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.

Plaza de Toros, Santona

Fish on the barbie, Spanish style, Santona

Only Altamira replicas are now viewable

Love the pink tiles of Spain 

Glowering Picos de Europa, Spain

Fishing for lunch enroute 

Sculpture "Solidaridad" in Gijón, Spain

A Coruna campsite with permanent living areas

Jewelry shop facade,  Joyería Helvetia, Galicia, Spain

Inn Hospedería San Martín Pinario, Santiago de Compostela

College of Fonseca de Santiago de Compostela

Santiago de Compostela cathedral

A beautiful portion of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela

As Marias sculpture, dedicated to two sisters, Corelia and Maruxa Fandiño, Santiago de Compostela

Formal box hedge garden with skull and crossbones warning of 'fatal flora' often planted in cages,  Santiago de  Compestella, Spain

Hugging the coast of Galicia

We moved into the north western corner of Spain without even a border crossing check today. How times have changed. I remember one summer, a long time ago, being held up several times for several hours apiece at border posts as we crossed in and out of Germany, solely because Peter, with his long hair and beard in the seventies, looked like one of the much sought after Barder-Meinhoff gang. Today he looks more like a variation on Osama but no one even bothers to check if he is.

Initially, it was such a culture shock moving from our month of quiet village hops in rather remote parts of regional France along roads that were barely large enough to have a centre line, into the chaos that is the truck-ridden, smog-infested, labour-intensive autoroute-in-progress (still no tolls paid, Glen and Bill!) that is Spain. Still tonight we searched for peace and are camped high above Saint Sebastian noise -- where we have spent the day revisiting the pinxtos and passeo that makes Spain so special. 

Saint Sebastian is just wonderful. The city sits low and flat on a big fat bay with waves rolling in from the sea and it is surrounded by lush fantastically high green hills, and on the top of each – and you don’t even have to look hard – you’ll find a tall white statue of the Virgin Mary, arms outstretched, looking down on you. 

After a long afternoon exploring the city we joined the passeo there this evening, walking the old city streets (Parte Vieja), the new, and the long stretches of magical paths by the most beautiful bay – La Concha. 

I had forgotten how many teeny tiny old Spanish ladies there are: some still in couples – holding hands at eighty-- but most, now, walking with just their girl-friends. One, two or three old friends walking arm in arm, talking animatedly. In ear-rings. Wearing exquisite makeup. In high heeled shoes, after seven score years and more. Making an effort to look stylish -- purely for their evening walk. While we, in our functional walking boots and goretex jackets (still!), look for all the world like gauche Aussie tourists. Yet still they smile. I so love the Spanish. 

I had forgotten how they gesticulate as they talk. All emotive. The French are reserved in comparison. I had forgotten the beggars in the shabby streets: praying up at you from their favourite possies at the foot of worn columns in the Old City: pleading in their plaintive Latin chant for pennies from heaven to feed their starving children. 

I had forgotten the alcoholics – who bother no one, but lie like stupified lizards on any patch of pavement, or benchtop, in the soft Saint Sebastian sun. 

I had forgotten the gothic ornate white balustrades that decorate Spanish harbours and parks, and the tall ornamented white pedestal lights lined up all over the city. Too many white decorative curlicues can never be enough. The churches in the old and new city are popular with pilgrims. We had special smiles for the ones wearing shells stitched to their clothing. No worn or torn walking gear these days, though. Only the best will do. Berghaus mostly. Poor pilgrims no more. 

The roads between France and Spain have been ripped up. We have been driving over incredibly high coastal mountain roads and down into the deepest little valleys on the narrow roads that often, even on a sat nav, have no name. But, even there, everything is being ripped up. Whole mountain sides have been bulldozed out and bashed into road gravel. Indents in between two mountains have been filled in with ugly layered high density mass dwellings. I don’t think the sat nav has recognised a roundabout since France – so much road work is going on. 

Who is paying for these amazing roads being ripped up and rebuilt? Who lives in these multi-level high density apartments built in the middle of nowhere? It’s as tho’ Northern Spain is expecting in the very near future an influx of major population proportion from another land, and is preparing for it now. Not only is it an amazing expense all this infrastructure – but it is ugly. I won’t even like it when it is all done and there is no work to impede thoroughfare. 

In France, the first home owners’ house and land packages are seriously ugly. They are all tiny villa type dwellings, somewhat similar to an extended hut in a campground but painted pink or beige, usually, with a tiled roof, plonked on any block of land regardless of infrastructure. In Spain, new high density apartment-dwelling is all the go. 

Layer upon layer of hideous pink apartment blocks are being built everywhere, even in rural nowhere: pink or red clay besser block layers of ugly new apartments, filling in the spaces between two hills, destroying the view. Even mountains cut away for gravel look better. At least what’s left after the gravel is removed in layers is natural. While the ancient old stone homes, huts and barns languish: because they are too expensive to renovate. 

I had expected not to like Bilbao – as it has a history somewhat like that of Newcastle: a major coal and iron city -- instead, we stayed longer. We visited (as do millions of others a year) to see Frank Gerhy’s work: the Guggenheim Museum, which was on our Must Visit list – a building somewhat akin to Sydney’s Opera House. It is, architecturally, fascinating. I loved, and hated, different parts of it. Sydney’s Opera House is organic. It makes sense in terms of its lines, space, proportion, materials and its setting. It is almost perfect in its conceptualisation. 

The Guggenheim partly makes sense. And is somewhat similar in conceptualisation. The building looks like two large ocean liners docking, but too quickly, then…c.r.a.s.h! The building that can only really easily be seen from two sides is an agglomeration, a meshing, of this disaster. The ‘crash part’ is abstract, starkly beautiful, full of motion, all hard-edged silver and titanium in both harsh jagged pieces and smooth, perfect, gently-gliding lines: brilliant. A study in motion. Then, you have the rest: the dock bit - bulky, heavy, rectilinear, grey, concrete, dead. Debilitating. That bit of the architecture made no sense to me. That bit needed to be partly distorted along with the other mishshapen pieces in order to organically work. And it needed, like the Opera House, to sit on a huge expanse of water, not the little pool that seems too out of proportion. Space. The building needed more space, air - and water: to float. On all four sides. Then it would have been a truly beautiful piece of work. 

Around it, there is Maman: the copper-tinged arachnoid scupture on spindly legs-- huge, with a fertile egg sac high overhead – looking for all the world as if she has just dropped in from an outerspace Gulliver’s travel set in order to bear her babies. Maman is huge, predatory, protective and -- extraordinarily beautiful. Then there is Puppy. Puppy is a silly massive dog sculpture, which looks as though it has been made by a group of kindergarten kids perhaps using wire supports for flowers in pots. It is almost the height of the Guggenheim and, sadly, it is parked right at the visual front or the museum so that it does little but diminish the entrance. It has little or no grace, style, or taste. I’d like it gone. 

On to the medieval Old Town streets and the magic of the pinxtos bars. The Basques set out plates of pinxtos all along their bars twice a day: at aperitivo time, starting around 11am and before lunch at about 2 -- and then again in the early evening – or txikiteo (chick-e-tay-o) time. Pinxtos etiquette usually involves one drink and one pinxtos at each bar as you go barhopping with your friends searching the city for a later meal menu on offer that suits your fancy. Of the pinxtos we tried we loved the Basque classics of chunky wedges of potato and smoked sausage frittata, and bonito and mashed egg, and the delicious serrano ham. 

At the back of the old town we found the La Ribera Fish Market and spent ages watching the fish mongers (the ladies were so strong) in their white waterproof aprons splattered with blood and gunk hacking away at fish that just that morning had been swimming in the sea. 

We found here tiny little sea creatures being sold that were like nothing any of us had ever seen before--Percebe (pronounced: Per-theb'-ee). They looked like a length of a couple of cut-off joints of a tiny human finger, but a soft red-brown in colour, finished off at one end with a tough looking hard and very ugly grey toenail -- but smelling sea sweet and edible. All the seafood did – despite being served from the most primitive and basic concrete market stalls in almost medieval market conditions with ice, on which all the fresh fish were resting, melting rapidly and falling like rain into open drains in the floor at your feet. 

We took home, instead, thick steaks of salmon for dinner at less than $A10.00 a kilo. Phenomenal flavour. And white asparagus was still around in the fruit and vege market upstairs, but becoming scarce. Though leeks are appearing everywhere, so we’re indulging in vichysoise, now, thanks to the smuggled pressure cooker – and to the cool weather which continues encouraging delicious hot hearty meals.

The Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao

Alderdi Eder gardens, opposite the Town Hall and La Concha bay, San Sebastian

Gorgeous lights,  La Concha bay, San Sebastian

Don Quijote and Sancho Panza, San Sebastian

Countryside after San Sebastian

Coastline before Bilbao

A pilgrim enroute to Santiago de Compostela

Pinxtos in San Sebastian

Restaurante Víctor Montes Restaurant in Bilbao, Spain

Pilgrim sticks outside the Santiago Cathedral in Bilbao

The Mercado de la Ribera is a market square in Bilbao

Teatro Arriaga is an opera house in Bilbao, Spain

Square in Bilbao, Spain

Maman, The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao

Puppy at the Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao

Ornate Cemetery enroute, typical of Latin countries

A Camino route heading to Basque Country

Still heading south almost ready to cross over into Spain we realise that some of our best days have been those that were spontaneous. Like Pau.

We went to Pau for no other reason than we were passing through. We left after having learned so much about the home of the beloved Bourbon king, Henry IV, who was born here. The tale goes that as a baby Henry slept in a beautifully decorated turtle shell. He may well have done, but when we toured the palace, the Chateau of Pau that was his home, there was a monumental bed in the King’s Bedchamber closed in by some stunning, tho’ heavy, Gobelin tapestries hanging on the walls. A somewhat different fairy tale.  Though that may stem from the time that Napolean took a summer holiday there when he was in power.  Lying in state, after a fashion.  

There are many Gobelins in all the major rooms and many a magnificent Sevres vase throughout the three stories that we were able to view. Loved the dining room table. It seated 100 guests and was a magnificent extendable piece that went on for tens of yards, believe it or not, resting on fir trestles for legs, which might make more moveable, if one was so inclined.  

I wonder if the large one at Buck House is as large?

Our next port of call, Bayonne, was another delightful surprise. In the middle ages, Bayonne developed as a beautiful cathedral and cloister city because of its trade links with England. Today it is a charmingly relaxed Basque city, very proud of its Basque heritage, Basque food, and Basque traditions,  with very friendly inhabitants who are much more skilled using English than we are using French.  Here we learned of the art of making traditional Basque Berets, and saw some fine examples of these.

On to Biarritz. Biarritz is one of the most delightful beach cities (it has several beaches) that we’ve ever seen: added to which it is sharply elegant, has amazing shops, astonishing beach views, walks and brilliant climate. Why anyone who wants a beach holiday would ever need to go abroad beats me --Biarritz has it all and more.

On to Ainhoa – probably our last (for this year) most beautiful village in France. This pretty village sits in the Pyrennees foothills in the shadow of some of the greatest walking and cycling mountains between France and Spain -- and all the homes in the village date from the 1640s through to 1750s and beyond -- and are painted in the traditional white and with the heritage red window shutters and doors so typical of the Basque region. Enmasse they are stunning.

The tiny church in this town was one of the most heavily decorated we have yet seen in France: brightly coloured, heavily statued, much gilding. Two brilliant tenors were practising a long session of sacred hymns at the altar, so Beck and I sat enjoying our own private concert. They must have suspected we were cold and, very kindly, turned on the heaters and the lights throughout the church and behind the altar – which promptly threw a blast of phosphorus blue light radiating from behind each heavily gilded statue and, at the same time, haloed the Blessed Virgin, at centre stage, in a complete head and shoulder circlet of Hollywood lights. Very Vegas.

Here we saw our very first Chistera  – the long curved woven basket handmade with reeds and used for hurling the peylote ball in the very popular Basque game of peylote -- and just down the road we saw our first ever fronton court where peylote is played.

We ate farmhouse Basque cheese and cured jambon with a very delicious Basque baked bread for lunch, finished off with a Basque gateau a l’ancienne, that was Basque-plain, even ordinary on the outside, hiding a secret and delicious surprise crème filling.

We have been circling this region from a quiet little village south of Biarritz called Saint Jean-de-Luz, which is on one of the coastal Camino routes to Santiago so we spent much of yesterday climbing the beautiful paths along a spectacular rocky sea-front under the shadow of the big mountain, La Rhune, which, only today has come out of the clouds and showed itself in all its glory.

Saint Jean is a small town with a delightfully colourful history. Witches. Six hundred woman were accused of witchcraft here in 1609, and their fisherfolk husbands were required to rush home from their cod-fishing fun in Newfoundland to ensure their womenfolk were not burnt at the stake.

The Saint Jean menfolk became terrific sailors, corsairs – and privateers -- and spent much time attacking their enemy – the rich private Spanish ships off the coast of South America – the spoils of which made Saint Jean very wealthy.

Today all is quiet on the Saint Jean waterfront but I suspect it breaks out in summer: the beaches must operate like magnets to French holidaymakers.

The Château de Pau is a castle in Pau, France

Bayonne pastries

Bayonne Traditional Basque beret

Bayonne 

Ainhoa tiny heavily decorated church

Oxblood tinted shutters in Ainhoa

Biarritz

Smart recycle receptacles, Biarritz

Basque gateau a l’ancienne

Beautiful Basque region

Cointreau toast at a beach kiosk after our evening walk in Saint Jean-de-Luz

Life on the road

Have had several queries about our camper and how we're going, so here's another entry to fill in those blanks for all who are interested in that aspect of the trip. The camper has come as a complete surprise package. We bought our Lunar Champ online for a song and picked it up in Peterborough. In between trips here each year we are leaving it with friends in Cheshire. It looks smaller in length than I had imagined (though Pete thought it would be exactly as it is, he says) and taller in height. It's 5.55 metres long and 3.05 metres high. I know this by heart as the measurements are glued now to the windshield in case we come across a low-hanging railway or road bridge: having the measures there avoids any panic attacks. 

We are incredibly well organised -- we have to be -- all of us; and we've packed well and have only bought what we will use, so we fit into the small space admirably. Everything has a place, and everything needs to be in its place and stowed -- or the camper rebels and starts throwing things about once you're moving. With three of us 'wild camping' most nights we also have to be very organised about who is in what space when, and how much water we use and why, etc. so we've developed some really good working routines -- one of which means Pete gets to sleep in latest every morning. Which suits him. 

The motorhome is surprisingly comfortable and drives remarkably smoothly--and I have to regularly compare it to our Rodeo, which is not and does not. Unlike the Rodeo, this turns on the head of a pin, has excellent gearing, and is, according to Pete, easy to drive--despite only being a 2 litre instead of the 3 he might have preferred. 

To my mind it drives like a comfy small bus. It goes uphills without missing a beat and keeps on keeping on. Very stoic little beast. We are becoming quite fond of her. So, we have been nothing but delighted with all of that so far. However, she has some very lightweight fittings in her interior (to keep the overall weight down is the argument. All motorhomes are built along the same lines and it's quite a bone of contention amongst the consumers.) and in our very first week we've probably managed to temporarily wreck everything that was even a teeny tiny bit suspect, or fragile, about the interior fittings. 

We likely did more damage in that first week than any of the previous users of the van did in the 2 years it was hired out. But, as it turned out, all of it was essentially superficial stuff that while easily 'broken' was just as easily fixed. We broke the connection on the dining table where it meets the wall. Repaired with an even stronger Euro slide fitting bought enroute at a French Bricomarche. We've dragged stone chips in on the soles of our walkers and scratched the faux wood floor covering. The ensuite bathroom window is currently duct-taped until we get back to the UK where we will know how to ask for the correct screws that we need in order to screw it back into place (because we forgot the lesson that if you leave the camper windows open while you're driving they're built to slide off, and it nearly did). We've tightened many a loose screw. We've bruised the kitchen bench top with a bottle of lemonade falling out of the top cupboard and lightly scratched the outside paintwork with low flying branches in the narrow lanes that we love--and we've left behind our brand new outdoor mat at the bottom of the stairs. Twice. The last time we didn't bother going back for it since it didn't seem to want to live with us. 

We had a great orientation with the previous owner before we drove the camper away, then must have promptly forgotten everything he said, because, today, even after nearly 4 weeks we are still discovering new and unusual things we didn't know, or don't remember, about how things work in the vehicle. Luckily, there are many manuals which occasionally we think to pull out to refer to. The only thing we still haven't tried is the oven. It has an amazing kitchen and enormous cupboard space which we don't even fill, but heck!--weren't planning on lamb roast for meals and we're not having Tom Cruise to dinner. We do, however, use the oven grill-every morning for brilliant baguette toast. Bec's bed is the table collapsed into a double. Our bed is upstairs in the luton space and is queen size, made on those stretched Japanese-style slats and is wickedly comfortable. So, all working well. 

Besides buying the camper the next best purchase we made for these planned trips was the satellite navigator. Every day one of us says that it is worth its weight in gold. It has taken us most places with hardly a beep, and the one or two minor blips we've had are not the fault of the sat nav, but ours: for not reading or hearing the directions properly. After nearly a month in France, last night I heard Pete tell our next door neighbour, quite smugly, (please be warned, Glen and Bill. I fear he is out to gloat!) that he has not paid one single Euro on any motorway toll in France. That, then, appears to be his modus operandi for our trips. We go the long way. Which suits all of us. As usually they are the most scenic.

We sleep remarkably well, we eat disgustingly well, and we walk most days until we're plodding. We need to. We're just back, actually, from our second walk today watching the sun slide down over the Bay of Biscay while drinking Grand Marnier at nearly ten o'clock in the evening on the sand outside a little beach cabana with a big view. We find markets most days and that would be one of the joys of our days if it wasn't for Rebecca. Rebecca (thanks to Ian -- lord, Ian, you will pay for this!) was well drilled in Essential French before she left home. Ian taught her that the most important thing she had to remember if someone said, or gave her something, was to say: "Messy!" You will be chuffed to know, Ian, that not only has she perfectly mastered the 'Messy'-- accompanied, I might add, by a high-pitched cackle each time, as she remembers you teaching her this--she now has graduated to 'Bon---' in front of everything. Which she remembers, also, because of you and which gets another cackle with each use. Now, Ian, I will have you know that the French are moderately restrained folk. When someone cackles so unrestrainedly in a French marketplace, on a daily basis, it tends to be rather obvious. Heads turn. Yours, my friend, may roll when we arrive home. 

The other thing worth commenting about is that when you travel with Peter you rarely, if ever, stop: not even to read a Sunday paper. He has this WASP-ish notion, that a minute spent in self-indulgence might lead to some secret devil's business, I think. So Beck and I don't get much rest. We wake early. We get to sleep late. And there's a lot going on between those two happenings. Pete doesn't sit still well, so, a lot of things get covered. But it's all fun. 

Another little tidbit: I doubt a day goes by when we don't hear British accents--and we are not talking tourists here. We're talking people who now live and/or work in France. This decade must have seen a massive English invasion to this part of France. There are English people working in hairdressers, hardwares, mechanical repairs, real estate--you name it, they are here in droves. Even on the Cote Basque, where locals are so proud of their Basque heritage, there are shop signs duplicated in English. I wonder what history will deduce when it comes to this episode of English exodus? It is now 11pm and I am off up onto my wonderful flexible Japanese slats for what little rest I can grab before a big day out on the Basque hills tomorro

Our trusty Lunar Champ which we love

Large oven, sink and hob all quite streamlined

Bathroom and shower

Our dining table which collapses to Bec's double bed

There is a Queen bed up in the Luton above the cab and wardrobe

Miss Bec always finds a friend

We hunt out the unusual and the absurd

We do a lot of walking every day

We often need to find a quick pullout on narrow roads to shoot an idyllic  setting