Nagusia square
After a few cold days, fall has hastily come to the valley and mountains of Álava, leaving its palette of ochres and siennas upon the groves and the dead leaves. Then, an Indian summer along with warm southerly winds has come to appease the climate harshness, bringing fitting conditions for bike riding.
One of the borough’s corners.
This time I pick Ochandiano, a borough that got my eye during some other trip. With an enjoyable series of bends, the road is quite entertaining. As the light jacket I’ve been using so far is now warm enough, now I use a three-quarter coat. But I still can use my jet helmet, good enough for this weather. And there I go!
First, a few boring freeway miles, only good for warming up my F800′s twin cylinder. A few strong gusts swipe the four laned road and push me to the shoulder. Then I turn off to a local road, shelterd from the wind by the trees which, with their falling leaves, decorate the grey asphalt with a nice note of yellow and ochre. I take the capricious and unpredictable bends with care, but in a swift and fun succession. The road is not so wide, there are some cars coming, and a mistake could be fatal.
Main street as seen from the church’s portico
Before I realize, I’m already entering Ochandiano. Such is its real name since XIIth century, though the regional anti-Spanish government has changed its name into Otxandio (which is but a recent fonetic evolution). Ethymologically, Ochandiano means “the place of Ochoa Handía” (bg wolf, in Basque language).
House-fortress. In the background, the church’s bell tower.
I dismount Rosaura at the church’s back and start scouting the village. Its main square has a unique romantic harmony, all stone, spacious and open, watched by the elegant bell tower of Santa Marina church, lined by old houses, by the city hall palace, by the striking stone fronton and by a colonnaded lean-to. Tall stout trees shade a few granite benches which certainly might tell one hundred love stories and faction fights. It’s a pity the ugly, modern and unnecessary LED lit information board.
Santa Marina’s tower bell as seen from a lane.
On one of the boards by the city hall I read a proud sentence about the origin of Ochandiano and its pure Basque character, first and last borough of Biscay, gate to a historical territory. It is founded during the first half of XIIIth century, by the royal way connecting Castile with the main seaports in the Cantabric sea; certainly right on the pass through the Urquiola mountains. Before then, it must have been but a Basque shepherd’s small village, until López Díaz de Haro, Lord of Biscay, granted Ochandiano the privileges with the main goal, as it was customary in those times, of populating it and stablishing defensive and commercial centres.
Typical Basque balcony
Since then, and during most of it’s history, Ochandiano belonged to the Signiory of Biscay, thus belongoing to Castile since 1379 on, when king Juan Ist got the title of Señor de Vizcaya. One more example, like many others, of how the claim of independence has no foundations, as those territories were never independent, nor ever before nowadays had the notion of being a nation in themselves.
Hamlet ruins
Besides its main square, I feel attracted by this village’s street layout, typical in this region: three parallel streets running north-south and connected by misterious, gloomy alleys and passageways; by the harmony and good taste of its houses, by the sturdy walls, and by that almost medieval look, quiet atmosphere and its people’s kindness.
Main square houses
Every now and then a gust sweeps vigorously the streets and whirls the leaves fallen from the trees. There are only a few people around. Right in the middle of the square there is a fountain with four pipes gushin fresh cool water, and with the image of Vulcan, symbolizing the forges thanks to which the borough saw a time of pre-industrial economical splendour, though it also meant a severe deforestation of the surrounding mountains. Such is the doom of so many societies which, caring only about the inmediate future, are the origin of their own downfall. Upon arrival of the industrial mechanization, and lacking wood for feeding the forges, Ochandiano could no more compete and many of its masters and craftsmen had to migrate. The village went back to agriculture, and therefore got poorer.
Main street, with its row of bars and taverns.
As is customary in Basque country, nowadays Ochandiano abounds in nice bars and tavers, most of all along Uribarrena, the main street. So, once I’ve explored this village’s corners and taken some few pictures, I get into a small tavern where to old men, talking in perfect Spanish, finish off their wine glasses. I ask the waiter, another talkative and kind old man, to be served a glass of the same wine the others were drinking. He explains: it’s quite popular this wine, good and not expensive. But is it local?, I ask. Oh!, I don’t know about that. I believe it’s from Catalonia. This old man and his customers can’t care less about the “Basque identity”. Upon leaving the place, he sees me off and points to a restaurant where, he says, I can eat well and affordable. “Adiós”, he says in Spanish as a goodbye. Not the common “agur” in Basque, apparently mandatory nowadays in this region.
The city hall, showing only the Basque flag, thus contravening the law, neglected by central government.
Before going for luch, I stop by another neighbouring bar. One of those so-called herriko-taberna, where the money for the Basque cause and terrorism is collected. I order a wine and a pincho. “Bai”, the waiter says in Basque. He’s a fine dude, like most people here. He sports a rasta hairdo and talks to other youngsters in Basque. The whole premises are decorated with independentist signs and symbols, supporting the terrorists. Flies freely swarm around the pinchos. When I ask the bill and pay, he tells the price in Spanish and thanks in Basque.
Main square
Funny -think I- that the most radical citizens here are the youth, who never saw any repression nor knew dictatorship times. I guess it’s a matter of the indictrination on the side of the regional government. Then I see three moors clad in their colourful robes; obviously no tourists. This region has drawn a striking muslim invasion: cities are crammed-full of moors, and you find them even in the remotest village. This land will be eventually Islam-ize long before the Basques fulfill the cultural immersion they endeavour.
Basque country re-conquered by Morocco.
Ochandio stands right in the middle of the fish and wine route; so, when entering the restaurant, I already have in mind what I’m going to order: fish soup and grilled bass. The staff is kind and serviceable, food is good, but the wine… could have dyed a whole river.
Main square. Santa Marina paroch in the background.
For the coffe I go to yet another bar, in the other end of the street. A young, pretty and very nice waitress tends to me. She also talks in Basque with the locals, while servingme a very aromatic coffe. I drink it outside, sitting at one of the street tables. The place, the temperature and the atmosphere make me feel like in one of those beautiful and tidy French towns. Only cheaper and closer.
Vulcan’s fountain.
A last walk, some last few shots, and I go back where Rosaura is waiting for me. Helmet, gloves, starter, and I take the way back home, enjoying the landscape, the road bends, the autumn colours and the sweet scent of wet earth.
Napping under the noon sun.
