Thought about a run this morning, then thought about something else instead.
We spent the morning scouting the rest of the city, trying to come to terms with the bizarre conglomeration of natural beauty and urban chic. Here we have a splendid municipal hall and plaza, and a dense network of shopping streets; but over here, a few yards away, is a low wall, beyond which is a fabulous, golden beach, craggy cliffs and a froth of surfers padding along the sand. While looking in a window of a department store in one of the smarter streets, a man puffing on a cigarette slaps past in full wet-suit, goggles and flippers on his way to the beach. High above the city are hills capped with churches and monuments, wagging an admonitory finger at the sinning masses below. But a great place.
Serendipity led us to this grand farmhouse in the hills above Hondarribia, twenty miles or so along the coast towards France. I spent a fruitless hour in an internet café in San Sebastian this morning, looking for a reasonably-priced hotel in the area. Frustrated, I went for a bracing stroll along the… the urban seashore, wondering what to do next. Just beyond the bay I came across a shop promoting something called Agrotourism, which I presumed to be something to do with football supporters travelling overseas. But no, it was about urban types like us, visiting muddy places in pursuit of leisure. I went in and had a chat, and a few beaming minutes later, we had a farmhouse in Hondarribia for the night at about £30 all in.
It took us a while to find the place. Iketxe eventually appeared at the end of a 3 mile track off the main road into the town. 3 miles of single-track road, desperately hoping we wouldn’t meet another driver, and particularly not a Spanish one, brought us to this absolutely delightful farmhouse high up on the side of a wooded valley. A friendly dog called Pedro trotted out to meet us, and show us the way. I don’t talk Dog, and my Spanish Dog is even worse, but we managed to get along pretty well.
Paxti, the proprietor, a jolly man of around 50, greeted us and showed us round. Being the low season, we had a choice of rooms, and went for the one with the terrace overlooking the valley behind the house. Too cold to sit out for long but no matter, the pleasure of just being out there, gulping lungfuls of rural Spain, was too exhilarating to pass up.
We unloaded the bags, then drove back into the town to have a look around. Not for the first time on this trip, the rain has been tipping down all day. It didn’t matter. It made the stroll along the sea-wall even more energising. Rain gets a bad press, but you just have to learn how to deal with it. Like grasping the proverbial nettle. Show it too much fear, and it will just make you wet and cold.
It rained on your holiday? How terrible! What rotten luck!
Did I care? I did not care. I enjoyed it. And as I stood alongside those crusty Basque fishermen on the sea wall this afternoon, watching them cast their lines and exchange their shouted banter, I suppose I did wonder if I’d rather be back at my desk in Shepherds Bush. Briefly.
The lashing rain, the guys cackling and winding in their empty hooks, the beakers of Rioja being filled and drained in one smooth movement. Someone played a recorder, and a young girl stood on the wall and sang some kind of hymn at the top of her voice.
Did I wish I was somewhere else? No.
To travel is to live.
We drove for a few miles along the coast. Arriving at a small town, we parked up to buy some provisions for this evening. Wandering round this charming place, it dawned on us that we were in France. We’d driven across the border without any restriction; in fact there was no border. We called into a deli to buy some bread and cheese and olives and salami and wine, and reminded ourselves how good it is to be European. France-Spain, Spain-France. It didn’t matter.
Back at the farmhouse this evening, we sprawled in the large, wood-panelled room and read, and ate our bread and cheese and olives and salami and wine. I drank the 98 Bouzy, M her freshly-squeezed orange juice. Bloody heaven it was; bloody heaven.
