The story
Welcome to the rugged heights of Mount Ulía. As you stand here, high above the turquoise waters of the Bay of Biscay, you are walking on a landscape where nature’s beauty and human conflict have staged a long, silent standoff. While San Sebastián below is famous for its golden beaches and Michelin-starred dining, up here, the atmosphere shifts.
The air is saltier, the wind is sharper, and tucked away amidst the gorse and ferns are the grey, weathered remains of the Monpás bunkers. Take a moment to look at the concrete structures half-buried in the hillside. These are not ancient ruins, but remnants of the mid-20th century.
Most of what you see was constructed during and after the Spanish Civil War, particularly in the 1940s. During World War Two, despite Spain's technical neutrality, the regime of Francisco Franco feared an Allied invasion from the sea. They built a defensive network known as the P-Line, or the Pyrenean Line, stretching from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic.
Mount Ulía was a critical link in that chain. As you approach the Monpás battery, notice the narrow, horizontal slits in the concrete. These were "embrasures," designed for machine guns and coastal artillery.
Imagine being a young soldier stationed here, eyes strained against the glare of the ocean, watching for the silhouette of a British or American warship that would never actually arrive. The silence you hear today is a far cry from the heavy vibrations of the massive Vickers guns that once sat in these circular pits. But the history of Ulía as a lookout goes back even further than the world wars.
Long before the concrete was poured, these cliffs served as an "Atalaya," or a watchtower, for Basque whalers. In the 16th century, scouts would sit on these very ridges, scanning the horizon for the telltale spray of a Right Whale. When a sighting was made, they would light signal fires to alert the rowers in the harbor below.
It is a strange irony that this peaceful place of industry became a fortress of war centuries later. As you continue along the coastal path toward the lighthouse of La Plata, keep your eyes peeled for the smaller, hidden observation posts. Many have been reclaimed by the earth, their roofs covered in grass, looking like nothing more than natural hillocks until you are right upon them.
Today, these bunkers serve as a reminder of a fractured past, but they also offer some of the best, most unobstructed views of the Basque coastline. Take a deep breath of the pine-scented air and look out over the waves. The sentinels are silent now, and the only thing invading these shores today is the tide.