Adios Espana

After our cynical homage to St James we headed for San Sebastian, to the north east. An 11 hour train ride delivered us to the beach, arriving at 8pm-ish and thus having at least two more hours of daylight in which to "make some party" as our otherwise perfect English speaking hostess put it. San Sebastian is an excellent place to make party, in which you elbow your way through a crowded bar and order various little deliciosas called pintxos and drink beer or the local sweet and slightly fizzy wine called txakoli. This is mostly excellent fun, the occasional burst of loud and unsolicited accordion music right behind you notwithstanding. In this way our three evenings there passed most enjoyably.

San Sebastian is pretty, a pretty town set on a pretty curve of beach with good looking people everywhere. Men wear white or green or purple trousers and designer shirts, almost always with a jumper tied around their necks. Many women go topless on the beach but as they step off the sand they seem to walk through an invisible beam that dresses them in smart but conservative attire and applies all the necessary jewellry and hair styling. No one was seen on the streets in any sort of beach wear or with their appearance otherwise notifying the viewer that they had been on the beach. Except for us. We climbed a pleasant hill on one end of the beach to take in panoramic views of the city and almost crashed a wedding at the top, before being forced into the free museum by an attendant saying "solo quince minutos, vista, vista", and he was right, the vista was lovely from the top deck. We took a day trip to Bilbao to see the Guggenheim and thought about and ate pintxos a lot. On our last night we visited a recommended pintxos bar whose menu angled towards the molecular gastronomy so celebrated in Spain: foams, "coffee" flavoured with ham, wafers, etc. It was exceptional! We ate too much and chatted to an American-Morroccan couple who had been in the wine region of La Rioja just prior. That sounded pretty good, so we resolved to strike out for the town of Laguardia the following day.

We hired a car and Mel was saddled with the driving duties as the only one with an international license. The car was a manual, which was a medium-sized problem, we had no map of San Sebastian (only a small problem), and she'd never driven on the right side of the road in a left-hand-drive car before (two more small problems). Together these problems added up to a very stressful first half an hour in the car. We obtained a Spanish touring map and drove off, immediately going through a red light with pedestrians leaping backwards and yanking their tiny dogs with them. After initially missing the required exit we made it on to the autovia, where all other drivers either merely ignore all the signed speed limits or are so baffled by the unbelievable multitude of signs beside Spanish roads that they just do whatever they want in protest. Indication for lane changes was non-existent and lingering in the left lane without significantly exceeding the speed limit was an offence quickly punished with aggressive beeping.

Thankfully we found our way to the quieter coastal roads where we were rewarded with superb ocean views as we cruised through fishing hamlets. We stopped in at Guernica, site of an horrific German bombing during the Spanish civil war, admiring the pretty town but finding the museum closed, it being a Monday. We rolled on through mountainous regions, Mel by now confidently slipping through the gears as we climbed and descended (if not always releasing the hand brake before taking off), and arrived in Laguardia early in the evening. Laguardia lies in Rioja Alavesa, a magnificently picturesque valley edged by craggy peaks and completely full of grape vines, mostly tempranillo, and beautiful villages. The town (walled, but too small to be called a citadel; a village-adel?) is perched on a rise and completely off limits to cars. I was constantly lost walking the tiny winding streets, even though there are only about five of them. The buildings lie on top of a network of cellars, originally built to store arms but later being found to be an excellent place to make wine. We stayed in a flash hotel recommended by our friends in the bar the night before, owned by a charming older gentleman named Javier, who was kind enough to pre-arrange some visits to wineries for us. Whenever we asked Javier for anything he began his reply by saying "es posible", which always suggested to me that we were working to overcome some enormous obstacle, rather than just ordering a plate of ham and cheese croquettes.

We toured a cellar winery under the town, taking tastings straight from the vats, and then a much bigger winery in a nearby village with flash buildings designed by Frank Gehry of Bilbao Guggenheim fame. We paid 10€ for a tour of the latter concern and had to sit through some propaganda videos ("Marquis de Riscal has been at the forefront of La Rioja wine production for blah blah years and our commitment to quality and blah di blah is unstinting" etc etc) before touring the enormous and impressive facilities. They then had the gall to produce a cheap white from a whole other region during the tasting before finally allowing us each a thimble full of their Reserva and bundling us into the gift shop. Onto the black list.

With one more night before we were due to return the car to Madrid we resolved to explore another wine region (Ribera del Duero) to the south west, and like a man I decided I could guide us there with minimal prior research. We found the region alright, driving into the main town in the early evening. After an annoying and then infuriating and finally desperate search for a car park we galloped through town and arrived at the tourist office five minutes after closing time. I kicked the door and we fled the town, whose name momentarily escapes me, and which was ugly and industrial anyway. I just chose a decent sized town off the road map and thus we ended up in inauspicious Roa, a town with one hotel and, extraordinarily, only one restaurant with a suitable menu del dia. We had a very quiet time there.

The next day we found the picturesque town of Penafiel only 20 minutes drive away, surrounded by and filled with lovely looking hotels and restaurants. We (I) had chosen the wrong town to stop in. It was too late to arrange any visits to wineries, so we settled for a lunch at a vineyard. We ate lechazo, the local specialty, a roast lamb dish strictly made from unweaned lambs whose quality and provenance are assurred by an official body. The leg of lamb had a little note stuck on it assurring us of it's authenticity, just as an origin controlled wine would have. It was superb if ethically dubious. With that we headed back to Madrid, Mel taking on the freeway and winning, although she had to wrestle the little Seat over the hills. The spaghetti of freeways around Madrid and the airport (where the car was to be dropped off) looked intimidating on the map but was actually signposted very well, albeit in the Spanish "I don't care what order it is in, just get the informatiom on there" style. We travelled back in to the city by train just in time for some shoe shopping and mojitos, the latter necessary to redeem my boredom over the former, and also to calm Mel's excitement over her purchases. A few more tapas and drinks and we were in bed, asleep for the last time in Spain, dreaming of Rome and then conveniently flying there the next morning.