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Fall makes an early way into the Álava plain, tinging the trees with sienna shades; soon – any of these weekends – riding a motorcycle around here won’t be so pleasurable as now. One ougth to make the best of the last warm days. So, I grab a light jacket and my jet helmet, take a look at the map, a glance at the sky, and Rosaura for a ride, east along the Cuadrilla de Salvatierra (cuadrilla being a group of villages, something like a county) with final destination the Loyal borough of Salvatierra.
It’s a fine day and, despite some high clouds covering the azur and toning down the landscape, the air feels tepid and pleasant.
I make a detour around Ullibarry reservoir for the fun of taking the bends of its skirting road, popular among Sunday drivers and bikers. The first must-stop is the Etxe-Zuri restaurant meet point. The sight of half a dozen motorcycles parked abreast, like horses in a manger, calls me to a halt. Rosaura is not out of place. There’s a group of bikers eating at a table in the terrace, whose are the racing bikes in the paking, I guess.
A fair pincho de tortilla and a glass of cider make my lunch. A few sunbeams breaking through the clouds warm my body and soothe my soul. I like the Basque ways: your order at the bar and then sit at a table, without the hassle (and the surcharge) of terrace waiters. There are no “terrace price” and “bar price” like in most of Spain. You’re served, you pay, then you eat wherever you see fit.
Sight from Ozaeta’s church
Once I’m done, I get on my BMW and head for the road running along the mild and fertile Barrundia valley, sheltered from the cold northly winds by the Urquilla range and spotted with boroughs among the pastures and groves; boroughs that lost their charm of yore as they’ve become residential areas of the capital: with a gentle climate and neighbouring Vitoria, this valley is suitable for a second home. There are plenty of sound and productive milk cows in these fields. Pity that the Basque dairy industry is kidnapped by a cultural immersion policy that hampers a better market for the rich and foamy milk produced here.
Attracted by the fine profile of a church on a hillock, I make a halt in Ozaeta. A group of youngsters drink and talk in Spanish under the church’s portico, and along its south side, under a colonnated hallway I find the customary bolatoki.
A few kilometres further I come to Narbaiza (or Narvaja). What makes me stop this time is the withered look, by the road, of an abandoned house of some indiano (the Spaniards who made good in the Americas during XIXth and XXth centuries). Locked the sturdy door, worn out and ashy the wood of windows and balconies, broken some panes, stripped off the walls, untiled the roof eaves – it’s certainly the nostalgic reminder of a time gone forever. On its side, a sign saying “for sale” certifies the sad fate of these house, once built with pride and filled with life.
Old mansion for sale in Narvaja.
I take a stroll in the deserted looking borough; not a leave moves nor a sound can be heard. I like to steal into the napping villages because the quiet lets me better catch their essence, and lets my imagination free. In a corner of Narvaja stands another witness of a much further-off and decaying times: the half wrecked house of some nobleman, encroached upon by weed, the roof partly caved in, fallen the slatter shuters, yet showing upon the facade of stone an uncared for coat of arms. The shiny gutter in the front tells of the futile attempt by some last heir to prevent the utter ruin of the building. But in present day values there is no room any more for these palaces; money has different priorities now.
Nobility decay.
Meanwhile, in some other places of the village, people pile up wood for the winter, and the strings of red pepper are set to dry on the south windows.
Wood piles by an old house. Narvaja.
Strings of red peper.
Upon turning a corner I come across a third relic of the past, not so distant this time: the old sign of a national school during our last dictatorship, miraculously respected by the later anti-Franco frenzy. I wasn’t that young when classes were still taken within these sober buildings, which harboured such a rigid education system.
National school. After war times.
Beyond a stubble field I find this interesting old construction, whose purpose I ignore. Whichever it was, now it’s only good for sheltering a peasant’s ploughshare.
Urquillo range as swen from Narbaiza.
When I get back to keep my journey I realize that I parked Rosaura by a fine and rich house, probably restored. What a contrast it makes with the other two houses mentioned! These are the noblemen of modern times. Fashion and style change along time, but there is always people with a good taste.
House in Narbaiza.
Sun starts its way down to westerly and I retake my way to easterly. Now is the best hour for biking this time of the year, and I can even do without the jacket. I ride rushless, watching all around me; the trunk erect, the helmet’s visor lifted, taking all the warm air of the afternoon.
Pondering these weekend breaks of mine I realize the astonishing construction vigour of the Catholic Church: in Christian land there is no village or town, city or borough, however small, lacking a church or cathedral, chapel or shrine. I’m amazed by the energy and perseverance with which such sturd constructions are erected since two thousand years, despite the cost. Only faith or ambition, kept for centuries in a row, may have powered such spirit; which, by the way, has made Spain what it is now, and Spaniards what we’re now, like it or not.
And, right before turning south towards Salvatierra, I make a last stop in this valley: Zalduendo, standing upon a secondary route to Santiago, a borough that was for longer than four centuries feudal estate of the Oñate house, until 1813. Un borough that I fancy from the first moment, since I park Rosaura under the huge tree by the fountain: people are genial, and every person I come across say hi to me; which is rather unusual in this Basque country, whose people are usually courteous but sullen. But, despite belonging to Baskonia, Zalduendo is Castile, or so it feels: you can’t hear Basque spoken, nor see etxeras (logo-flags pro terrorist inmates’ rights), and the city hall shows the Spanish flag.
I go to the church, open by chance: two ladies are cleaning and changing the flowers. I step in and they smile to me, offering to switch on the lights for letting me better see the altarpiece. I find it quite standard, so I don’t tell the truth when they ask me how did I like it. They look so proud of it..!
Zalduendo is very tidy, with nice traditional houses finely refurbished, none of them clashing. The big palace of Lazárraga stands out in the middle, boasting a overelaborated coat of arms; it’s now the local museum.
Lastly I go to the bar and chat for a while with the owner about some trifles. I feel well here, reading the paper, the sun merrily shining through the window panes…
But it’s time to go. I go back to the fountain, get on my BMW and make for the last stop in my itinerary: Salvatierra. I’ll tell you about that in the next chapter.
