We took a short walk to the top of the hill, where there was a hotel and a bar. There was also a horrifying little log flume ride, from which any over-active child with inferior balance would surely fall several hundred feet over the cliff to their ultimate doom. Not only that, we failed to understand how any tall child or adult seated in one of the log cars, could survive decapitation at one hairy little feature on the ride. We waited a while to observe somebody foolish enough to have a go, but surprisingly there were no takers to the challenge. Our next journey was along to Hondarribia, a town several miles to the east on the very border with France. Upon arriving there, Asier received a phone call from Luis, who was warning of the impending weather. According to the two of them we were shortly due for a torrential storm, which quite frankly was the most ludicrous thing I had ever heard, and I suspected that they were winding me up. I had stood atop the hill previously with a 360-degree view, confirming that not a single cloud existed in the shockingly blue sky. The temperature was hotter than anything I had ever experienced in my thirty years, into the forties celsius and warm even by Spanish standards. Asier was convinced that although the storm may not exist out at sea, it would materialize within twenty minutes or so, and as we felt a breeze beginning to pick up we set off again into the mountains. How a storm could evolve from this barbecued climate was beyond comprehension. A phenomenon I had never experienced until now was the 'hot wind'. The little Renault 4 was baking inside and I stuck my hand out of its dinky, horizontally-sliding passenger window for some relief, but it was not forthcoming. The breeze, even as we cruised at eighty miles per hour along the motorway, almost burnt my arm off. Somebody had switched on a giant hairdryer in the sky. We began climbing a road through the hills, following a scenic route which was free from other traffic, when the most extraordinary sight began to appear ahead of us. Above the mountains, puffs of cloud were forming from nothing, at first just creeping insignificantly, like a steam train had just chuffed along and left a short-lived trail behind it. But within minutes these menacing creations were rolling fast over the peaks and threatening us with their mysterious contents as they crawled ever closer. We pulled over into a lay-by, and found another vantage point from which to look back and admire the sunlit land we'd just driven through (below). By now, however, we were just seconds away from a mighty onslaught of mean thunderclouds which were approaching behind our backs.
The marauding gloom was about to swallow us up and we jumped back in the car, driving into the centre of the action like a brave soldier running towards an atom bomb with a bread knife. The winds became gusty as we ascended the highest ridges of the hills, but aside from being surrounded by cloud which limited our vision to several feet, we escaped with a short pelting of rain and emerged the other side unscathed. It was something of a disappointment as we descended the hills once more to normality. The storm hadn't lived up to its hype, and the temperature was only lowered by a few degrees, which left us still roasting under the sun like a pair of ants in the cruel hands of a young boy playing with his magnifying glass. We left the slopes of Jaizkibel and visited a quaint fishing village down by the harbour, accessible only through a series of narrow covered passages, and once home to the poet and novelist Victor Hugo. |
Also visible here and everywhere else we had travelled around the region, were thousands of blue and white flags paraded on the walls and windows of properties, which Asier explained were those of local football team Real Sociedad. They were on the brink of winning the Spanish league, with just a couple of remaining games imminent. Their trophy was virtually assured providing they didn't slip up inexplicably. It would be a miraculous achievement for the club, and a triumph against their much vaunted rivals Real Madrid, who would be condemned to second place. The whole city was in a high fever, waiting to explode into parties over the weekend, and I looked forward to an electric atmosphere when we went out in the evening. It was time to return to the centre of San Sebastián and meet Luis, who was finishing work. Plans were hatched for a Friday night out on the town, and I went off with him to his family's flat, conveniently located slap bang in the middle of the city. I was very kindly allowed to sleep in the kid's bedroom - the poor child being turfed out into the main room next door, but at least there were plenty of miniature model Renault 4s on the shelves for her to play with. They were part of Luis's collection and a mark of his devotion to the car. Although Asier had a good understanding of English, Luis's third dialect was French, and so another test of my abilities in this language was demanded. My side of the conversation was hardly fluent, but we managed somehow. I even rustled up a few lines in Spanish, which I had only been learning for a short while the previous year. Both Asier and Luis conversed in Spanish and Euskera, the historic language of the Basques. We would all occasionally dip into other dialects as and when required, sometimes changing mid-sentence; a practice which had become quite familiar to me. Whilst working in Belgium earlier in the year, many of the employees surrounding me at the workplaces would chop and change between four or five tongues without hesitation, depending on who they were speaking to. Each time they answered the phone it would result in a different choice between Flemish, French, Dutch, German or English. I rather admired anyone with such skills, and was fond of the notion of everybody utilizing odds and ends of several languages in their everyday lives. It seemed to be the way much of the world was heading, and a good unifying aspect of modern culture. Unfortunately, I had forever found most citizens of Britain, America and some other native English-speaking countries to be lagging behind in this respect. Certainly there would always be people with no interest in speaking anything but their own language. This could be found in any country, even places such as Finland or Wales where the national dialect might be uncommon elsewhere in the world, but in my view much of the problem in Britain lay in the teaching. Governments had never wanted to be so closely involved in Europe as our neighbours across the Channel, which was a rather sad thing, and it had led to many schools only half-heartedly teaching one other language to children, and from too late an age for it to become rooted in their brains. Until now, we English had commonly opted to learn French as a secondary skill, due in part to their presence as nearest neighbours, but we'd gained renown for being decidedly lousy at it. In times gone by it had usually been Latin which was forced upon poor British schoolchildren, but in the modern age this had become redundant for the majority of people on the planet. More recently, German and in particular Spanish started to surface as popular alternatives, but their tuition could only occasionally be found in secondary schools. Consequently, I'd noted that most Britons would either give up and retreat into their shell, blatantly speaking nothing but English wherever they might be in the world, and eventually believing their own lie that everyone else should speak it anyway, or the remainder would pay a lot of money for private tuition in order to try and force themselves to adopt another language at a later age, when it wouldn't be absorbed so well. My own attempt at a remedy remained to go abroad as much as I could, and put myself into situations such as this one where I had no choice but to speak something other than English. After my introduction to the family and a quick coffee, Luis and I - donning our Renault 4 t-shirts in an almost scarily obsessive fashion - located Asier and set off into the lively evening streets of San Sebastián. It was a very attractive place, with grand tree-lined streets, pleasant apartments and unpretentious bars dotted around each corner. We stopped off at a tapas bar for a first round of drinks and a delicious snack featuring olives and mild green chillies. It was discovered that we had a common liking for cider, a drink which was a speciality in this region of Spain. In Britain this drink had often had a rough and seedy image, being guzzled by uncouth blokes with muddy boots and crass manners, but it was a forgotten classic of the beverage world. During hot summers there was nothing better than a good traditional cloudy cider, as opposed to the clear, fizzy rubbish often sold in tacky bars.
We went on a tour of the town, taking in various bars and sights, more nosh in the form of some delicious bocadillas con tortilla de patatas - huge baguettes with a thick Spanish potato omelette inside, and ice creams and sorbets after midnight from a heladería. We strolled down to a jetty jutting out into the bay in front of the giant illuminated statue of Jesus, which overlooked the town from the hill curving around into the sea. It was visible from all over the place, I could just look up and there it was poking out above the rooftops of the city streets, as though the city's forefathers had aspired to their own version of Big Brother. Asier and Luis's hospitality towards me was grand, with every attempt I made to pay for something being hastily rejected, and accompanied by the same absurd lie which they had been perpetrating all day in my company - that my Euros were not valid currency in the Basque country and I should put them away in my pocket! It kept them amused and I wasn't going to argue. Events became hazy as the night wore on and more drinks were consumed, and I eventually found myself sound asleep back at the flat, thankful that I had made it beyond France and enjoyed a successful first meeting. HOSTEL REPORT: Luis's
flat, San Sebastián city centre |