Perigord and pinxtos: In the footsteps of Pilgrims

After Bilbao we left the unique white and red houses (ox blood was once use to create this red colour) of the Basque country behind, and headed into the soft pink tiled roofs of Cantabria to a little village on the water called Santoña--famous in this part of the world for its anchovies and bonito. This is a quiet picturesque little working village with a resort-class waterfront. If more tourists knew of it they would flock here for the sun, sea and watersports. Or maybe they do and they are just not here today as it also sports an expensive fleet of large fishing vessels roped to both its modern and ancient docks and for a tiny place it turned out to be unexpectedly interesting.

We found, quite by surprise, on this slow lazy Spanish Sunday, a Bullring at the end of this astonishing waterfront, which was open and viewable, thanks to El Presidente of the Bullring (we think this is what he said) who just happened to be at one of the gates with his mate as we moseyed on around, and who turned out willing to allow a small bunch of ragged-looking Aussies in to view his beloved and beautifully-maintained village bullring.

It was a small fully functional bullring, with seats of cold grey concrete, like a tiny gladiator amphitheater, overlooking a protective circular ring fenced in blood-red painted wood. Any activity in the bullring would be visible from every vantage point. No seat would offer any protection, though. The corrida finished here for the season last September--we think they said. They told us, too, (in no language that we know, but which we somehow thought we understood) of a stupid drunken Australian who was gored last season at Pamploma in the bull run there. They crossed themselves hoping that that wouldn’t happen here in Santoña--and: the devil take idiotic drunken self-destructive Aussies, they then intoned. We think.

El Presidente also happened to be the proprietor of one of those oft-read-about regional restaurants (albeit fast disappearing in this global world we live in) that Spanish city dwellers hunt down on Sundays because of their charm--down by the dock of the bay. This happened to be a genuine family-run restaurant where papa and his sons did all the chatting and the char-broiling of the meat and fish courses over hot coals out in dramatic full view of all passing spectators, on a metal gridded barbecue on the footpath in front of their restaurant--while mama and the girls did what needs to be done indoors in preparation for a hoard of folk coming to lunch. The charring aroma was an invitation in itself, without needing the charm and effusive welcome of the menfolk.

The coals were on smoking, more anchovies, sardines and other delicious-looking fish and meats to be broiled for lunch were arriving in open ice crates as we left. They were two hours away, still, from even the start of lunch, and we tried, but failed, to hold off that long to eat. It would have been a fine fine feast. Estupendo, in truth.

On to Santillana del Mer, continuing our Spanish pilgrim jaunt. The very first monastery in this village was founded in the eighth century and dedicated to Saint Juliana and over the centuries this has been bastardised to San-tee-yan-a: hence the current name. Modern day pilgrims to Santiago de Compostella, passing through here on this lesser used coastal route that we are following, were plodding into the village wet and exhausted this afternoon, seeking their free hostel room for the night.

If Spain ever goes through a process of identifying its most beautiful villages the way France has done Santillana del Mer may well top its list. The village is architecturally gorgeous. Once home to a group of wealthy medieval noblemen who built their own collegiate church, convent and palaces with torres, Santillana del Mer must, then, have been living and wonderful. Now it is one of those partially dead but still very special, ancient cobbled villages that are such draw cards for tourists. Though a walk in the back streets where few tourist bother to venture shows that much structural stabilisation and urgent building repair needs to be done to many of the remaining structures to make them even minimally secure.

Santillana del Mer is just a couple of kilometres from the famous Altamira caves and the world famous rock drawings considered among the finest paleolithic art in the world--but because of the unavoidable degradation of the site only a replica of these ancient art masterpieces can be viewed in a museum there. Albeit a huge one.

Since first striking the Pyrenees just before Lourdes we have been in mountains. Today we have been driving through the Asturia region. To those who imagine Spain as flat, dry plains with little variation in scenery should trip over to the north west principados.

With the Pico de Europas towering rather darkly over us all today the scenery is more like the high Swiss Alps than any plains in Spain. The Picos are hard. They must have formed with a brutal big bang. They jag up sharply out of the earth showing raw elemental razor teeth. Nothing at all about them is comforting. Yet they are awesomely beautiful despite that.

Tonight we are camping by a beach (with dinosaur footprints bare and uncovered and completely unprotected on the rocks nearby) on one of those rare tiny patches of relatively flat space along the Coast Verte. This is called the Costa Verte because, of course, it is green. It is green because it rains virtually non-stop is my guess. We, as ever, have been lucky as the rain in Spain rains mainly in the night. So our days to date have (cross fingers, toes, eyes!) been almost idyllic. We have found a campsite that is so essentially Spanish that I am attempting to get Peter to wander around and photograph what makes it so.

The Spanish appear to holiday in caravans, as a rule: not camping cars, as ours is called. They have full annexes attached to their goodly-sized caravans stretched to screaming point. These are their dining rooms. Inside these are fully laid well-swept floor coverings, big dining room tables and full set of chairs -- and vases (many vases) of flowers on surrounding oddments of camping furniture paraphernalia throughout. One lady next door to us was bleaching her already immaculately white dining chairs today. On holiday.

As they seem to always eat out in bars and surrounding restaurants I am not quite sure what these massive living spaces are for. They then have elaborate tables and chairs set out in the open air beyond this, then beyond that, their gardens: potted plants from home corralling their territory. But there is more! Beyond their caravans, their annexes, their outdoor settings but tucked in behind the garden boundary they also set up an entirely separate canvas structure--the kitchen: completely outfitted with the prep unit and the kitchen sink. I have yet to see one of these being used as there is no real need for a snazzy kitchen when you eat out. Most Spanish apartments (which is what people here in the north west mainly live in, and they are nearly as high density here as in Hong Kong dwellings, at that!) are not as big as some of these camping set ups. It is all so fascinating.

Today, for a change, the rain dumped on us so heavily that we changed plans twice. We left Gijon in softly falling rain to explore the city of Oveida, only to find it raining even harder in Oveida, so back we shot to the coast, found an amazing campground overlooking the entire bay at Gijon, parked ourselves for part of the afternoon and played cards. Dad lost to Miss Bec, again! Then, as the rain stopped as it always seems to do for us, we walked the forty minutes to town, then back again. A totally brilliant passegiata along with almost the entire population of Gijon along the Passeo Littoral del Santa Lorenzo admiring all the abstract waterfront sculptures enroute. Along the waterfront we took a shot of the iconic Mother of the Immigrants sculpture, as she watches her children sailing away to make a better. Her face wrenchingly anguished.

Tonight we have an entire expanse of city lights out our high bedroom window along, with the soothing sound of crashing wave--and just out to sea there may even be a shadowy silhouette of one of those legendary pirate ships that once controlled these waters, dipping its tallow-oil light as it slips stealthily passed our bay.

We loved this place so much we stayed longer. We walked the old and the new city, ate one of the amazingly good value formula lunches (Four courses: avocado salad with a delicious dressing, followed by a potato and lamb stew. Peter does something very similar in the pressure cooker. This one, tho’, had lots of bay leaf flavour. then a fish and vegetable course, followed by postre which is a dessert, if you can handle it: which we couldn’t!) – as well as a side order of bread and wine, for 10€ each. (That’s 4 courses, plus bread and wine for less than $A17.00 each.)

The Spanish, like Australians, are not, as a general rule, thin. Tho’ they walk a lot, probably more than the average Aussie. In fact, many people walk morning, noon and night, right up until dark, which is currently about 10pm. And so many people eat lunch and dinner out that I often wonder who is actually in the shops when they do open. Here stores close about 1.30pm (depending on the shop) and open between 5pm and around 9 pm. Trade during opening hours is very sporadic in most stores–so much so we wonder how many of them survive.

Today we have driven some 300 kms on roads that are not roads as Aussies know them. They are like extensive bridges built between the tops of mountains. If the road can’t be built through the mountain, in a tunnel (one tunnel we traversed today was 1,500 metres long) then they build what looks like a viaduct, connecting mountain top to mountain top, oftentimes 500 metres above the valleys below. Where these viaduct spans became too immense to be held up by the normal pilons, large arches were especially built to carry their weight.

There is little obvious transition from high to low while driving on these main motorways. As our sat nav is set for zero tolls the more secondary routes we therefore frequent take us deep into every valley and high up every peak, but at the moment we seem to be over the threat of tolls so we’re currently taking advantage of these smooth flat fantastic roads.

The cost for these roads must be in the billions. Here, there is so much new construction gone on this year that the updated satellite navigator maps I downloaded just before this trip are now frequently incorrect. Roads are suddenly appearing in blank spots on the sat navs mapping data – but still we find our way and still we bless our little electronic friend.

I am aware that our main focus on this trip is history and culture. But, culture comes in various shapes and sizes. Tonight proves the point. We have camped just east of A Coruna, heading towards Santiago de Compastela, the city of Pilgrims.

We have been entertained again all afternoon and evening, by the Spanish. And their camping. Tonight we learned a few more amazing things about how the Spanish live in the summer.

We arrived in this obscure little campground where, as usual, not a soul speaks English, but we learned where the showers and toilets were, and we know what we have to pay for the evening, and everyone around us is smiling. Here, in this site, by a Spanish beach, the Spanish take summer camping to an art form. This is Kulture with a capital Kitchen.

Here, instead of the separate loggia style canvas kitchens we have seen being assembled in other campgrounds we’ve been on the coast road, the campers are building their own kitchens. Out of wood. Like Aussie Sheds, but these are kitchens. Attached to their tents, by gravel understories.

One kitchen shed is going in around the corner with fully fitted oak cabinets, electricity, freezer, fridge, and kitchen sink fully plumbed.

We. Are. In. Awe.

Peter is so amazed he is over with our next door neighbours having a discussion (speaking in Aussie while they speak in Spanish: but seemingly they understand each other) about all of this.

I was just invited in for a look see, too, so am now in the know.

It is all quite breathtaking.

Most of the mums and kids will stay here all summer from mid June (next week is Mid-June: not this week) to mid September: dads will come usually only on the weekends. (They have to lunch, siesta and passeo: so they are busy!)

Their caravan set ups stay here all year round usually. The wooden kitchen sheds that are going in around the campground today are all new.

The group next door to us leave their stuff here all year. To leave their rig here all year costs only €1200.

Their dining room is like a harem decor: with brand new floating sultry red curtains: designer: tied in two taut places to each pole, so that it does not billow around the dining room chairs.

Someone has organized for them to have a metre and a half cube of white designer rocks delivered to their campsite. All the campers have access to these rocks.

These are first offloaded and leveled to make the dining-room space, around which go the harem drapes.

Some people even have laminated floor covering fully laid, by the metre – for their entire living areas. (Even for the separate children’s play area which includes full sized doll houses!)

Others are taking home last years linoleum, satisfied with the designer rocks this year.

One lot around the corner have gone for the minimalist look. They have two glass (not wood) structures – extra to their sleeping spaces. Both are tres elegant. One has slim-line orange designer blinds over the glass enterior; the other white Japanese rice paper as blinds.

We are truly being entertained.

The sand, on the beach, is white. The air is pure. There is nothing but fun to be had here from June to September.

God alone knows how the pilgrims got passed here to Santiago, which is only just down the road.

We arrived in Santiago de Compostella. At mid-day we joined all the blistered pilgrims in the pilgrim mass in the Cathedral where, reputedly, the relics of Saint James, the apostle, lie in the vault here.

The cathedral is extraordinary. The exterior is baroque and awesome with stone practically turned to liquid the way the artisan stonemasons have made it twist, turn and curl. The main interior altar is all silver and gold: quite the most amazing bit of baroque bling I have ever seen inside a church.

Six confessors were hearing prayers before and during mass: in full view of the public pilgrims and sinners would face up the the monseignors on their knees to be absolved. One, was so overcome with gratitude at his absolution, that he kissed the priest effusively.

The mass was majestic: with 6 priests and a nun, in pure soprano, leading tens of hundreds of pilgrims in spine-tingling Kyries and Hallelujahs that reverberated in full-bodied chorus throughout those great vaulted spaces laced with giant urns swung pendulously spiking the air with incense.

Beck and I were both in tears: it was just so touching.

Another special place Santiago de Compostella.

Tomorrow, as we’re ahead of schedule, we head for Portugal.