast lies hidden.

Most travellers thunder past en their way to Mundaka’s surf or the ferry at Bermeo. Those who do swing off are usually hunting txakoli; they find vineyards on seaward slopes and a countryside that smells of wet grass and wood-smoke even in June. The village (population 1,381) never shouts for attention. It offers instead a half-day loop of lanes, church porches and cider-scented tavernas where lunch can stretch until the caretaker rings the church bell for vespers.

Hamlets Strung Like Beads

Forget the classic Spanish plaza mayor. Gamiz-Fika is a string of hamlets—Gamiz, Fika, Lertuche, Arbeda, Arteaga—each with its own stone church or wayside shrine. The council has painted a rust-coloured walking stripe that links them in a 7 km figure-of-eight. Signposts are modest, more garden-gate than National Trust, and that is the point. You wander past apple trees, cows wearing cowbells, and farmyards where the farmer’s wife sells eggs from an honesty box. Tarmac turns to gravel without warning; after rain the mud cakes like treacle pudding, so decent trainers suffice but suede loafers will be ruined.

San Martín de Tours in Gamiz is the biggest church, layered like a geological slice—Romanesque doorway, 16th-century Gothic nave, Baroque tower patched again after the Carlist wars. The door is usually open; inside, the air smells of candle wax and the stone floor dips where centuries of boots have tracked in Biscay drizzle. Walk on to Fika and the ermita of San Miguel stands on a grassy bump. From the bench outside you look south over a checkerboard of allotments and the Nervión valley dissolving into blue. It is five minutes of view, not fifty, yet the silence feels almost illicit after Bilbao’s traffic lights.

Food Meant for Farmers

Hunger is best solved at the two tavernas that face each other across Gamiz’s only junction. Urruti and Zarra both open at 13:00, close at 15:30, reopen at 20:30, and take cards, but neither accepts flip-flops or loud stag parties. Weekenders from Bilbao book tables for txuletón, a rib-eye the width of a railway sleeper, charred outside, beetroot-red within. One portion feeds two hungry walkers and costs about €44 including a bottle of house Rioja. If red meat at lunchtime feels treasonous to the arteries, order bacalao al pil-pil: salt-cod that curls in a clay dish of garlic and olive oil, the sauce thickening as you swirl it. Children usually settle for talo con chocolate, a griddled corn flatbread folded around a bar of melted cacao—think Basque crêpe without the drama.

Vegetarians survive on tortilla and the region’s white beans, but don’t expect avocado toast. The nearest cash machine is ten minutes down the hill in Mundaka; the bakery only takes euros, so stock up before Wednesday market when local cheese, chorizo and honey appear on folding tables in the square. Prices are written on scraps of cardboard and are non-negotiable, roughly half what you would pay beside the Guggenheim.

Tracks for Legs, Not Likes

Footpaths radiate like spokes. The easiest is the old mule track to Lertuche (2 km, 40 min), shaded by chestnut and dotted with stone crosses. A stiffer option climbs to Mount Sollube (455 m) where the Atlantic suddenly reappears and, on clear days, the cranes of Bilbao’s port look like toy Meccano. Allow two hours up and back; the summit is breezy even in August, so pack a windproof.

Mountain-bikers use the lanes to stitch together a 25 km circuit that drops to Gorliz beach then returns via apple orchards. Gradient is steady rather than alpine, but hire bikes in Bilbao first—Gamiz-Fika has no shop, only a farmer who will lend you an old hybrid if you ask nicely and leave your passport as collateral.

Winter sharpens the place. When an Atlantic front rolls in, cloud spills over the hills like milk. Temperature can hover at 5 °C while the coast enjoys 14 °C, and the BI-631 sometimes carries the first warning of snow. Day-trippers vanish, fires inside the tavernas crackle, and the txakoli tastes less sharp when your boots are caked with white slush. Access remains straightforward—gritters treat the road as a strategic link to the port—but check the forecast if you’re in a hire car without winter tyres.

Getting It Right

Driving is the practical choice. From Bilbao airport follow the BI-631 coastal road north-east for 25 minutes; parking is free but do not block field gates—tractors leave at dawn and will not hesitate to shunt a badly placed Fiat 500. The Bizkaibus A3515 runs four times a day except Sundays, but the last departure is 20:30 and a taxi back from Bermeo costs €30 pre-booked. In short, come by car or be prepared to stay overnight.

Accommodation is limited to three rural houses, collectively offering nine bedrooms. Book ahead for Easter and July weekends; at other times you can ring the day before. Expect stone walls, under-floor heating, and a breakfast of orange juice, strong coffee and spongy sponge cake. Wi-Fi is reliable enough for email but will not stream the rugby—consider that a selling point.

Leave Expectations at the Junction

Gamiz-Fika will not keep you busy for a week. What it does, it does calmly: provides a lungful of green, a plate of beef that tastes of the pasture outside, and the realisation that twenty kilometres from a city of a million people rural life continues much as it did when the tower of San Martín was new. Stay two hours and you will tick off both churches; stay the afternoon and you will notice details—the way cowbells syncopate with the church clock, how the air smells different when rain is five minutes away. Stay overnight and you will hear silence, punctuated only by a dog whose bark echoes off the hills like a rifle shot.

Drive away after lunch and the road dips toward the coast. Suddenly the sea reappears, the temperature rises, and the radio regains signal. Behind you the hills fold over the village like a green counterpane. No souvenir shops, no fridge magnets, just the memory of a place that asked to be walked, not photographed—and rewarded those who did.