Aia (Aya)

The road out of Zarautz climbs sharply after the last campsite, rear-view mirror filling with Atlantic blue. Within ten minutes the temperature drops two degrees, radio reception falters, and stone farmhouses appear at impossible angles on the hillside. This is Aia—less a village than a scatter of hamlets stitched together by narrow lanes and the constant sound of running water.

Green Relief from the Coast

Aia sits five kilometres inland yet feels continents away from the surf schools and beach bars of the Basque coastline. The municipality stretches across the southern slopes of Monte Pagoeta, a 528-metre ridge that catches weather systems rolling in from the Bay of Biscay. The result is a perpetual, gentle drizzle that keeps the beech and oak forests improbably lush even in August, when San Sebastián’s La Concha beach is jammed towel-to-towel.

Most visitors arrive by hire car from Bilbao airport (70 minutes) or San Sebastián (25 minutes). Public transport exists—three daily buses from Zarautz—but timetables are written for commuters, not sightseers. Without wheels you’re stranded once the shop shuts on Saturday afternoon, so fill the boot with milk and rioja before the weekend.

Iron, Water and a Forest That Still Works

The Pagoeta Natural Park dominates the northern half of the municipality. Entry is free and the park office inside the 17th-century Oia-Baita farmhouse will lend you an English trail map without asking. From the car park a five-minute walk leads to the Jardín Botánico de Iturraran, a 23-hectare arboretum laid out by Basque botanists in the 1980s. Paths are level, numbered and dotted with benches that face moss-covered trunks the width of garden sheds. Even on a grey Tuesday in March the place smells of loam and wild garlic—more Kew Gardens crash-landed in the Pyrenees than municipal flower bed.

Below the gardens the 15th-century Agorregi ironworks still functions as a demonstration site. Water races down stone channels, tripping massive wooden hammers that once forged nails for Basque whaling ships. Engineers love the ingenuity; everyone else enjoys the racket and the photo of a 400-year-old forge that actually made money. Opening hours shrink outside summer—check the board at the gate rather than trusting Google’s “open now” tag.

Walking: Short, Steep and Occasionally Boggy

Aia’s trails are signposted but not sanitised. The easiest loop links Iturraran to Agorregi and back along the stream: 3 km, negligible climb, boots optional. Add the summit of Pagoeta and you’re looking at 400 m of ascent on a path that turns to chocolate pudding after rain. The reward, on clear days, is a saw-tooth horizon running from Getaria’s medieval quay to the salt flats at Añana. Bring a light fleece even in July—Atlantic clouds can whip across the ridge in minutes.

Shorter options zig-zag between abandoned farmsteads and chestnut groves. Download the free Pagoeta app before you set off; it pings way-finding notes offline and lists picnic spots equipped with stone barbecues. Brits used to Lake District weather will feel at home; anyone expecting Andalusian sun should pack waterproof trousers.

Food: Cider Houses and a Steak Built for Two

Basque cuisine is anchored to the coast, yet Aia keeps one foot on the mountain. The local specialty is txuleta, a grass-fed rib-eye aged until the edges resemble Stilton, then seared over hawthorn embers until the fat bubbles. Portions are sized for sharing—order one between two unless you fancy an impromptu siesta on the restaurant floor. Cider houses (sidrerías) operate only from January to April, when barrels are broached and the new vintage tastes sharp enough to make your fillings ache. The set menu never changes: salt-cod omelette, txuleta, Idiazabal cheese and quince jelly, plus as much cider as you can catch in your glass when the barman shouts “¡txotx!”.

Outside cider season, family-run asadores open at weekends. Expect grilled sea bream, pimientos de Gernika and txakoli, the local white wine poured from height to give a light spritz. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and salads; vegans should self-cater.

When to Come, and When to Stay Away

Spring arrives late here—bluebells peak in early May, the same time lambs gambol in roadside paddocks and wild asparagus appears on menus. October delivers the colour burst British walkers associate with New England, minus the coach parties. Both seasons stay fresh (12-18 °C) and daylight stretches until 20:00, perfect for post-lunch hikes.

August is doable but busier. Spanish families flee the coastal heat and car parks fill by 11 a.m.; arrive early or be prepared to abandon Plan A and drive on to Tolosa. Winter brings mist that can sit for days, reducing visibility to the front bumper. The forest turns moody and cinematic, yet narrow lanes ice over and most restaurants close. Come now only if you own decent boots and enjoy solitude.

The Catch: No Village Square, No Cashpoint, No Problem?

Aia’s scattered layout confuses first-timers expecting a central plaza and rows of souvenir shops. What you get instead are lanes that dead-end at a farmhouse guarded by a sheepdog with attitude. The single grocery opens Monday-to-Saturday 09:00-14:00, Saturday evening 17:00-20:00, never on Sunday. There is no ATM; the nearest machine is back down the hill in Zarautz. Mobile coverage is patchy inside the park—download offline maps and tell someone where you’re walking.

Evenings are quiet. After 22:00 the loudest noise is the river Urumea tumbling over weirs. Night owls should book a table before 4 p.m. or risk dining on crisps in the hotel bar. Light pollution is minimal, so zip up your jacket, step outside and look north: on clear nights the Milky Way competes with the glow of San Sebastián beyond the ridge.

Leave Aia as you arrived—early, boot-soles muddy, car fragrant with leftover txuleta wrapped in foil. The coast reappears suddenly after the last bend, blue water glinting like polished steel. Behind you the forest folds back into itself, already reclaiming the silence.