Sopela (Sopelana)

The 35-minute metro ride from Bilbao's grimy riverside to Sopela feels like switching channels. One moment you're underground with commuters checking football scores, the next you're blinking in Atlantic light with cliffs dropping straight to biscuit-coloured sand. No harbour, no fishing boats, just three beaches laid out like different moods of the same sea.

Sopela's relationship with water is functional rather than romantic. This is where Basque families come when they want salt air without the performance of a proper seaside town. The metro deposits you at Larrabasterra station, still a 15-minute walk from the coast, which explains why the village centre keeps its commuter rhythm. You'll spot estate agents next to bakeries, a chemist doing brisk business, locals treating the beach as their local park rather than a destination.

Arrietara-Atxabiribil beach stretches for nearly two kilometres when the tide's out, though at high water it shrinks to a modest strip where surfers shuffle sideways to maintain their patch. The break here frustrates beginners and delights intermediates in equal measure – when it's working, it's working. When it isn't, you'll witness the peculiar Spanish habit of standing around discussing waves that aren't there. Bring a board or don't; watching from the cliff-top path provides equal entertainment, particularly when Atlantic swells send spray over the concrete steps.

Barinatxe, known locally as La Salvaje, requires more commitment. The descent involves 150 metal steps bolted into the cliff face, each one a reminder that you'll be climbing back up later. The reward is a west-facing beach that catches weather systems before they've had chance to calm down. On summer weekends it fills with Bilbao teenagers testing parental boundaries and northern Europeans testing their tolerance for nudity. Yes, it's that kind of beach, though nobody's checking if you keep your swimming costume on.

The coastal path towards Plentzia runs for seven mostly-gentle kilometres along cliff tops covered in thyme and gorse. Spring brings out the serious walkers, those Nordic poles clicking along the boardwalk sections. Summer afternoons see a different crowd: couples arguing over map apps, families debating whether little Sofia can manage another kilometre. The route is signposted well enough to prevent marital breakdown, though mobile signal drops out conveniently during difficult conversations.

Food here operates on Basque standard time – lunch finishes when the chef gets hungry, dinner starts when the football does. El Peñón kiosk above Barinatxe sells bacon bocadillos that taste better than they should, probably because you've just climbed those steps. For something more substantial, Ziaboga in Larrabasterra grills steak over coals without asking how you'd like it done. The correct answer is "however the chef prefers." Order txakoli to accompany it; the local white wine arrives poured from height into small glasses, creating a slight fizz that cuts through the salt air.

Practicalities matter more here than in most Spanish coastal spots. The Barik transport card, available from metro stations, reduces your return fare to €1.60 and works on local buses. Without it, you'll pay double and hold up the queue while the machine beeps disapprovingly. Parking at the beaches is free if you're prepared to walk five minutes; the closer spots get ticketed aggressively in summer by officials who've heard every British excuse.

Weather requires constant recalibration. July might deliver 25°C and flat seas perfect for paddleboarding, or 18°C with wind that turns your beach towel into a sail. Locals build stone windbreaks with the concentration of medieval architects, creating small settlements of towels and cool boxes that migrate with the sun. The smart money brings layers – that trusted British habit of packing for all seasons serves you well here.

Winter strips away the weekenders and reveals Sopela's rawer character. Storm watching becomes the main attraction, though maintaining dignity while being sand-blasted requires practice. The metro still runs every twenty minutes, depositing surfers in thick wetsuits who shrug off conditions that would send most people home for cocoa. Cafés remain open, serving thick hot chocolate that tastes better when you've earned it walking against horizontal rain.

The village won't seduce you with chocolate-box charm or historic monuments. Its appeal lies in authenticity – the sense that you've joined Basque daily life rather than observed it through a gift shop window. Children learn to bodyboard here, grandparents walk dogs along paths their own grandparents used, teenagers practice English by asking to borrow your mobile charger. It's coastal living without the performance, a place where the sea provides background rather than foreground.

Come for the beaches by all means, but stay for the edges – the metro journey that costs less than a coffee, the steak that arrives without ceremony, the moment you realise you're sharing a cliff-top path with people who've been walking here since before you were born. Sopela doesn't need to impress you. It's too busy being itself.