Blog number one-hundred and seven

Our final few days in France on the campsite around the bay from St-Jean-de-Luz were very pleasant, and included the use of the boat taxi for a return journey in to St-Jean-de-Luz itself.

It was run by a couple of blokes who were like a Basque version of Ant and Dec, with banter to and fro, whilst playing DJ on their music system, choosing it would seem, all the Basque favourites. Their timing had to be applauded though, for as we pulled into the harbour on our return journey, we arrived to the theme of ‘The Love Boat’.

For any of you not old enough to know what I’m talking about, check out the ’70’s/’80’s American comedy drama of the same name; it was very popular in it’s day, like The Hulk, Starsky and Hutch or Magnum P.I. (maybe the two lads were older than they looked).

So we packed ourselves up on our final day and headed across the border into Spain. Our aim was to use a slightly different route than usual, mainly hugging the Northern coast, which to us is unfamiliar, and said to be rather wilder and woollier (much like the South coast of England).

We always use distance and travel time as our starting point, then check with the guide books to tell us if a place is worth visiting, but it’s often nice to just rock up somewhere you’ve never heard of before, to see what you might be missing.     

Our first stop was a paid car park allowing motorhomes to stay in the designated spaces for up to 48 hours, at the seaside resort of Lekeitio, it was in the guide book as a resort popular with the Spanish and apparently quite lovely. They weren’t wrong. With a small promenade running along to the beach and an island accessible by a causeway at low tide and the little fishing harbour sitting in front of cafes and restaurants providing plenty of places to sit and have a drink, enjoy some tapas or even a meal.

The town itself had quite an impressive church punching into the backdrop of the mountains behind it, and we spent a while choosing what flavour of ice-cream we wanted on our way back to the van. Unfortunately the weather wasn’t however what you could call stellar, so we only stayed for 24 hours, deciding to head inland where it’s usually a lot warmer.

Having made every effort to pay for parking, the machine didn’t issue a ticket and pressing the information button only raised the exit barrier, so we couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt as we drove out towards our next stop at Haro.

Our route took us up some rather steep climbs, with plenty of switchbacks to get over the mountains and back down the other side, but as we got half way up the mountain, we came to a stand still with a Police officer telling everyone there had been an accident. Our choices were, we could either wait until it was cleared, or turn around and take an alternative route.

Many cars chose the latter option executing a three point turn and heading back downhill. The less fortunate among us, in vehicles too large to turn round however, had no option but to wait the half hour or more until it cleared. Thankfully there was plenty to read on our kindles.

Once we finally got moving and turned the corner, we found a car (presumably trying to make up for lost time sat in the queue) on it’s roof with grass hanging from the rear bumper and a forlorn family stood wondering what had happened. Dear Lord!

Thankfully it appeared no-one was injured and there was room for us to pass, so we made our getaway and on to the motorway where a lorry had managed to overturn at the side of the carriageway; what is it with these people?

As we finally pulled into the free motorhome stop in Haro an hour or two later than planned; we felt we deserved a stiff drink.

Haro, for those who don’t know, is the capital of the Rioja wine region and they sell it by the barrel load here. We have previously visited the place many moons ago, on a long trip in a previous van; when we stopped for their wine festival in June. As you may imagine being a Spanish festival, they don’t exactly do things in short measure, and the wine festival hosts a wine battle, where people walk up into the hills in the morning dressed in white T-shirts and red neckerchiefs, and proceed to throw red wine at each other from any vessel they can. Mainly water pistols, but also crop sprayers, buckets with rollers or the more traditional Bota (the animal skin bag used to drink from). Millions of litres of wine are used with people returning from the hills a lovely shade of purple. It certainly is something else.

This time we had arrived after their festival, so expected a much more sedate affair. The old town itself, is really very picturesque with a main square housing the tourist office, which sits behind a stack of barrels of the various Rioja wines of the region. With lots of places to eat and drink in the square and along the narrow streets running from it, it gets lively in the afternoons and evenings and is certainly worth a visit. It’s worth noting if you arrive in summer, as with many inland Spanish towns; it can get pretty hot.

We stayed a couple of nights, one of which was Saturday, when they had a live band performing on the bandstand who were really quite good. As we stopped for some lunch the following day, there was a definite party atmosphere with an eight piece band following around a group with the men wearing colourful shirts. We think it was probably someone’s birthday, but everyone around certainly made the most of the sounds from the trumpet, saxes, trombone, tuba and drums as they stopped here and there to play a few songs, which got slightly wobblier as the drink went down. 

The weather certainly had hotted up by now, so we headed for the coast stopping on the way hoping it may be cooler being in the mountains. Sadly it turned out to be very hot indeed, with no shade on the motorhome parking for the van (although of course the solar was in need to run the fridge). Fortunately for us, there were trees around the edge of the parking area meaning we could lie out in our hammocks under the shade whilst sucking on ice lollies during the heat of the day. Yes, I know, your heart bleeds.

We ventured in to the little village of Santelices for a quick look to get to the bottom of what all the applauding we had heard was about. It appeared that they were having their festival that day, with people dressed in traditional dress (which looked like too much fabric for this climate, but maybe they are more used to it). There was a large queue of locals wearing wrist bands running to the local village hall and it looked like there were trestle tables being set up inside. We imagined it to be a delicious big hog roast and found ourselves salivating at the thought as we headed back to the van.

From here we got ourselves back to the coast at a resort at Llanes. Another fishing port, but with a quite nice beach backed by mountains, which seemed to be coated in mist or cloud for a good part of the day. We had parked out of the town and could walk along the cliff path, which was quite nicely manicured, in to the town itself. When we first arrived it didn’t look too promising, but as we hit the main beach and the old town behind it, there was quite a lot going on with churches, a castle and other ruins. There were also plenty of places to eat and drink and after salivating over the thought of a hog roast, we decided to grab ourselves a lunch.

As we sat down we noticed many people being brought an unusual contraption to the table with a bottle and glasses. It turns out they are big on cider here and they pour it from a great height to get air into it. This contraption aerates it for you so of course we had to give it a try. It’s perhaps an acquired taste, it had a rather scrumpy like flavour and was fairly high in it’s alcohol content. Thankfully for us it wasn’t hugely expensive which made us feel less guilty about leaving a fair bit of it.

As the weather turned a little wetter, we took the opportunity to go for a walk to another local beach (poo beach), yes I know we’re very immature. We were starting to see more and more signs for the caminho de Santiago and here was no exception. Given the caminho covers hundreds of miles, travelling from various points in England, France and Portugal, culminating at Santiago de Compostela, it’s understandable that you’re going to bump into the path all along this coast, with the yellow shell symbol on blue background pointing the way for pilgrims.

Following the coast along, we headed for an overnight stop at a place called Luarca, which I would say is like a little Cornish fishing village. Finding parking in the village itself therefore, certainly in a van, is difficult; so we chose to stay on a cliff top car park which means you have a rather steep descent down many steps to take a look around. It certainly had the feel of Cornish weather about it and the view from the cliff top is quite something. There are some lovely art deco style buildings and a few ruins dotted about, or as we’ve come to call them; a do-er upper.

So we bounced along the coast stopping at a couple more beach places at Viveiro and Porto de Santa Cruz, which has a view of the rather garish looking A Coruna. Here again, as we walked out to see the castle on it’s little island and back, they were enjoying their festival with a pot fair and people in local dress, playing their version of bag pipes.

Making use of a camper stop which had electricity (given the forecasted rain) we headed inland again for a walk around Santiago de Compostela, watching people with huge backpacks and staffs with shells attached, limping into the main square. Their were more support bandages than I’d seen in a long time, but smiles and looks of exhilaration on faces as people posed to have their photo taken in front of the impressive cathedral. Lots of people were then just wandering looking a little lost. Given the effort they must have put in for the previous days or weeks then finally reaching their target, I guess it must feel that way; and probably how I would feel too.

The weather finally improved and we made a push to our final stop in Spain before heading in to Portugal. The beach resort of Villanova de Aurosa, itself sitting on the caminho trail, offering pilgrims ferries across the expanse of water towards their goal and some of the restaurants announcing that they stamp the pilgrim passport.

We managed to get a space on the camper stop which provided electricity and a little shade under eucalyptus trees, which are always nice to be under with their delightful scent and was only four minutes walk to a rather lovely beach, with beach bars, cafes and restaurants. To get to the town, we crossed the bridge over the estuary rather than take the very long walk inland, which we did on a couple of occasions.

This is apparently the birthplace of a famous dramatist and author Ramon Maria del Valle, born in 1866. So understandably there is a rather impressive statue to the man, taking pride of place in the main street, surrounded by characters from his works, which were by all accounts seen as very radical in their day. Another rather more disturbing statue on the opposite side of the street on the estuary side, appears to be a pregnant man with a silver head. Translating the inscription, and from my understanding, it is something to do with the Pinata festival, but maybe it’s a little lost in translation, or trying to be terribly arty; who knows. 

They did however, have the most amazing children’s play area I have ever seen, with play houses, castle, pirate ship, train on a track (complete with it’s own little station) and, for some reason, a red double decker bus (London style). It was awesome and made me so jealous that I wasn’t still five years old (well apart from mentally of course). 

As with many places in Spain when you order a drink (soft drinks included) you receive a plate of tapas, it’s usually something like a couple of small pieces of bread with ham on top or some olives, but the local cafe here had outdone everyone by providing us with a plate of two chicken drumsticks and a small portion of chips.

What a lovely way to end our time in Northern Spain and, yes, I think we’d definitely come back here again. 

Photo of the week:

There’s always one.