San Sebastian - by Theo

We'd driven past it several times, it had been enthusiastically recommended to us in English, French and Spanish, it's halfway between Madrid and Kate's Mum's, so it seemed a very sensible idea to stop off in the Basque port and seaside resort of San Sebastian on our way home.
We'd been hoping that the sea-breezes coming off the Atlantic might have helped keep the temperatures down, but it was a sweltering 34 degrees as we pulled into town just after 2pm. We were staying in Hotel Plaza Zaragoza, one street back from the Playa de la Concha and just a few blocks from the Cathedral. After I eventually found a parking with enough head room to take Deliah's 2.06metres we headed off on a little stroll, our first stop being the Cathedral where the late afternoon sun was projecting beautiful array of colours onto the walls.

We headed out, through the Area Romantica to the edge of the Port. The beach was rammed - it was high season after all and the high tide wasn't helping matters. Enterprising teenagers had pitched their towels along a jetty (ignoring the clearly marked "no bathing" signs) and were diving in. The city is based around a bay, with two massive headlands guarding the entrances, the western one topped by a Hotel, the eastern an impressively large statue of Jesus, while the island of Santa Clara sits in the mouth of the bay. As a result it's pretty sheltered and a natural harbour.
The old town is situated below the eastern headland and a brief walk around it's narrow if regular streets followed, before we returned to the beach for a swim (me) and paddle (Kate). The water was perfect - a far cry from the freezing Cornish coast! We'll be back I feel.

the road to Salamanca

We took our time leaving Miguel's place in Galkao this morning. Partly because of my usual habit of spending ages having a shower and coating my skin in unguents supposedly guaranteed to keep it young and beautiful. Partly because of a clutch of emails needing pressing and thoughtful replies. And partly because our genial host was keen to chat. About Sheena (he's very keen on getting a camper van himself); about where we should go next on our Spanish tour (he recommended spending the day in Segovia before heading for Salamanca - a rather optimistic suggestion given Sheena's stately pace on the road and our habit of taking long-drawn out lunch breaks and siestas); and his own desire to move to England and what his chances were of getting employment (pretty high given his abilities in renovation and driving - he's already been a building manager and train driver and after seeing his reversing and manouvering skills, I'd say he's the kind of potential bus-driver Bath is crying out for).

But after a stop in Bilbao old town to buy a Spanish dictionary and road atlas and a visit to the Eroski mega supermarket to stock up on supplies, we were on the road towards Burgos. Okay, it was gone one by then and Segovia looked like it was off the menu for the time being. But we had a beautiful drive through the sierra dividing Basque province of Bizkaia and Castilla and eventually made it to a brilliantly quirky campsite at the Paster monument, not far from Miranda.

There we chummed up with two friendly New Zealanders, also on a tour of Europe and currently hot-footing it to Madrid to meet relatives before driving on down to a villa the south of Spain. We spent a most convivial few hours chatting with Andy and Tracy, sharing wine, beer, cake and prunes in eau de vie (which had already caused something of a sensation with Miguel and Beatriz) - thanks in part to chairs and table loaned by a very friendly Spanish guy from the neighbouring chalet.



We've now resolved to get on the road by 0730 tomorrow so we can make it to Salamanca in time to sample some of its famed Saturday nightlife. The fact that the campsite showers can be best described as bracing will probably cut down on the ablutions and help hurry us on our way.

to Bilbao

Suddenly we were in Spain.

It was as abrupt as that. Not that our arrival in Spain was unintended, but it was certainly unheralded. No passport control, no "Welcome to Spain" signs, just a sudden change in the style of the traffic lights and the languages on the signs becoming Spanish and the unintelligible Euskara. It was an abruptness that we found elsewhere in the Euskal Herria, or Basque Country, most obviously in the landscape, with there seeming no middle ground between mountain and sea, or countryside and town, the coast road to Bilbao perching on the narrowest of passages between towering, forested hills and the heaving Atlantic which even on this calm, sunny day breached the sea defenses at one point to give Sheena a good drenching. Goodness knows what the road is like on a stormy day.

Bilbao caught us by surprise. Suddenly we were there, an urban sprawl surrounded by peaks and hills, offering us no sense of location. We were so surprised that we hadn't had time to properly look over the directions given to us by Miguel and Beatriz, our hosts for the evening, and so promptly got lost and it took us a stressful hour to find our way back out of Bilbao and take another run at things. In the gloomy rain that had now descended, matched by our moods, Bilbao was looking far from attractive. However Miguel's directions turned out to be perfect, and he and Beatriz were superb hosts, as we sat around their kitchen sharing food and wine, attempting to communicate - Miguel spoke pretty decent English but as Beatriz didn't, and our Spanish is infantile as best, it was Miguel who did most of the talking!

After a good night's sleep Bilbao was looking more attractive in the bright sunshine of the next morning. Armed with Miguel's advice, we ventured into the city and found the stunning Guggenheim Museum, which definitely lives up to its hype; a row of beautiful bridges linked by a pleasant riverside promenade; a lovely old town full of gorgeous, balconied buildings and a score of May Day demos and marches.
In the afternoon we headed out to the coast, to be treated to more spectacular views of forested slopes crashing into the ocean as we puffed our way up winding mountain roads. We finished up at Gernika, the heart of the Euskla Herria, the site of the Basque Parliament and of the atrocities which heralded the advent of carpet bombing civilian targets when Hilter's Condor squadron practically destroyed the town during the Spanish Civil War. Then, after a siesta, a gentle drive back to another very warm welcome from Miguel and Beatriz, and an evening spent sharing beer and photos.

So definitely worth the stress of getting here.