Before moving to Charente Maritime, I noticed on the map that the Pyrenees are not very far away. Close enough for a day trip! Somehow it hadn't happened, though. Last week I decided it was about time to cross this one off the list of things to do. One day isn't sufficient for admiring mountains, so it would be two days, with sleeping bag in the car. I set off on Thursday morning.
It took nearly an hour to get around Bordeaux, even though it was no longer peak-time rush. After Bordeaux the motorway becomes dual-carriageway, covered in lorries from all over Europe. I wonder why they don't use trains or ships for such long distances? There was even a lorry from Finland!
The first view of the Landes and Gascony was a disappointment. It's flat and dusty, and the roads are fringed with clumps of sad spindly pines, huddled too close together. The northern part of this region was badly hit by Xynthia; perhaps when there were more trees the countryside looked happier. It would certainly have retained water better.
Eventually I could see mountains in the distance, and my spirits lifted. The road signs had Basque names and instructions added to the French. I'd never realised how many Xs there are in Basque words: it looks rather like Mayan.
Not being in a mood for hyper-tourism I decided to bypass Bayonne and Biarritz, took a convenient exit, and headed inland. Just after a disused French customs building there was a sign pointing up a small tree-lined road to the Col d'Ibardon (437m) which looked perfect. It soon became rather narrow and too bendy for comfort with the motor-caravans swooping down and not on the other side of the road, but it was only 4 kilometres of worry. I stopped halfway up in a layby because watching the road meant I couldn't admire the scenery. At the Col there was a marvellous view over St Jean de Luz, Biarritz, and the Atlantic; and a crowd of parked cars. Also a hotel, a lot of tourist-trap shops and craft places, several caffs and a couple of expensive restaurants, and a filling-station with cheap petrol. Clearly on the Spanish side of the border.
After a while of looking at mountains, talking to ponies, and avoiding touristy things, I went back down the mountain and onto the motorway. The intention was to follow it a little way and then find a route through wild mountains, but the motorway itself goes through beautiful scenery so I stayed on it, through the forests and slopes. The roadsigns were now in Spanish and Basque, except for the sign to Madrid, which was in Spanish and Moorish. I was impressed.
Then there was Bilbao. I'm not really a city person (in spite of having lived in cities until I was 8), but people had told me that Bilbao was worth seeing. The trouble is that, driving alone in a strange city, all one's attention is on traffic, suicidal pedestrians, and trying to make sense of directional and instructional signs. I did notice some lovely buildings, but couldn't work out what they were. There was nowhere to stop; all parking spaces were full. There were crossings and traffic lights every few metres. The engine began to overheat. Red lights came on: one of them shouted STOP. Still no parking space, and in desperation I pulled into a bus-stop, behind a bus. If anyone complained I'd plead breakdown, mine as well as Roo's. The bus moved away, and I saw that it had been stopped on a disabled space! In trepidation, I turned the engine back on and slithered the few metres forward. I left Roo trying to cool down in the hot afternoon, and went off to explore the area.
First, there was a pedestrian street full of little bars (all with steps) and camellia trees. That's right, trees. And in bloom. At the end of the street was a square with a park which even had a bandstand. I bought a bottle of water and some oranges from a small shop run by a father and son, and realised I'd forgotten to bring the Spanish dictionary with me. It's a few years since I spoke Spanish, though Basque would have been better. The older man was very friendly, and he switched from Basque to Spanish after the first sentence. I followed most of what he said, but could only manage a couple of phrases back. Several people on the street and in the square spoke to me, to offer help or just to say hello. It was very peaceful, sitting in the sunshine eating oranges or wandering the little streets. I didn't find out where I was, though.
At last I reckoned Roo would be cool enough to have water added, and found my way back past the shop; the older man dashed out, and appeared to be asking what I was doing that evening. I said goodbye hurriedly. Roo was indeed cooler, and I collected courage to open the bonnet (I'd never wanted to open Roo's bonnet again after Incident of the Trapped Fingers). Someone waiting for a bus came over to help, but he clearly knew nothing about cars and I was glad that his bus turned up before he could mess with anything. I put in some water and got the bonnet closed without any disaster, turned the key, and it was fine. Now to find the way out of Bilbao. East is that way...
Back on the motorway in the sunset, I stopped at a reasonable-looking services and parked in a corner, not too close to the lorries. Sadly for the diet, the cafe didn't have salads but it did have steak and chips; worse than that, a custard flan turned up, included in the price. It was warm in the sleeping-bag and I slept well, waking at dawn.
I took the next exit off the motorway and headed for the coast, finding a lovely little port. I'd missed the signs naming it, so had to ask a local: that's how I discovered that in Basque 'Z' is pronounced like a jota or a Welsh or Gaelic 'ch'. Zumaia is still partly a fishing port, small boats only, but has clearly had a huge influx of tourist money which has been used to build a marina and renovate the seawalls and the town. It's in beautiful condition. On one side of the sea wall is a calm harbour; on the other side the blue-green waves crash over dark rocks. I got a few photos before the camera's batteries died.
From there I took the pretty winding coast road through Getara and Zarautz all the way to the outskirts of San Sebastian. Another big city in the hot sunshine didn't appeal, so it was back on the motorway to Urrugne, from where I went inland again. By this time another fuel-stop was required, but the price on the French side was shocking, even higher than around here. Odd, when it's so close to Spain. I turned back and found myself at another sign for the Col d'Ibardon, which is over the border and has a filling station. This time, instead of going up into the tourist area I tried the restaurant at the cross-roads. It was excellent! And cheap: and the other customers were locals, always a good sign. I recommend the Benta Gorria.
Time to start for home, with a small detour to see the Arcachon area south of Bordeaux. What a lovely two days.
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