Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/17/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-03-23-11-05-i-add-spains-lands-end-to-my-collection-of-alaskas-and-south-americas-versions/

Leaving the hostel in Caldas de Reis, I decide to visit one of Portugal’s national parks, Peneda-Gerês. It’s only 125 miles away but by sticking to the back roads it takes me a good part of the day. As I cross the border into Portugal for the first time ever, I simultaneously enter the park. It’s lush and green and, especially due to the recent rains, filled with fast flowing streams and gushing waterfalls.

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I check out a campground off to the side. It;s very nice but closed for the winter. In any case, I’ve reserved a night at the Pousada de Juventud, the Youth Hostel, in the park.

I take a “shortcut” there over a narrow road that goes over a modest pass to the next valley. Along the way, I’m delayed by a herd of goats ambling along the roadway. It takes a little close proximity of the car to finally convince the lead goat to move to the side for me.

The hostel is not what I expected. Back in the 70s and 80s, “youth hostel” generally meant a firetrap building with one or two giant dorm rooms filled with bunk beds, stained mattresses, and a powerful stench of unbathed travelers. Many of them locked you out at 10 AM and didn’t reopen until 5 PM. Well, times have changed. The Pousada is clean and modern with a full time, friendly staff.

As I arrive, the desk clerk offers me a choice of conversing in Portuguese or English. Normally, I would struggle along in Portuguese but since I’ve only been in Portugal a few hours and haven’t spoken what little I know in 4 years, every other word I try to say comes out in Spanish. Giving up, I’m grateful for the English at the moment. She informs me that since I’m the only guest requesting a dorm bed, they’re upgrading me to a standard double room. This is a nice surprise. I have room to spread out and a bathroom to myself.

There’s also an inviting lounge downstairs in which a fire burns through the evening. With breakfast included, I’m getting an awful lot for my measly $13.

After getting settled in, I decide to take advantage of the remaining daylight by taking a walk up the rocky, trailless hill behind the hostel. The clerk points me to the start of a primitive road that will get me to where I can bushwhack upward. It’s raining steadily and she warns me the rocks will be slippery, but who am I to heed cautious advice kindly given to some old guy?

The walk isn’t too difficult after I leave the road, alternating between large patches of bare rock and areas with 2 foot ground cover that would be difficult to navigate uphill if not for various animal trails which make it slightly easier.

I reach the summit and soak up the broad, rainy views and then decide to start back down as it’s late in the afternoon and the November days are quickly getting shorter. On my way down, I notice a primitive track going off to my left. Thinking it might lead more easily back to the pousada, I start following it. It doesn’t take too long to realize it’s continuing to go off at right angles to the way I ascended. I think it might eventually become or connect to my original road but I’m concerned about the hour.

I get out my phone and check sunset time. It will be dark in about an hour so I decide to play it safe and turn back to where I can more or less reverse my prior bushwhack route. I stick the phone back inside my layers of anti-hypothermia wear and hoof it back with some daylight to spare. As I squishily approach the hostel, I pull out my phone to check something — and it’s not there! A thorough search of my dozen or so pockets confirms it. This is bad, very bad. Replacing the phone and getting a new T-Mobile SIM card will be a giant, expensive task. At least all my data is backed up with Google, but that’s small consolation with the hardware gone.

I go back to my room and get on the laptop. Using a “Find my Phone” feature, Google and Samsung both pinpoint the exact latitude and longitude of the phone. It’s only about 400 meters away as the crow flies, but there are 3 problems. That 400 meters is actually much longer when walking the terrain, it’s now almost completely dark, and without another GPS-enabled phone I can’t navigate my way back to the phone anyway. I do manage to send a signal to the phone to go into extreme battery saving mode. If I do ever manage to get close to it, I may need it to scream at me, which it can’t do if the battery is dead. Although it’s sitting out exposed in the rain, clearly, there’s nothing more I can do tonight. I go to bed (without supper by the way because this hotel-like hostel has no guest cooking facilities) and defer further pondering until early morning.

At 6 AM, I’m up making a plan. I have to search for the phone with a GPS-enabled device. I’m going to accost people in the morning, explain the issue, and persuade someone to rent or lend me their phone for a couple of hours — or accompany me up the soggy mountain if they don’t want to hand over their device. These ideas seem forlorn because I think I’m one of the few guests at the hostel. The hallways are eerily silent. That leaves the staff, who have probably never gotten such a crazy request. And for sure, I’m not equipped to make it in Portuguese. I type and retype wording to Google Translate hoping I can concisely present the issue displayed on the laptop screen.

Finally, at 7 AM I head down to the front desk to test plead my case with the reception person. Maria speaks English, so that simplifies communication. I’ve barely explained the problem and my desperate need for a phone when she reaches hers out to me and says, “Take it.” I can barely believe it. I thank her profusely, add my Google account to her phone (only my Google and Samsung accounts can use the phone location features), leave the laptop behind and head out into the rain. Although I can’t walk to it directly, the GPS location lets me gradually zero in on it. I had feared it might be sitting invisible in dense ground cover. but eventually I find it lying in plain sight on the track near where I had looked up the sunset time. Apparently, when I reached inside my jacket to return it to my inside pocket, I missed and it was lightly held by my layers of clothes. It must have taken only a minute for it to work its way down and hit the ground.

The phone is working fine and I’m really glad that over 4½ years ago, I opted for a waterproof model. I did that because I had a bad record of going swimming with electronics still in my pockets. I broke that habit but finally the waterproofing has paid off.

I go back to the hostel, find Maria is not at the desk, so I leave her phone there for her. There’s still time to head over to the adjacent building for breakfast, which I do. As I enter, I see Maria and prostrate myself with thanks. There’s a big buffet laid out even though I can now confirm that I am one of only 3 guests in residence last night. The breakfast lady treats us royally in the virtually empty dining hall.

The other couple and I sit together and I find out they’re Portuguese particle physicists taking a brief vacation. Their English is quite good, so we can nerd out pretty well about science. After breakfast, I pack up and regretfully leave the hostel. I’m committed to arriving at a host tonight but would otherwise spend a couple of more days here exploring the park.

I drive out by another circuitous route, passing some very impressive scenery, partially cloud obscured this afternoon.

One side road I take through the high town of Germil is just 5 miles long, but extremely narrow, and all cobblestones. It takes me literally 30 minutes to navigate it through beautiful woods and expansive views.

The last half mile or so is through the incredibly narrow streets of a tiny village, carefully negotiating 90 degree turns with houses pressing against my side mirrors. Super cool.

Once out of the mountains, I’m on my way to Servas hosts in Maia, a suburb of Porto, home of port wine.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/19/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-06-23-11-10-my-first-portuguese-family-and-another-phone-disaster/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/14/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-31-23-11-02-a-different-milieu-in-gijon-asturias/

I head south from Gijón, arriving at the Valporquero cave a bit early. The access to it is the, by now obligatory, steep, serpentine road. The parking lot is deserted so I snooze out a bit. When I awake, a few more cars have appeared. I go into the park building and join a group of 9 other tourists. We sit around a table with hardhats and headlamps in front of each of us. The guide asks if I speak Spanish. I respond “more or less” and state that I’ll manage. The narration is not going to be in English. After a short orientation, we don our helmets and walk down an access path to the gaping maw of the cave entrance.

Valporquero is a large cave, well explored and developed with stairs, railings, and lighting (which is off by default to preserve the lightless environment). The upper, older level is relatively dry while the newer lower level has, in the wet season, a rushing river and other groundwater penetrations. I’ve come at the right time of year. Our guide, Juan Carlos, is very patient and thorough and the substantial portions of the lecture he gives at each stop that I miss aren’t too serious as I already know quite a lot about caves and limestone geology. My many childhood hours dogging the footsteps of countless US National Park Service naturalists educated me well.

We work our way through both levels, doing a lot of climbing and descending, using our headlamps except during stops in elaborately carved rooms where the lights are turned on for a few minutes. There are incredible stalactite, stalagmite, flowstone, and every other limestone formation you can imagine. At various times, we’re walking along a rushing river, past waterfalls spouting out of holes in the ceiling, and down narrow tunnels connecting large chambers. In one small pool, Juan Carlos points out tiny, swimming, white crustaceans, which I later determine are Parabathynellids, no more than an eighth inch long.

I could verbally describe dozens of cave features but despite my enthusiasm you would just quit reading. You just have to be there. The photos below show some of them, if in a very amateur quality. The very satisfying tour runs 3 hours and it’s only as we pass a larger group walking without safety gear that I realize I’ve luckily stumbled into the in depth version rather than the standard tourist access.

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Finally, Juan Carlos dismisses the group to exit the cave on their own and accompanies me back to the crustacean pool so I can try to get some photos. This dedicated attempt doesn’t do particularly well. Even with a macro lens, getting good images of tiny, wriggling, underwater creatures bu headlamp light is almost impossible. It’s very generous of him to give me the opportunity.

As the two of us emerge from the cave, we’re greeted by the unexpected — it’s snowing!

Back in the car, I decide to spend the night in nearby León. The Berlingo is due for an oil change and I want to cook tonight. I also want to calibrate the fuel gauge, which I try to do with each car I own. This involves carrying a can of spare fuel, purposely running the tank dry to measure how far I can go after the “Low Fuel” light comes on, and then refilling the tank to reach the next gas station. A few weeks ago, Jordi gave me an unneeded fuel can that I’ve been carrying around ever since. Before I run the tank dry, I want to be sure I can actually get fuel from my can into it. The can’s spout is missing, so at a Home Depot-like store I buy a cheap funnel with a long, flexible neck. I’m going to rehearse the fuel transfer ahead of time to avoid potential roadside embarrassment.

It’s a good thing I do because when I insert the funnel neck into the fill spout, it’s blocked. The little door that opens automatically when I insert the standard diesel nozzle at a gas station won’t move. A little online research reveals this is a safety measure to prevent accidentally putting gasoline into a diesel vehicle, but I can’t find a clear explanation of how to release the door when I’m away from a diesel pump.

Deferring that problem, I get some dinner supplies at a Lidl and then check into the likely looking Albergue de Santo Tomás de Canterbury. It’s my typical choice: clean, decently equipped, and cheap. It’s on the ground floor of a modern building with ample street parking outside. It turns out to be quite suitable but without social interaction. The dormitory room is shared with only one other guest, a seedy looking. middle aged Italian who spends, literally, hours on the phone with his mother back home arguing and cajoling at full volume. I wish I had recorded a bit of it.

I cook a good dinner but am shocked to find the kitchen doesn’t include a guest refrigerator. I’ve never come across a hostel without one. In the space where it should be is a giant, junk food vending machine. I’m forced to store my perishables inn the car even though it isn’t particularly cool this evening. I put great stock in a well equipped functional kitchen in a hostel but I seem to be in the minority. Most guests seem perfectly happy getting take out food, even (yecch) Dominos Pizza, which is apparently a global, rather than just US, disaster. Only occasionally do I encounter someone else cooking a meal.

I’m loaded and out early in the morning, heading to an internet-rated shop for an oil change. When the owner arrives, I make my request but, although sympathetic, he says he’s booked solid for days. While I have his attention, I ask about my fuel fill puzzler. He takes a look but doesn’t have an answer and is too busy to pursue it further. I ask him for a referral and drive to that nearby shop. The manager there first says come back at 2 PM. When I say that’s impossible, he says leave the car and it will be ready by noon.

I ask him, too, about the fuel fill. He insists that I just push the door aside with a screwdriver, but I already know that’s incorrect. I puzzle over the issue further and realize that since the door opens when the standard diesel nozzle is inserted, the release mechanism must be in the circumference of the tube. Fooling around with a pair of chopstick, I discover that pressing outward simultaneously at two specific points opens the door. Problem solved.

To while away the hours until noon, I improvise a walking tour of León. Of course, it has to start outside the cathedral – will the Catholic Church never give up? Despite its impressive architecture, the only unusual thing about it is an array of about ten police cars and officers arrayed in front. An obvious public relations flack (you can recognize them in every “advanced” culture) is yelling instructions to the officers while a photographers snaps pictures. I find it interesting that the chosen backdrop is the cathedral. Separation of church and state?

Continuing my walk, I pass the Museum of Emigrants, the second curious honoring of the many who couldn’t make it in Spain and left to create a better life elsewhere. It looks interesting enough to buy a ticket but it doesn’t open for two hours, so I pass it up.

At noon, I’m back to retrieve the car. A full synthetic oil change is fairly pricey here, about $120, but the intervals are long so it’s no burden. I head out of town toward the western coast, which faces the full Atlantic Ocean rather than the more protected Bay of Biscay to the north. Along the way, I run out of gas, as expected, and now know I can go about 115 miles after the “Low Fuel” light comes on. This knowledge is unimportant in Europe but could be essential in Morocco. Refueling is no problem even though the car, of course, decides to stop right at a construction zone lane drop so semi-trucks are whizzing by within a foot or two of me as I try to make myself paper thin while holding my gas can in the funnel. Had I not made a dry run earlier, I would have been stranded.

Later in the afternoon, I reach the coast and check in to another albergue. My drive is over after a productive day.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/17/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-03-23-11-05-i-add-spains-lands-end-to-my-collection-of-alaskas-and-south-americas-versions/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/13/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-29-23-10-31-surf-city-here-i-come-but-not-surf-city-usa/

Inés is a semi-retired teacher, living in a nice view apartment above the Gijón small boat harbor with a nephew as a part time boarder.

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She speaks no English, so I have to function totally in Spanish with her. By now, that’s not too difficult although much of the last few weeks I haven’t been speaking it. Damn Europeans. So many of them speak very fluent English. Luckily, I can street park the car but I have to pay $5 to the beginning of the holiday free period at 6 PM. I think that’s the first parking fee I’ve paid this trip.

Gijón is a bear for me to pronounce. In Spanish, the G and the J both have an H sound, but the G involves more phlegm and spittle, as in the German “ich”. I really have to work at it to make the two variant sounds in quick succession.

After she feeds me a simple but tasty lunch, I accompany Inés on an errand. She has to pick up some boxes of heavy ceramic tile from a warehouse. She takes along a rolling suitcase in lieu of a wheelbarrow. At the tile place, we load the material carefully into the suitcase and take a roundabout way home to avoid any stairways. The suitcase is ok to roll cautiously but impossibly heavy to lift. Even preventing a runaway while descending a ramp is a challenge. After that she takes me on a long, walking tour of the town.

Along the water near her house is what looks like a giant glass Christmas tree composed of green bottles. Inés explains that it’s a monument to “sidra”. Asturias is famous for producing prodigious amounts of hard apple cider. There’s a big festival for it in August. The shtick here is that the cider is poured into glasses at great height without spilling it, bottle and glass held as far apart as possible.

American Halloween has permeated Europe so there are many decorated balconies as well as costumed children seeking sweets from the stores. It’s impossible to go from home to home knocking on doors in Europe because apartment buildings have access security and detached houses have walled yards.

Part of our walk involves checking on the renovation progress of an apartment owned by a relative. Apparently, the tile we got is eventually destined for here. Inés seems very knowledgeable about renovation and engages the worker at length. I understand virtually nothing of their technical conversation.

Wednesday morning, I’m planning on sourdough pancakes. Inés has invited two friends to join us for breakfast, an Irish expatriate and his Spanish wife. We sit down at 9 AM but the two visitors have eaten breakfast earlier and Inés takes about one eighth of a pancake and then eats her normal cold cut and bread meal. I end up having to pull most of the load, a task for which I’m well suited but cooking for people is much more rewarding when they’re big eaters. In 2016, in Labrador we made tacos for a family we were staying with. They were the best because every time I said, “More?” the unanimous answer was an enthusiastic “Yes!” We did the same when they fed us an elaborate Saturday dinner that included bear meat.

After breakfast, we’re all going to take a walk but apparently I haven’t been paying attention. The four of us leave the apartment, me in sneakers without socks, no phone, no water, and no sun protection. By the time I come to my senses we’re on a 10 mile walk along the entire Gijón shoreline and back. Fortunately the sun isn’t fierce and there’s a coffee shop at the farthest point, but that distance without socks is likely to be hard on my feet.

As we stroll along the shore, we pass a number of statues and memorials. The most interesting is dedicated to the mothers who remained behind as many Asturian emigrants left to make a better life in Mexico, Cuba, and Puerto Rico. It’s a rather poignant representation.

Our outbound destination is the Mirador de la Providencia, a tower looking out to sea, built in the shape of a ship’s prow.

Nearby, we sit at a cafe for coffee and a pastry and then start the 5 mile return walk. By the time we get home, I’ve trodden carefully all day and just have one moderately abraded toe and no photographs.

The rest of the day is quiet as Inés takes a post-exercise nap and later makes another delicious, simple dinner. As is often the case, I’ve changed my plans at the last minute. I had planned on continuing west toward the northwest corner of the Iberian peninsula but Atlas Obscura highlighted a cavern to the south and since I’m a sucker for caves, I bought a $20 online ticket for 9:20 AM. The tour is limited to 10 people and only offered three times a week, so I’m lucky to have snagged a spot at the last minute. I’m up early Thursday, drag my bag to the car, and drive off in the dark at 6:30 AM.

As I pass the seawall, waves are furiously crashing into it with spray splashing onto the promenade. Just yesterday, at low tide, there was a broad, sandy beach with many people. I’m surprised at the change.

Leaving Gijón, I make the 90 minute drive to the south to my cave appointment.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/16/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-02-23-11-03-i-go-underground/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/10/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-27-23-10-29-picos-de-europa-national-park/

I have an invitation from a Servas host in the coastal town of Gijón beginning today, Sunday, but when I contacted her last night to confirm, she said she wouldn’t be home until Tuesday, so it’s a good time for a writing and working day. Using my well honed booking.com lodging picking techniques, I’ve located a likely place in Gijón – very cheap, highly rated, breakfasts included – so I’ve reserved two nights there.

Periodically, I scan through Atlas Obscura, a list of usually quirky places all over the world. I often find destinations worth a visit there and I’ve got two possibilities lined up for today. Because they’re not on my direct route to the hostel, I’m forced to retrace about 45 miles of yesterday’s northward drive to reach La Cuevona. This is a road through a natural cavern that is the only vehicle access to the town named, appropriately, Cuevas (Caves).

Along the way, in Cangas de Onis, I take a break to admire a surviving Roman arched bridge.

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Leaving the highway, I wind and twist up and down a narrow road. Shortly after it ducks under the east-west coastal expressway I see what looks at first glance like a typical tunnel entrance. In this case, though, it’s a natural tunnel. The road winds over 800 feet through a large cavern carved over thousands of years by the adjacent stream. I’ve never seen anything like this. Definitely cool.

After gawking and walking a while, I turn west to my next destination, The Jurassic Museum of Asturia. Scenically situated on a 500 foot hill with an expansive view of the Bay of Biscay coast, its outdoor area is full of life size dinosaur statues. I’ve arrived late in the day so I decide it’s not worth paying admission to the museum building, especially since I already know quite a bit about dinosaurs.

Continuing west, I wind through residential streets to the Gijón Surf Hostel (GSH). As I hoped, it turns out to be a great place. It’s a large building, obviously purpose built to serve as a hostel. The staff is Workaway volunteers from a variety of countries, so the lingua franca is English rather than Spanish, which suits the mostly young, international guests. The place has many of the best hostel features – good internet, two well equipped guest kitchens, a front patio with picnic tables, a lawn with hammocks, a comfortable common area with couches, and a giant table with desk chairs, perfect for working. There’s also a big, free parking lot around the corner where many RVs are parked (the owners would say they’re camped).

I check in, pay my measly $32 for two nights, stake out a bunk bed, refrigerate my perishables, and get online. GSH caters to surfers (water, not web) as well as other travelers. A whiteboard lays out the schedule for surfing lessons and gear rental charges. The basement garage has been converted to a surf shop. The beach is a few blocks away and there’s a constant trickle of guests and staff coming and going there. As evening approaches, being too lazy to go shopping and knowing that breakfast is coming in the morning, I cook an inadequate dinner of two small pancakes from a bit of leftover batter I’m carrying,. My conversations are limited to a few hellos and brief introductions. At 12:30 AM, the staff locks up the common lounge for the night, so I close up the laptop and head downstairs to bed.

Breakfast is at 8:30 AM and I’m very hungry, so I’m at the kitchen door a few minutes before, milling with other eager guests and staff. It’s a good breakfast, self service, all you can eat, but no hot dishes. It’s way better than I have a right to expect for the piddling overnight price. I load up and eat at one of the picnic tables in the mild morning sun. This is where the conversations start. Gijón is on the Camino de Santiago, originally a pilgrimage route for Catholics. Rather than my conception of a single trail, it’s actually a network of them, radiating inward (if that’s possible) from assorted origins in France, Spain, and Portugal to Santiago de Compostela, a locale that has some important religious significance. Some of the routes are easy, some mountainous, all have food and lodging options along the way, so there’s something for everyone.

In modern times, many of the walkers are still devout Catholics, but there are people out for the hiking experience, couples sharing some joint adventure, and many people who are walking solo while they sort out the next step in their lives.

Gijón is along the so-called Camino del Norte, one of the easier routes that stays along the coast and avoids most of the heavy climbing. Interestingly, the shortest and easiest option is named the Camino Inglés. I guess it’s targeted at candy-ass American and British walkers. My driving routes have intersected the Camino many times since I left Girona. The route is well-marked and there are walkers everywhere along it.

One flaw is that in many stretches, the Camino is on roads, although often separated from the traffic lanes by several feet. I suppose if you’re walking to find god, penitently flaying your back with willow branches (this is just my imagination), the route environment is irrelevant. As a hiking experience, though, road walking leaves a lot to be desired.

I have two long conversations with walkers. Lena, a young German woman in her late thirties had been a dancer for 20 years and found the professional opportunities becoming intermittent and the toll on her body significant. She dumped a long-standing but unsatisfactory boyfriend and is walking solo to contemplate her future. She’s learning guitar, and writes poetry in a couple of languages. She came off the trail with a miserable blister and has catered to it for two days. Even more or less healed, it’s the ugliest walking wound I’ve ever seen, but she can’t afford to tarry longer. During her stay, she spends hours in the lounge strumming and singing. She’s not at all a typical German.

Roger, a German-Swiss, is a devout believer in the validity of the stories in the bible. His religious intensity doesn’t prevent him from being social and friendly with atheists such as myself and we speak at length of our different approaches to the scientific evidence of earth’s longevity and the indications or lack thereof of godly existence. He and his wife are walking separate Camino routes to enhance the religious import and rendezvous every several days before resuming their solo journeys.

By contrast, the non-walkers are out for fun. One trio of Workaway women had planned to take surfing lessons today but blow them off in favor of a shopping expedition in town. Hannah, a young, long term traveler originally from British Columbia, spends at least an hour talking to another volunteer about her various options for getting her first tattoo, or two or three. This is a bit disconcerting to me as a parent as she has the physical appearance of a high school freshman although actually she has finished university. It took me years and long periods in Argentina where virtually every female has prominent tattoos to at least partially change my view of ink from bodily mutilation to a true expression of art. Another vivacious volunteer from rural Germany is making plans to move to Berlin, hit the techno clubs, and put more excitement in her life. The surfers talk about little but surf conditions. I mainly see them peeling in and out of wet suits.

In the afternoon, I get into a conversation with 3 guests, Tom (German carpenter), Hannah (German wanderer), and André (Belgian wanderer). They’re volunteering at the second home (finca) of the hostel’s owner, so as a fringe benefit they can stay here free on the weekends. They’re due back at the finca this afternoon but it’s a long bus ride and then a long walk to the rural site. Since I’m on vacation, I offer to drive them home and they gratefully accept.

About 3 PM, we take off heading back eastward, the direction I came from. During the ride, I tell them about La Cuevona. They weren’t aware of it and it turns out to be quite close to where they’re staying so they resolve to bike over there at some point. Tourist advice, just another service I provide.

It’s about an hour’s ride to the finca so, as a token of appreciation, they offer to show me the local sights before I drop them off. We ride small roads to a very attractive little waterfall and swimming hole and then proceed to an impressive rocky outcropping with panoramic views and constant, fierce wind.

By the time we get to their home, there isn’t much light left, so after a brief tour of phase I of the premises in their current state, I leave for Gijón.

To avoid backtracking, I pick a more circuitous route on Maps. I figure there’s just enough light left to drive it and get back to the expressway by full darkness.

You won’t be surprised to hear it doesn’t work out as planned. The route I’ve picked is a steep lane which then turns into a dirt logging road. I plug onward but finally there are so many branches across the narrow way that I’m starting to lose traction. Finally, I can’t proceed upward any further. I could back down a little and get a running start over that spot, but I have no idea whether I’ll encounter some more obstinate barrier further up the hill. This road clearly hasn’t been used in a long while. Discretion being the better part of valor, I decide to abandon the project. This is easier decided than accomplished.

The road is literally only a few inches wider than my wheel track, with a steep uphill embankment and a precipitous downhill drop with uncertain, crumbly edges. There is absolutely zero chance of a U-turn. My only choice is to reverse down the road until I find a spot wide enough for a 10-leg K turn, and I know that spot is a long way below. So now I’m backing down an impossibly narrow road, in the gathering dark, with extraordinary care because a 6 inch mistake could put one of my wheels over open air, or maybe the entire vehicle far below in the valley. I’m managing this, keeping the wheels in the appropriate spots. The road is generally straight but undulates gently so I can’t just back straight down. Every few meters I have to adjust the direction slightly. This is painstaking work with almost no tolerance for error. Many times I see I’m on the wrong track and have to pull uphill a bit to correct the car’s alignment. My backward progress is more suitable for measurement in furlongs per fortnight than miles per hour.

It’s now very close to totally dark so I have only my backup lights, and perhaps ESP, to keep the car on the road. At one point I’m ready just to put the brakes on and sleep until daylight, but that would mean missing my prepaid breakfast [joke!] so I plug on. I remember, i.e. I think I remember, seeing a wide spot not too much further down. It takes me about 90 minutes to back down about 1300 feet – an average speed of under 15 feet per minute – infants crawl faster — with total concentration the entire time. It’s with considerable relief I reach the wide spot, “wide” only by comparison, and take about 5 minutes to safely manage the U-turn. Once pointed downhill the remainder is a piece of cake. I mean I now have headlights to show me the eroded dropoff side of the road.

Of course, there are no photos of my predicament because when these things are in progress, I’m not thinking about recording them until the problem is solved. Too late, then.

I stop at a supermarket for groceries, get back to the hostel quite late, make myself a good dinner in the deserted kitchen, and get some well earned sleep.

Tuesday morning, Halloween, I pack up my stuff, gorge on breakfast, say goodbye to a few new acquaintances, and head across town to meet my host, Inés, at about noon.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/14/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-31-23-11-02-a-different-milieu-in-gijon-asturias/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/08/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-26-23-10-27-a-rustic-night-in-soba-remote-cattle-country/

When I arrive at Casa Crescente on Friday afternoon in the little village of Boca de Huérgano, I find a small bar and very nice rooms upstairs, again for very little money. There’s no refrigerator but it’s cool enough for me to store my perishables on the window ledge. I ask the bartender about dinner and out of his rapid fire answer, I catch “homemade” and “8:30”. I occupy myself in the room for a few hours and at the designated time I go downstairs. The bar is full of locals engaged in loud conversation and drinking beers.

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My Spanish comprehension isn’t nearly good enough to insert myself into any of these groups, so I step up to the bar and say, “Comida?” (food). The bartender hands me a beer and a square of some very tasty baked good. The food turns out be not a meal but one of these homemade tidbits from a tray. Disappointed in the quantity although not the taste, I down my $1.60 dinner and head back upstairs. I know they serve breakfast and lunch so I have no choice but to make the snack do until morning.

I’m going to spend Saturday circumnavigating and probing the park, so I dress for the cold and wet. Breakfast is very good and extremely reasonably priced and I’m soon off. As I head out in a clockwise direction, my first point of interest is the Riaño Reservoir, a miles-long, triskelion-shaped basin whose water level is so low that much of the pre-impoundment road and bridge system is exposed.

As I turn north, the low ceiling hides the upper slopes of the Picos except for brief glimpses. Close up, I can see that my declaration yesterday of “termination dust”, while technically correct, was mostly an illusion. The very highest peaks do, indeed, have some snow at the top but the mountains are composed of white limestone which, seen yesterday from 10 miles away through rainy skies, I mistook for large areas of snow.

I turn off the circumferential road into one of the two park accesses. This road winds almost 14 miles into the central mountains, getting successively twistier, narrower, and steeper until it ends at the hiking base town of Caín along the Cares River. From here, a beautiful trail is said to wind deeper into the mountains. Sadly, between the inclement weather and lack of a hiking companion, I don’t even seriously consider the route. The drive in, though, is spectacular through enormous limestone mountains. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so much rock landscape. It’s almost unbelievable that the Pyrenees and Cantabrian mountains were all sea bottom.

The limestone has created a karst topography, with many cliffs, pinnacles, and caves throughout the two ranges. Limestone, made of geologically compressed shells and other calcium remains, dissolves relatively easily, especially if the water is slightly acidic. This solvent property is the reason increasing CO₂ levels are threatening the survival of marine invertebrates like corals, molluscs, and crustaceans. Significant acidity prevents the chemical reactions that build their calcium based exoskeletons. Limestone erosion often happens in a geologic eye blink. Today, the rock still dominates with trees confined to the areas where they can survive. Rather than futilely attempt to describe the landscape further, here are some photos taken along the route:

Along the way, I pass a stone structure used as far back as the 17th century as a wolf trap. Taking advantage of wolf pack behavior, villagers with spears were stationed in a pattern across the narrow valley that forced a pack of wolves into a spiral pattern that ended in the stone enclosure, where they could be slaughtered for meat.

After reaching the last driveable few feet of road in Caín, I work my way back to the highway, turn north and start looking for a meal. I really wanted the lunch back at Casa Crescente, but since it’s only served from 1:30 to 3:30 I was quite sure I would miss it. Since every restaurant serves a daily lunch, though, I know it’s not a problem. As I enter the village of Oseja de Sajambre, the streets are full of cars and people. I drive past the village and find the first unused curb parking spot, then walk back about 1500 feet. I’ve happened here on feria day, and people have come from miles around to sell and buy everything you can imagine.

Livestock is a major portion and there are horses, sheep, cows, goats, and pigs in various pens and corrals, all being watched over by children with long rods used to herd the animals and all being gawked at by prospective buyers.

Food and clothing is also being sold so its a very festive, busy day and many people have been clearly looking forward to it.

Since I’m there at peak lunch hour and every eating establishment is mobbed, l wonder how hard it will be to get a table.

I squeeze through the bar crowd at one place and realize that most of the clientele are drinking beer and eating snacks. The dining room is not overly crowded. My two lunch courses are beans and cod and a plate of very tender goat with the obligatory, for me, flan dessert. The food is very good and I’m sharing a table and conversation with a young Spanish man who’s on a one day excursion here from his coastal home to enjoy the market. The lunch back at my hotel was posted at only $12 and I assume, mistakenly as it turns out, the price at other restaurants will be in line with that. When I get the check, though, the price is $21, a big and unexpected difference but not a tragedy.

Continuing my drive around the national park, frequently still through dramatic and impressive canyons,

I enter the other spur to its interior. This one follows the same Cares River upstream to the north end of the hiking route from Caín. The shorter road isn’t as impressive as the earlier one but its extreme end is a village named Camarmeña, impossibly perched on a slope high above the valley accessed by a steep, winding road dicier than almost anything I’ve seen to date. I have to use first gear all the way up, and most of the way back down.

Although the light is fading, I try an alternate route out of the park displayed by Google Maps — anything to avoid a backtrack. Using tiny roads is always chancy because many of them are closed to unauthorized traffic. In this case, I read on an earlier sign that there are no public routes through the park. But, what the hell, Maps says it works. I drive up and up and up a paved road to the high country for 10 miles and at the turnoff I need, sure enough, the “Authorized Vehicles Only” sign is prominently displayed. The chances of getting in trouble for driving it are tiny, but if I were to break down along the way that trouble might be unavoidable. Plus, I have no idea that the road is passable all the way across to the main highway. One locked gate and I’m done.

Reluctantly, I turn around and twist my way back to the river. By the time I reach it, last light is fading and the rest of my long drive is in the dark. On the main, national highway which has long stretches of one and a half lane pavement, I’m behind a large bus which must painstakingly slow up to allow the frequent oncoming traffic to get by. In addition there are 3 construction sites, deserted at night of course, with long, traffic light controlled, one way sections. At each light, the wait is 5-10 minutes for the green.

Finally, miles later the bus turns off and the road becomes more standard. It’s 9:30 PM by the time I return to my comfortable room, much too late even for the evening snack.

I leave Casa Crescente early morning heading back to the coast. I was looking forward to breakfast before I hit the road but the door to the bar is locked and a small sign says “Closed for Sunday rest day” so instead I go to a tiny nearby bakery and get something that looks like a tasty pastry. Unfortunately, it turns out to be filled with tuna fish — not at all what I had in mind. But as they say, it beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

With pastry crumbs falling into my lap, I head up the highway to my next destination, the beach, port, and industrial town of Gijón.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/13/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-29-23-10-31-surf-city-here-i-come-but-not-surf-city-usa/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/05/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-24-23-10-26-bilbao-the-ancient-basque-seaport/

Thursday, I drive out of Bilbao, leaving the coast for several days in favor of the mountains. The drive is short, less than 60 miles, and I’m heading to an interesting looking hostel far off the beaten track in southeast Cantabria. The Cantabrian Mountains are a westward extension of the Pyrenees. Whereas, the former form the border of Spain and France, the latter run parallel to and inland of the Bay of Biscay.

This place caught my eye as I plan my route westward. It’s remote, cheap, and highly rated – very promising. The drive from Bilboa is typical, lots of small agriculture amid patches of forest. The road follows river valleys and goes over low divides. The weather is still overcast with intermittent raining. At one point, I see a line of windmills disappearing into an advancing, low cloud.

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As I cross into Cantabria, an abandoned building with a collapsed roof and overgrown interior catches my eye.

Shortly after, the view opens up into tall hills and broad valleys.

With 10 miles to go to my destination, I turn onto a much smaller, rural lane. This route winds through farming country, often switchbacking up or down a particularly steep hill.

While the roads are paved, many spots are rough and poorly maintained and the narrowness makes it undesirable to meet oncoming traffic. Fortunately, there is very little of that but, in these situations, one never knows when a local bus or giant farm machine will appear around a blind corner.

At one point, I’m behind a cement truck careening around the curves and I’m thankful I’m not encountering it as opposing traffic.

Eventually, after navigating an impossibly steep and narrow driveway, I get to the building. The door is locked, despite the sign announcing check-in hours and the area appears deserted. I text the posted number to announce my arrival with no immediate response. As I patiently pass the time investigating my surroundings, a response arrives after 10 minutes, “We’re on the way. The side door is unlocked. Make yourself at home.” I park the car on the very steep end of the driveway, so steep I chock the wheel as an extra precaution against a runaway.

The inside is very nice, both the structure and the furniture all made of dark, heavy wood.

I put away my perishables in the refrigerator and soon after, the owner, Cris, arrives.

She gives me the tour, asks when I would like breakfast, and leaves me on my own. There’s no internet here as this spot isn’t served by the nearby village’s fiber service. I find adequate cell service outside the building but it can’t penetrate the heavy stone walls.

There’s a wood stove and several large chunks of wood but no kindling or hatchet so I carefully build a fire with the logs I have and some rolled up paper. It burns well, so I get to enjoy it camping style.

As I’m the only guest tonight, I have the dorm room to myself, so I choose the loft. The head clearance is too little to let me sit up without risking a concussion, so I have to roll in and out of bed from and to the top of the sturdy homemade ladder.

The morning dawns not raining for a change. Cris arrives from her home and prepares breakfast just for me, an extremely nice gesture for a solitary $18 guest. Her English is minimal but we get on fine in Spanish. She tells me she, her husband, and a friend built this large building themselves over 4 years. It’s quite busy in the summer with hikers and bicyclists who appreciate the scenic remoteness but I’m one of few autumn visitors. In the winter, she gets skiers. After breakfast and conversation she heads back down to her home, telling me to leave whenever I feel like it. If it weren’t for the lack of internet, I’d stay here 2 or 3 nights and test my tolerance for solitude.

The local road out to the west is much less of an adventure than yesterday’s long approach from the east.

There’s a large waterfall nearby, so I swing by there on my way our of the area. Google Maps tells me it’s not far up a restricted road, so I park and walk up past some cattle pastures. An informational sign maps the cirques and moraines visible in the wide open glacial scenery. Of course the ice is long gone.

The walk is very nice but after a mile or so it’s obvious the waterfall, which photos show issuing from a cave and making a long drop to the valley floor can’t be up this road. Maps is wrong. I’m pretty sure now the fall is below me rather than above. I work my way slowly back to the car and continue down into the canyon. Sure enough, a short way down the switchbacked highway, there it is across the steep gorge, spewing from mid-cliff and dropping a respectable distance to the canyon floor. I had been walking above it with no way to notice it from there.

Mystery solved, I continue on my way. As is so often the case in Spain, cows share the road with cars, and they have the right of way.

My route takes me to the northern edge of the mountains where I get an expansive view of the Bay of Biscay, although I’m not actually going to the coast today.

Tonight’s destination is Picos de Europa National Park and I’m heading for a small and cheap hotel/bar in a small village south of the park. It’s about 150 miles of mostly twists and turns. As I make a turn northward on the final leg, I’m surprised to see that the distant mountain slopes are covered with termination dust, the Alaskan term for the first light, high altitude snow of winter. I’m definitely heading into colder weather, at least for a while.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/10/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-27-23-10-29-picos-de-europa-national-park/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/10/31/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-22-23-10-24-basque-ing-at-the-beach/

Tuesday, I depart Bakio before noon for the short drive to Bilbao. While driving, I realize that at least three Basque place names have made into popular culture. Bilbao Moon is a song in two of Bertold Brecht’s 1928 plays. Guernica is the title of a famous Picasso painting and Gattaca a 1997 science fiction film. Arriving in the port city, I park the car along the ship channel in the closest free space I can find and take a leisurely walk upstream.

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My first stop is the Itsasmuseum (Maritime Museum) perched, appropriately, along the city’s main shipping channel. In addition to a yard full of various vessels of significance to Basques, the interior does an excellent job of explaining the history of Basque seafaring. For example, Magellan’s 1519 circumnavigation of the earth departed Europe with 245 sailors. Three years later, only 18 survivors returned. Three of them were Basques.

For almost 600 years ships had to navigate the shifting sands of the Portugalete bar in order to reach the protected harbor. This was so hazardous, the bar was called “the school for shipwrecks”. In 1877, an iron pier was built which altered the river flow so as to keep a channel naturally clear. From that point Bilbao as a shipping center grew and modernized continuously. Some of the museum’s exhibits of current facilities are corporate sponsored and feel like advertising but the older issues are well explained. I spend hours there.

Next, I continue walking upstream toward the Frank Gehry designed Guggenheim Museum.

I love Gehry buildings — MIT commissioned one long after I graduated — but I settle for the exterior because I have no need to spend hours inside ogling modern art.

After that, a detour to Aldi supermarket for a tray of sushi and a liter of room temperature orange juice, both of which I consume on a park bench outside. Then, a long walk through the city, including an almost endless, steep climb up a large hill, to check out the All Iron Hostel that might be perfect. Along one busy street, I unexpectedly come across a statue of John Adams. The plaque explains that he referenced Bilbao and Basque country in his 1787 defense of constitutional government.

The hostel is perfect but I’m waiting for a host to respond so I hold off booking at the risk of there being no bed and/or parking spot later in the day. It’s beautifully located on a height with nearby views across the city.

Next, at Eric’s suggestion, I’m going to try a “free walking tour”. You pay what you want to at the end of the tour, but fair compensation is going to be a significant amount of money. I’ve never done one of these so it’ll be an interesting experiment. I know if I’m giving a tour to someone, any question I get asked will get an answer, true or not. It’s entertainment that counts. Getting to the meeting point includes a walk down a seemingly endless series of city stairs which is how I lose the altitude I gained earlier.

The tour lasts 2 hours and I’m pretty satisfied. There’s a bit too much boosterism but its likely just the Bilbao-born/raised guide’s enthusiasm for his city. One thing I don’t like is that he’s determined not to mention politics to avoid any risk of offending any clients. This means the description of certain events is misleading because they make no sense without the governmental context. For example, he mentioned the steady growth of the Basque language in Bilbao but couldn’t tell the whole story. Prior to 1975, during Franco’s repressive reign, speaking or teaching Euskera, or any other non-Castilian language used in Spain, was a criminal offense – and dictators don’t adhere to due process. So the growth is all since Franco’s death. If I hadn’t already had some Basque history from my prior hosts, not to mention my own reading, I would have been dumb and happy. In any case, I paid the guide well.

Finally, the long walk back to the car. On a busy street along the way, I encounter a bunch of Hare Krishnas doing a well-rehearsed dance.

I haven’t heard from the prospective host, so I check my chosen hostel again – they are, in fact, now sold out. Not a problem since there are plenty of choices. I pick out one and stop at a Lidl supermarket (like Aldi, a German chain) to pick up some ingredients for dinner. I have to shop quickly because I’m forced to double park the Berlingo on a busy street.

The Bilbao Hostel isn’t what I expect. It’s a modern, high rise building on spacious grounds. It’s plentiful parking includes spaces for motor homes. It also has 24-hour reception, a rarity that allows guests to arrive anytime of the day or night. Once I see it, I book for two nights so I have a full day to work and write. At $25/night it’s a little above my usual hostel price, but well worth it. I’m in a 6-bed room on the sixth floor and downstairs are several comfortable common areas for relaxing. The only downside is that the property is perched on an embankment just 60 feet above a perpetually busy 8-lane highway. Inside, this is no problem – you hear almost nothing.

Step outside or open the window and the din is ceaseless. Some reviews complained that the lack of air conditioning made hot weather sleeping impossible, with or without opening the window. In late October, temperature is no problem.

Late at night, I head to my room, which has two other occupants on this off-season night. Because of my horrendous snoring and sleep apnea, I’m meticulous about using my CPAP machine in a shared accommodation. If I didn’t, not only would I keep everyone else awake but I might be smothered by them during the night. It would be very disturbing to wake up dead. The problem with going to bed late at night in a dorm room is that you have to get set without waking everyone else up. In this hostel, linen is supplied (that’s often not true) but you have to make your own bed. Earlier, I saw this coming and made it up ahead of time.

I go down to the kitchen to make dinner and become very unhappy. For 170 beds, the guest kitchen includes one (!) induction stove burner and no cooking utensils. I find out I can get a modest pot, small frying pan, and one place setting for a $32 deposit, but that’s really not adequate gear for making a meal. It’s a great way for management to ensure that no one steals anything, but it’s a shit attitude in an otherwise very satisfactory operation. I settle for pasta, cooking the noodles in the pot on the single burner and pseudo-sauteing my vegetables in the microwave in an errant plastic bowl I find in an otherwise empty cupboard, before adding canned sauce and mixing the whole glop together. It’s dinner, but not at all what I have in mind. It becomes obvious, fortunately, that out of the whole building only two of us are using the kitchen. Even 5 or 6 people would have been major congestion.

I’m up early for breakfast, which is served in the unusually narrow window of only 8-9 AM. Its all you can eat with a substantial variety of choices, lacking only fresh fruit.

I load up, knowing that repeats of my pasta meal are all I can prepare. I end up eating that two more times today. Sitting in an easy chair with computer in my lap and a panoramic view through the giant windows is a nice relaxing way to pass the time – and I usually don’t make it a point to relax. The place is so large, it’s hard to socialize. Almost everyone there is in a self-contained group. I do end up talking to a Spanish monk who’s in town for some sort of 5-day spiritual retreat. He tells me he normally lives a solitary existence in a primitive mountain abode – standard monk stuff, I suppose. He also planned to use the kitchen to prepare his meals but I guess he’s now going to survive on breakfast alone. He makes praying motions over his food before eating and I think to myself it’s tasty enough not to need a religious miracle prior to consumption.

The second night and morning are much the same and Thursday morning, since it’s still raining steadily, I vacate my room by noon and continue working until I hit the road after 2 PM. I’m only driving about 70 miles today and there’s no need to get there much before dark. On the way out, I go to Portugalete, the harbor entrance mentioned earlier, to see what the modern version looks like. It’s just a ship channel mow but as I look up-harbor, I see something I know nothing about. There’s a tall, high structure spanning the channel that even large ships can easily clear. Below it, near water level, is a sort of ferry carrying loads across the river. Instead of being in the water, it glides a little above it suspended from a carrier by long cables.

Some quick research reveals this is the Vizcaya Transporter Bridge. The hanging gondola that transports cars and people is the transporter. This was an innovative bridge using innovative technology, the first of its kind, built in 1893, to make transport feasible across a heavy shipping channel without needing extensive ramps to get traffic up high. With various modernizations, it has operated almost continuously, interrupted only during the 4 years of the Spanish Civil War when the transporter was dynamited to the bottom of the channel. Interestingly, the original designer, Alberto Placio, a protege of Gustav Eiffel, witnessed the 1937 partial destruction of his masterpiece from his home downstream. The bridge was built privately but is now owned by Spain. At least 19 other transporter bridges were built around the world due to the success of the Vizcaya Bridge but only 8 still survive.

Of course, I’m determined to cross the channel on this bridge. I quickly determine that it transports vehicles rather than just pedestrians so I try to drive to the approach. The narrow streets around the bridge are so confusing that every time I try to approach with the Berlingo, people start honking at me furiously for cutting the line. After 30 minutes of driving around, I park behind the waiting cars to ask where to go. Within minutes, a deaf man catches up to me on foot, takes my arm, and points to the end of the line. He’s the most recent person I’m jumping ahead of. With this info, I manage to insert myself at the proper end of the line and wait my turn. Finally, my car is loaded and we glide across the water just a few feet above it. It’s only much later I find out that there are elevators in the towers that allow pedestrians to walk across the top structure as well. Missed out on that.

Having accomplished the crossing, I head out of town toward my very rural, very remote overnight stop.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/08/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-26-23-10-27-a-rustic-night-in-soba-remote-cattle-country/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/10/30/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-16-23-10-20-first-time-in-basque-country/

Leaving Irún on a quiet Sunday morning, I trundle my way along the Atlantic coast, avoiding the big, direct roads. I’m only going about 100 miles and it doesn’t take long to reach Gipuzkoa, a stereotypical beach town seen everywhere that wants to attract Western tourists – high rise vacation apartments shoulder to shoulder above the shoreline. The north coast of Spain is very rocky and there aren’t that many sandy beaches, so each one attracts a lot of construction. The town is set in a curved cove and has a nice surf.

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Many twisty roads, high above the ocean, lead me to Bakio, another typical beach town but this one is where my next hosts live. Cian (his parents named him for the color cyan) invited me earlier but when I told him just yesterday that I could arrive today, he informed me that he currently had Airbnb guests in his apartment but that his friend and neighbor Manu (for Manuel) would host me.

On arrival, I see that they live in an older, high rise building set high above the beach with a magnificent view of the ocean, Bakio, and the surrounding topography.

Cian doesn’t answer my knock and when I text him, he informs me he and Manu are (is there any other option in Spain?) socializing in a beachfront bar. He invites me to join them, so I walk back down the mountain and we soon connect over a beer. Traveling in Europe, I probably drink 10 times as much alcohol as I do at home. For me that’s still not very much, though. I deflect many more invitations than I accept.

After some introductory chat, the three of us walk over to the adjacent beach. At the far end, Manu and Cian intend to go swimming in the surf. I don’t have shorts on me, so I decide to go in my underwear – a severe risk of coming out naked. Cian, perhaps wanting to avoid that unpleasant sight, gives me his shorts. The surf is strong – Bakio is popular with surfers – so I’m somewhat cautious, not going out more than neck deep. The water is warm by my standards so I romp in the rough waves for quite a while.

Later, we walk back across the wide beach and up the steep hill to the apartment building. I settle in to Manu’s guest room and we spend some hours talking, eating, and drinking. Cian was born in Catalunya but has lived in Basque country for years. Manu is pure Basque but for many years has lived in Belgium with his Belgian wife. He teaches philosophy there in a Catholic school. On the beach earlier, he explained that he loves to teach his students about astrology. I’m floored, not just because he puts such faith in it but that he can get away with including it in a philosophy class. He spends his summers and his 50% time off during the school year (Europe, gotta love it) in his hometown. He bought the condo a year ago so he now has a permanent base. Although there is a 15-year age difference between Manu and Cian, they are close friends and live just doors apart on the same floor.

While gathering my things to leave the beach earlier, my phone fell out of my pocket onto the sand. It seemed as though it was a harmless drop, but now I discover I can’t successfully plug in the charging cable. Careful examination with my magnifying glass reveals several grains of sand have gotten in the USB port, blocking the cable plug from seating properly. The grains are sticky and no amount of gentle banging will dislodge them with gravity. I try puffing air repeatedly into the port, to no avail. In desperation I try to squirt some water in there (the phone is waterproof) but the opening is to small to inject it in with any force. Finally, I spend about 30 minutes with a toothpick and safety pin painstakingly pulling out each grain from the minuscule opening while carefully avoiding damaging the delicate gold contacts. I finally get it but the cable grip in the port is no longer very secure and too much vibration now causes it to fall out.

As I’m showing off the features of my new camera, Cian spots a heron perched in a tree far below. Using my 3000 mm zoom setting and steadying the camera against the wall, I get very good photos of the distant bird. This camera is going to be a worthwhile accoutrement despite my having to lug around its 4 pounds on my shoulder. On my prior Europe trip earlier in the year, I had only my phone camera. Despite being technically very capable, the 2x zoom limitation meant many photos had to be post-cropped to enlarge and emphasize the area of interest. There’s much less of that with 125x zoom.

The view from the balcony is expansive and the light is ever changing as the sun gets lower.

At this time of year, it isn’t oppressive because it never gets very high in the sky. Bakio, with it’s mild winter climate, is at about the same latitude as Lake Ontario. It’s the off season and the town is very quiet, having shrunk to its permanent population of about 2,000. During the summer it swells to many times that. It’s always been oriented toward the beach — tourism now, traditional Basque fishing in the old days. It has no town center as is customary in Europe. Because he’s only there intermittently, Manu has no home internet so I have to rely on cell service throughout the evening. More and more people I meet these days have internet solely on their phones. This sometimes makes it difficult for me as I rely on my laptop for a lot of things, including remote work. Outside the US my plan doesn’t let me tether the computer to my phone to get fast data.

As the afternoon shades into darkness, we continue to sit on the balcony talking about a variety of topics.

By morning, it’s raining steadily so hanging around outdoors isn’t very appealing. Manu goes surfing in the morning – he loves it and tries not to miss a day . — and is then off on some errand. Cian’s French guests are out for the day, so he invites me to use his internet. He takes a long midday nap while I work on my computer. As evening comes on, it’s still raining and Manu returns. The three of us go out searching for a restaurant or bar that is open. Cian is wearing bicycle shoes that have some sort of metal on the soles. On the steep, wet pavement down to the town, he keeps losing traction. Eventually Manu and I have to comically hold on to him until the surface levels out.

We make a long pedestrian circuit through Bakio. Between the rain, the off season, and it being Monday, everything is closed except for two adjacent bars. We go to the Bar Kai and socialize. Throughout my visit, Cian is constantly stepping away from us to respond to a call or text. I tell him I’ve seen drug dealers who spend less time on the phone. In fact, his mother is fighting cancer and he’s trying to make a living from his Airbnb proceeds. His dream is to get a rural place and live self sufficiently and by barter. An ambitious goal for sure.

I try a Gilda, named after the 1946 movie, a skewered, repeating sequence of green olive, anchovy, and green pepper. This is a famous example of Basque pintxos (their word for toothpicks), house-made canapes served in every bar. I don’t normally like green olives, but the Gilda combination is delicious – just the right combination of flavors. And, I manage not to eat the toothpick or poke my cheek with it.

As we’re talking, another man comes up to our table and then sits down with us. Turns out he’s an acquaintance of Manu but they haven’t seen each other for 15 years. His name is Aitor Maguregi and he’s pure Basque all the way back. His last name means, strangely to me, “strawberry field”. He, Manu, and Cian talk for an hour or two. I can’t follow much of it due to the rapid fire Spanish and high ambient noise level except when Aitor turns to me and explains or emphasizes some point with his very limited English. Every so often, I chime in with something in Spanish that I desperately hope is relevant to the conversation at that point. What amazes me is Aitor’s face. He is just what I imagine the rugged, Basque fishermen of the 1500s must have looked like. I never find out what he does for a living but I know it’s not fishing. I feel like I’ve seen a bit of history, but it could all be imagination. Judge for yourself.

After Aitor ambles off into the rain, it’s not long before the bar closes for the night. As we’re leaving, as a simple courtesy I say “buenas noches” to an older lady sitting near the door. She responds and then tellss me, in Spanish, “In Euskera we say ‘Gabon’.” For the rest of the evening, I say Gabon to everyone and they obviously appreciate the small effort.

With the bar shuttered, I think we’re going home but, no, we go next door to the other open bar, Birjilanda, where Cian speaks to an acquaintance, an African from Senegal. He and I speak English for a while and a drunker companion of his keeps telling me that Kemi is in Spain illegally. Cian conferences with the the owner and, although the grill is closed, orders a delicious hamburger which we split 3 ways over another round of red wine. I switched to lemon soda hours ago. Burger devoured, this bar is also closing, so we finally walk up the hill to home. I’ve never shut down one bar before, never mind two.

In the morning, Manu heads off to surf, Cian is still fast asleep in his apartment, and I head out before 11 AM for the short drive to Bilbao, Basque country’s largest city but not its capital.

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