In pursuit of the errant goat/New Wave pretensions.

I can't remember if this is our fourth or fifth visit to Donostia. We have got the the stage of heading straight to our favourite spots rather than rushing about exploring here and there. That being said, we still had unfinished business. The pintxos bars scattered through the city tend to be famed for a particular speciality, one place for exceptional tortillas, another for highly inventive small morsels centred on gambas. 

Bar Gorriti is a small, unassuming spot beside Brexta Market. It is frequented more by locals than tourists; the service is brusque and off-hand, but its queso de cabra con tomate secco concoction is much celebrated. Twice before we have attempted to sample it, both times they had sold out. Would it be third time lucky? Sadly not. Still, my tortilla with anchovies and Gill's grilled courgette on a ratatouille base kicked off our pintxos fest in style.

Despite these delights I felt a bit sad. We had just wandered around Brexta market looking to buy some bananas. There were none, how can a fruit market run out of bananas? This was not the reason for my low spirits. On previous trips we had always enjoyed the innovative pintxos to be found at Bar Akenza in the basement of the market hall. It disappeared off Google maps a year or so ago, I suspected it had closed. It was true, but seeing the place covered in tarpaulin was a sorry sight indeed, but nothing lasts forever. Gill asked at the butcher's stall next door if they knew why it had gone. "He just decided to finish" came the reply.

It dawned on us time was not on our side if we wanted to sample some other places. Pintxos bars operate into the small hours, but close from mid afternoon until around sevenish. The clocks changed yesterday, our appetite had not adjusted yet, so we had made a tardy start to our pintxos quest. Quite a few places had not opened at all; after the weekend 's culinary exertions maybe Monday was a day of rest for most pintxos chefs. 

However Bixigarri Taberna was open, had good reviews on Google and two empty bar stools inside.

I had a fishy themed stack and a squidgy round thing which might have been called a croquette if it had been tubular. They complimented the white Rueda perfectly. Gill went for a tortilla and something else which disappeared so quickly I could only snap her empty plate.

These days two drinks at lunchtime is more than enough. The afternoon was warm, some benches with a view of Monte Urgull and the old fishing port beckoned. We needed a rest. We take thousands of photos on our phones as we travel. The law of averages create a handful of nice shots. Sometimes a bit of skill, judgement and persistence comes into it too, resulting in a pleasing composition. Rarely does a picture compose itself naturally, appearing before you as a compelling image as if by magic. It did now. Click!

The scene was fleeting, ten seconds later two young women sat down in front of us. The momentary composure of receding triangles - bodies in repose, relaxed limbs, beyond them the foreshortened harbour wall, Monte Urgull's imperfect pyramid in the background and the ephemeral beauty of how girl's white shoe brushed the left hand corner of the picture without breaking the frame, this split second poise evaporated instantly when the two girls arrived, but the camera outfoxed time's inexorable flux and seized the day's frail moment of perfection.

There was something in the image's odd mix of intimacy and formality, simultaneously ephemeral yet inadvertently artful, that struck me as somewhat Nouvelle Vague. Just for fun I tried giving it a Left Bank 'Jean Luc' vibe by using the monochromatic 'vogue' filter on the camera app. 

Displayed in black and white the couple in the foreground become more dominant. Thinking about it, the scene is actually profoundly conventional which is why it was so startling when it occurred in front of me naturally, without any intervention on my part. Classically heteronormative, how different the picture would seem if the two in the foreground were a same sex couple, or even if you swapped genders so the woman cradled the man. In all likelihood this would happen very rarely indeed,  because for all the progress we have made regarding gender equality, on the street overt romantic behaviour between women and men is still far more common and accepted than between same sex couples. Public behaviour tends to lag behind our more liberal impulses; the prejudices of crowds perhaps far more powerful than their supposed wisdom .

While I played with my phone camera app Gill was WhatsApping with Sarah who was following our pintxos quest vicariously from Hackney. 'You cannot leave without going to the prawn place," she instructed, adding, "They were so good I think about them all the time." She sent a link. Bar Goiz Argi was less than 100m away, but what were the chances of it being open mid-afternoon on a Monday?

The door was ajar but there were no customers. Quite clearly the owner was moments away from shutting up shop. 

Gill has steely determination and a sunny smile, it's a winning combination, the guy agreed to cook us some prawns.

They were very special, though probably I won't take to day-dreaming about them like our daughter. One more round of pintxos meant another round of drinks. It had to be Txakoli, the dry white wine unique to the Basque country, ever so slightly petillant, bar staff usually pour it into the glass while holding the bottle above their head, just to give it a little more fizz. The guy in Goiz Argi was having none of the theatrics, it was past closing time, we could have the prawns but not the show.

Now I was wrecked. I can't drink at lunchtime these days and still  prone to post-Covid fatigue when I overdo it. We took a very slow stroll back to the station. I wrote a few years ago how Donastia seemed to me to be epitome of a civilised city. Taking it slowly we had time to appreciate its wide boulevards full of spring flowers. Yes, there is a profound civility about the place.

After the recent cold snap the warm afternoon seemed like a luxury. People were making the most of it, cafes doing a brisk trade, a few hardy souls had even ventured into the sea. 

It's one of those places that you cannot leave without a pang of regret, but this is ameliorated by the certain knowledge that you can return; life is not always difficult, there is always hope when we share good things together - this is Donastia's message to the world. We need to heed it.

Two small ports.

We decided to move on from Camping Villaviciosa, it is in a pretty location but exploring the locality without a car proved difficult. An ideal place to stop if you have a caravan, less so in a motorhome. There are many campsites on the Costa Verde but most don't open until Easter. Areas autocaravanas, both official and opportunistic are thin on the ground whatever the season. However there was one site open nearby at Ribadesella, so we headed there. The site is quite basic but serviceable. The small resort and fishing port of Ribadesella is less than a kilometre away; we spent a pleasant couple of days here once we got over a slightly shaky start.

Most of the time we have been in Iberia the weather has been in the news, but in a somewhat contradictory way. Some articles concerned how low Spain and Portugal's big inland reservoirs were. So low that hydro-electric stations had suspended power generation with a view to saving water for human consumption and agriculture. Yet at the same time the media was full of stories of local downpours and flooding, and without a doubt from our own experience the weather has been wetter and cooler than we have experienced on previous trips. Perhaps it's the case that there has been lots of rain, but in the wrong places.

Locals too remarked on how wet it had been, including the owner of Camping Ribadesella when he came to help us unstick the moho after we became bogged down on an apparently flat grassy pitch. In fact it does not take much moisture at all for the van's front wheels to start spinning around on wet grass. We carry Milenco plastic treads with us which usually fix the problem. This time neither they nor the extra traction from me, the burly German guy next door and his less than svelte wife pushing from the front could move us an inch; the front wheels simply spun around and made an ever deeper furrow. 

It's the only negative thing about the van, the one area where our previous moho was better, built on a Ford Transit chassis, with double wheels at the back and rear wheel drive it didn't simple grind to a halt, mud, sand, steep banks, it went up anything.

Anyway, getting stuck must be a common problem here because the owner had plenty of gravel, a big wheelbarrow and a hefty shovel to hand. He took control, hopped into the drivers seat and we were soon back on tarmac, no worries apart from being a bit mud spattered. He reckoned that they had a very rainy November and the ground had yet to recover. A very amenable and helpful chap, the next time we bumped into him he was busy getting together a load of gear in preparation for cooking paella for 300 hundred people.

Minor crisis over we unloaded the bikes and headed towards the seafront. Ribadesella's setting is spectacular, a big crescent shaped beach runs between two rocky headlands.

The esplanade is lined with modernista style villas and hotels. 

Big mountains loom over the town, it reminded me for some reason of Erbalunga in North Corsica. 

The historical centre and fishing port lies behind the beach on the eastern bank of estuary of the river Sella. It developed initially as a whaling port. We decided to explore the opposite bank the next day. 

One final thing intrigued us, where did all the driftwood come from? The beach next to the river mouth was littered with it, not just branches and twigs but entire tree trunks. 

More mysterious still was the way it was the only material on the beach, you would expect the wood to be entangled with other flotsam, bits of fishing gear, plastic waste and general junk. 

No, only bone white wood as if it had been placed there deliberately like some kind of latter-day Dada art installation. Of course this couldn't be the case, but how had it occurred naturally?

The next morning we rode back into town and locked our bikes next to the tourist information office. After mooching about beside the fish quay (usual topic of conversation - why do Spanish inshore fishing boats look more neat and tidy than British ones?), we headed along a paved footpath leading to the rock formations on the eastern side of the harbour.

A series of ceramic tiled boards have been erected by the path recounting the history of the town. They were engaging, recreating scenes from the past in cartoon style, part Hergé, part Picasso.

The first one covered pre-history, which it should as the famous caves of Altamira are nearby, and less famous examples prehistoric cave art exist just outside the town. People have lived here for tens of thousands of years, though not quite in the way depicted on the boards.

The Roman period, Middle Ages, Renaissance and the age of Emigration each had an equally entertaining  treatment..

The modern period ended with the coming of the railway and the development of the seaside resort in the early twentieth century. 

The Civil War was conspicuous by its absence.

After a few minutes mooching about among the rocks by the harbour mouth we decided to find somewhere for lunch. 

Asturias is cider country and Ribadesella's quayside is lined with siderias all offering interesting tapas, mostly seafood dishes. In our enthusiasm to find somewhere in a sunny spot somehow we managed to choose a place where the food was mediocre. We consoled ourselves with the thought that it's impossible to make the right call every time. 

However, it was not the boring food which will remain in our memory. The waiter was very odd, a bit disheveled and unsteady on his feet and clueless about how to set the table. When the food did arrive he stumbled towards us, plates wobbling precariously. It had the potential to be funny, like Mrs Overall come to life. Actually, it was sad and upsetting, it was difficult know what his issues were, but he was clearly in a bad way. 

Maybe this coloured our impression of the town, which, for a small place had a certain grandeur about it, but somewhat faded. 

However, as well as fishing, tourism is the place's mainstay and after a long winter and the beginning of the season at Easter still a couple of weeks away, I suppose it is unsurprising that Ribadesella looked less than vibrant.

We reached the main square, I paused to take a picture of a commemorative bust. I had not heard of Augustin de Argüelles, but certainly recalled the famous constitution he wrote in Cadiz in the early years of the nineteenth century. 

If you visit the city it's difficult to ignore it, an enormous white marble sculpture in Constitution Square commemorates the document and the short-lived progressive Republic it ushered in. For some reason I find it pleasing when small places engender big, world changing ideas. Of course the French and American constitutions are the ones we tend to think of as precursors of modern democratic political systems, but the Enlightenment produced others, more liberal and progressive than those, but too ahead of their time to prevail. Pasquale Paoli's Corsican constitution of 1755 was one, The Republic of Cadiz was another, developed in 1812, and now I know by whom, Augustin de Argüelles, Ribadesella's most illustrious son. I love trivia!

Where next? We decided to drive a few kilometres east to Asturias most popular holiday spot, Llanes. When we got there we didn't like the area autocaravanas next to the lorry park and the automatic payment system seemed overly complicated. 

Onwards! Gill phoned two places near Comillas, it was Saturday, both were full. It probably was not a smart move to try to move at the weekend. We were keeping an eye on the weather too, three more days of sun then back to unsettled conditions throughout the north of Spain and the whole of France. 

We decided to keep driving until we reached the Basque country. What about three nights at Zumaia? We like the town and its campsite and it has a regular train to Donastia; what better way to say adiós España than with a pintxos or two?

It was late afternoon by the time we reached the site. There were only a couple of pitches left. "I don't know what's going on!" the woman on reception exclaimed. "Last weekend we were almost empty, now almost full." I suspect we were not the only motorhomers from the north who realised that early spring on the Costa Verde and Costa Vasco was inexplicably sunnier and warmer than in Murcia or Andalucia.

In the last post I said that odd and second rate campsites massively outnumber well run ones. Happily Camping Zumaia is definitely in the minority. Apart from the fact it is situated on a steep hillside everything else about it is excellent. The people who run the place are great too, friendly, welcoming and efficient.

There is a lot to like about Zumaia itself as well. Maybe it is not as picturesque as Ribadesella as the town specialises in ship repair rather than fishing. So even on a Sunday the distant roar of sandblasters on metal and the scream of angle grinders can be heard from the outside tables of quayside bars and cafés. Surely that is a good thing, because it gives the place purpose, a reason to exist.

The place listed on TripAdvisor as having the most innovative pintxos was shut. For 'technical reasons' a notice on the door intimated somewhat intriguingly. We squeezed in at 'Kraken' a few doors down. Most of the tables had been reserved, which is always a good sign. 

We wanted a snack rather than lunch. The half portion tostas we ordered were delicious, these, plus a wine for Gill and a small beer for me cost €15. 

Even something as simple as a 'toastie' had been made with care. Mine was topped with cheese, mushroom and caramelised onion, the ingredients had been carefully prepared and layered so each flavour came through then mingled. The person who had made it knew how to cook, it hadn't come pre-packaged in cellophane to be bunged into a grill as an afterthought by someone working behind the bar.

A visit to Zumaia has to include the geo-park. In terms of visual appeal the cliffs overlooking the town's beach must be among the most remarkable on the planet.

The perfection of the wavy strata, and the saw-tooth effect of the jagged outcrops looks far too regular to have simply happened by accident, but it did. 

Even though it was high tide and most of the horizontal strata were underwater, nevertheless it was a magnificent sight, and somewhere we will never tire of returning to.

The sense of pride in the region is palpable, mainly because the inhabitants don't regard Eskuadi as a region at all. Wales and Scotland are not regions of Great Britain, the Basque country politically may be a region of Spain, but not culturally.

It is a whole different country.

To the lighthouse, and other Asturian misadventures.

In a world where life seems ever more mediated on-line, our choices commodified and everything we do comes bundled as a package, independent campsites remain unapologetically idiosyncratic. Over the past eight years we have stayed in hundreds of them all over Europe and beyond. I swear the weird and quirky outnumber the welcoming and well organised by a factor of more than 5:1. 

Even top notch places with infinity pools, water slides or a wellness spa can display some inexplicable peculiar aspect. For example there's the lovely site in Bolneuvo with a fabulous Arabic baths themed shower block and direct beach access, so popular with the wrinklies of every northern European nation seeking Spanish winter sun that it is almost impossible to bag a pitch if you are touring. If you do, you feel lucky for about half an hour. Then the place's strangeness begins to dawn on you. The pitches are in a rectangular grid, each nation has purloined a particular patch, with national flags big and small fluttering from every gleaming Cathargo, Pilote, Roller Team or Autotrail. It's like an adult version of Disney's 'It's a Small World 

Then there is the perfectly lovely site on the outskirts of Moraira. Situated on a hill with a nice view of the bay glimpsed through pines trees which shade each terraced pitch; it is a place we return to whenever we are heading along Spain's Mediterranean coast. However, it's not the sea view that makes it memorable but the sanitary block doors. Male and female are distinguished by a lifesize photo covering the door - a smiling twenty-something, glowing with health, like you might find on a toothpaste or suncream advert. A nice idea you might think, certainly unequivocal, you are never going to barge through the wrong door, confusing cabellaros with senoras. However, what makes the 'optics' truly memorable is the way both bright young things have been snapped perched on the loo with their pants around their ankles. You see, quirky, idiosyncratic, you would never find this in a restaurant or hotel, but for some reason it is acceptable on a campsite.

So far as idiosyncrasies go, where we are staying at the moment - Camping Villaviciosa displays a variant of the Moraira site's peculiarity, less improper but weirder. Again, as in the previous place there is a lot to like about where we are, the rural setting, neat grassy pitches marked by neat hedging, a woodland ambience, all lovely. 

There is a conventional shower block down by reception, but in the low season it is closed. I suppose the smaller one up the hill is easier to clean. It's not terrible, even if it does occupy a couple of re-purposed shipping containers. It offers winter wanderers a choice of four individual bathrooms, each with a toilet, washbasin and shower. Though hardly luxurious, they are functional and the showers warm with a decent pressure. Outside there are two commercial sized washing machines and the washing up sinks have plenty of hot water. All good so far. 

In a failed attempt to conceal the shower block's former life stacked up in Europoort the exterior had been jazzed-up with big murals. The facade has an Alice in Wonderland theme. Access to bathrooms one and two is through Alice's enormous face, three and four entered via the giant caterpillar. 

The lock is broken on door number three so it hangs ajar; this makes the caterpillar look like a Cyclops drawn by Maurice Sendak on acid. It is all a little unnerving. 

I wish now I had taken a photo of the shower block after dark. It is at night that the peculiarity of the sanitary arrangements can be fully appreciated. The place is illuminated by a long florescent strip light running the length of the facade. It's effect is twofold, firstly draining all colour from the murals, so when standing at the washing-up sinks you are confronted by Alice's deathly grey face with a big monochrome caterpillar looming ominously beside her. Secondly, it turns washing-up into a vaguely psychedelic experience - my bottle of lemon scented Fairy Liquid glowed as if transformed into liquid amber, the white mugs went acid blue, our blue plates looked almost black and the soapy water was very trippy, the suds winked at me, some glitteringly silver, others rainbow hued. I gave up on mind altering drugs over four decades ago, I found myself musing that maybe a changed state of consciousness is not always such a bad thing, especially given the state of the world at the moment.

We put up with strange campsites because it is a small price to pay to be able to travel inexpensively through beautiful places, and the coast of Asturias is particularly lovely in early Spring. Even so, our attempt to explore the locality was not without mishap either. Camping Villaviciosa is handy for the motorway but not for the coast; it is about 5kms from to nearest beach down a steep hill, Google maps warned us. While the NHS remains uncertain as to whether Gill needs a knee replacement, cycling up steep hills even on an e-bike is something we try to avoid. Instead of heading to the nearest beach at Selerio we noted a tangle of minor roads leading to a lighthouse at Cabo Lastres. Gill likes lighthouses, it seemed to be closer than the beach and we figured because it was on a cliff-top the road to it would not be as steep.

This proved to be an excellent example of how a set of perfectly reasonable assumptions can be way off kilter in practice. Google maps cycling layer is great for planning bike friendly routes but it has limitations. One of them is it does not distinguish between a country lane, a bike track and a greenway suitable for off-road adventures. The route to the lighthouse involved all of these, but featured the latter more than the former.

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The other flaw in our plan related to a misapprehension regarding the topography. We were correct in our assumption that the cliff-top lighthouse was roughly at the same altitude as the campsite. What we failed to appreciate is that the Asturias coast is like Devon on steroids, the hinterland of the coast is criss-crossed by steep coombes, the rough tracks to the lighthouse snaked up and down, there was a bewildering network of them, without Google maps' strident verbal instructions we soon would have become utterly lost.

Undoubtedly the route we took was full of hidden delights. It took us off the beaten track, down farm tracks little used by tourists. The deep valleys meant the sea was out of sight, but the wooded countryside and emerald green fields were beautiful, and occasionally you got a glimpse of the snow-capped Picos de Europa in the distance.

Nevertheless we were in a bit of a pickle, it was really hard going, especially as we are still suffering from post-Covid fatigue. Our problem was that we now were equidistant from the nearest well surfaced road and the lighthouse. We decided to press on hoping when we reached the lighthouse it would have an asphalt road to it as well. 

 There was no way we could glean this from Google maps as we had strayed beyond the reach of Streetview, which is the nearest thing we have in the 21st century to Dr. Livingston style unexplored territory.

What made progress even slower was the condition of the track in the cleft of each valley. The recent rains had made them very muddy, tractors had churned them up, so they were deeply rutted and full of big puddles. The only way across was to creep past the briars at the edge carrying the bikes. After three such sections I began to get exhausted. Impressively Gill pushed her bike up the steep hill beyond at pace while I struggled, getting ever further behind like a geriatric Labrador. It was only when she paused to let me catch up that I discovered she had been using a feature on her bike that I don't have. The throttle allows her to push the bike at walking speed while using the electric motor. So while she trotted along beside her self powered bike I had been pushing all 26kgs. of mine over rough ground up a 20% slope. No wonder I was wrecked.

Finally we reached an asphalt road with a view of the sea and the lighthouse. It is a magnificent coast. 

Nearby, vertiginous cliffs with the wild Atlantic fizzing below, in the distance green hills with snowy mountains beyond, it is called Costa Verde not without reason. 

We plotted our return journey using the car setting on Google maps to make sure we used a proper road. It was a little further but took half the time. 

Still, we had set out for a gentle pedal but had a small adventure instead. In retrospect it was fun, but not really a good idea in terms of our convalescence.