San Sebastian

First things first, I apologise for taking so long to write this next instalment of my travel journal. In case you’re wondering what I’ve been doing in the 13 months since I last wrote about my travels, I arrived home in early March of 2009 (much to my disappointment) and lost myself in the routine of day-to-day life. I am relocating to Paris in July, and the prospect of more time overseas has urged me to resume writing. I ended my last entry by boarding an overnight bus from Barcelona to San Sebastian…

San Sebastian is a popular beach resort on the Spanish north coast, part of the Basque Country and not far from the French border. This small and beautiful town runs along a wide, sweeping bay and is bookended by two small, steep mountains. It is also the only place on my trip where I managed to lose any of my possession: arriving in the early morning after a long and sleepless night on the bus from Barcelona, I stumbled off the bus in a haze and left behind my novel and a postcard of Max Ernst’s “Virgin Mary Spanking the Christ Child before Three Witnesses”. I’m still irritated that I lost it.

The town was suffering heavy rainfall and icy winds when I arrived, and my first port of call was to book a ticket on an overnight bus to Madrid, departing the very same night. Not for the first time, I felt I had become spoilt with easy travel arrangements and good accommodation, and the only way to recover some of the chaos and uncertainty inherent in backpacking was to do so deliberately.

A short walk around the old town left me in no doubt that my raincoat was merely water-resistant. Determined to make the most of the day, I splashed my way around Urgull, the small mountain that looms over the old town, finally taking refuge in a tiny naval museum. The museum was devoted to the contributions of Basque navigators to the exploration of the Philippines, USA, Mexico and Pacific islands, and it was here that I discovered the Basque language. All of the signage was bi-lingual, Spanish and Basque, and I was able to understand moderate amounts of the Spanish due to similarities with French, Italian and even English. The Basque text, on the other hand, was an impenetrable alphabet soup consisting predominately of k’s and x’s.

Reluctantly leaving the museum to once again face the wrath of Nature, I was relieved to find that despite heavy cloud cover, the rain had stopped. I strolled to the summit of Urgull, more hill than mountain and wound in an network of slippery stones paths. Near the top I met a Spanish nun, who was excited to see my Essendon Bombers beanie, apparently mistaking it for a local soccer (sorry, football) team called the “Bomberados”. We spent a few minutes smiling, gesturing and failing to understand a single word the other said. The summit of Urgull is adorned by a towering statue of Jesus, sitting atop an old military fort that has since been turned into a museum. Once again, Spanish and Basque were the only languages on offer, but it was worth the visit solely for the views over La Concha’s bay and away to the gentle hills rolling inland.

I whiled away the afternoon hours strolling through the old town, washed clean and now glistening in the pale sunlight. It could have been my imagination, guided by the knowledge that San Sebastian is extremely close to France, but the buildings appeared to show French influences. Bright sandstone buildings were a novel sight, bringing to mind the Old Law building at the University of Melbourne.

The narrow streets were lined with tiny, quirky stores and far more bars than could possibly be healthy. Further along the bay the old town gradually gave way to slightly more modern buildings, still crammed between tiny winding streets. Occasional glimpses of the coast kept me from getting lost and I found my way to the quaint Miramar Palace, surrounded by lovely gardens that offered what would presumably be picturesque views out to sea, if only the clouds were lifted. The far end of the bay is capped by a steep hill, but with the evening hours drawing near I only approached the base, admiring the courage of the surfers and kayakers who were busy riding the cold grey surf.

Under constant assault from the clouds of spray, hurled from the ocean as wave after wave slammed into the rocks, some modern statues supposedly signify something about the town and it’s relationship to the ocean. I would not have known this without the tourism office’s town map — the statues appeared to this (untrained) eye as mere lengths of steel drilled into the rock. Returning to the center of town, I was much more impressed with an exhibition showing entries for the “International Wildlife Photographer of the Year”. The photos were absolutely amazing, and some of the entrants were barely old enough to be in high school. I was left in no doubt of how limited my photographic ability truly is.

Having long-since eschewed travel guides such as the ubiquitous Lonely Planet (except in cases of extreme need), in my hunt for a meal I asked a local man for recommendations. In a town where tiny bars cram into every available space, I was directed to a place no bigger than a small living room, with an outdoor area of similar proportions. I struggled both with reading the menu and placing my order, but the traditional San Sebastian dish of squid cooked in their own ink (the thick black sauce a not-so-subtle hint) was piping hot and magnificent. My first attempt at ordering the local beer somehow resulted in a Heineken, but second time was the charm and the glass of “Keler” was decent, if nothing to write home about (yet I am doing exactly that). Meanwhile the locals routinely moved from bar to bar, nonchalant and obviously not burdened with the curse of an early start the next morning. I did not join, for fear of missing the midnight bus to Madrid.